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Page 234.

Priscilla . . . burnt her old name.

CHAPTER I.
THE FEVER-GIRL.

‘Fever-girl! Fever-girl!’

‘Come here, Gwennie!’ and an elder sister drew a baby behind her like a mother-hen.

Priscilla laughed, and tramped on up the hill. When she had first come to the moor, two years ago, this kind of thing had hurt her, and her laugh had been bitter as well as scornful. But she was fifteen now, and had no great desire for the friendship of small village children. She had forgotten she had ever been lonely; the moor had yielded her many friends, and she could afford to ignore these small enemies.

It was only a very little boy who had called after her. The bigger ones had given it up a year ago. What was the use of shouting at a girl who looked at you as if you were dirt, and then walked on without taking the trouble to answer? The amusement had long since ceased to be amusing.

The motherly elder sister was another matter, however. Priscilla was conscious of a hurt feeling as Gwennie disappeared hastily behind her sister’s frock.

‘Silly infants!’ she murmured; but the hurt feeling remained. As if it could do them any harm to speak to her! She knew the ignorance and prejudice of it, and had a deep contempt for all these ‘village people;’ but there were times when she would have liked to talk to the babies. It was out of the question, however. She had tried to make friends at first; but her overtures had been repulsed rudely, and she had not repeated them.

As she passed the ruined church and the last farm she laughed again, with more pity than scorn this time. ‘They are a silly lot! Thank goodness, I don’t care about one of them!’ and she turned at the corner to look beyond the town and away up the dale.

The reservoir, which supplied a great city with sweet moorland water, lay like a shimmering lake between low, green hills. It was easy to forget it was a reservoir; that was one of the facts Priscilla never allowed herself to face, on principle. It was a lake, as beautiful as any in Cumberland. Seen from this point, it gave the finishing touch to the landscape—flashing, or shining, or dull—blue or gray, silver or steel, but always fascinating. Seen close at hand, it was very beautiful, washing gently on its sandy beaches; and the great wall, with its turrets and battlements, which held it back from the long, green valley, did not spoil its beauty, but was interesting, giving one who stood upon it the feeling of being alone far out in the middle of the sea—a feeling which Priscilla appreciated to the full. She often walked over to the lake for the mere pleasure of crossing the big dam and standing out there in the wind.

She took a long look at it, then turned and climbed on up the steep hill road without a glance at the quiet, gray town in the dale. The road was a narrow lane winding between gray walls and rather dreary bare fields up and up to the moor. It was not her shortest way home; that lay by the great high-road, climbing the hill more gradually. But on the road there were motors and cycles and people, and clouds of dust and the smell of petrol and much noise. Few climbed the steep way but farmers and shepherds, and Priscilla. This road lay across the moor, and that more than made up for the extra climb.

The way was not so steep after the first stiff rise, but went on very deliberately up and up. Priscilla had a long, easy stride, and she was never out of breath. The steeper part of the hill she took slowly; now she stepped out more briskly, but turned now and then for a look over the great dale as it opened out beneath her and the added height showed her more and more of the opposite hill.

She settled her rucksac easily between her shoulders as she turned for the last time. She was on the crest now, and would see the dale no more. The opening moors lay before her, and she breathed deeply, as she always did at this point. Here there was space, room to breathe and think, room to feel the wind. There was no longer a wall on her right hand, but wide open brown stretches and distant green hills beyond. She left the road, and took a narrow track through the heather, invisible to any one else, but very plain to herself. She had made it on her journeys to the village, and she thought she could have followed it in the dark. She had tried once, however, and had decided that, after all, high-roads were safer at night. There were patches of bright-green bog on each side of her track, and a step into one of them would have meant disaster. Her mother had begged her not to wander off the roads at night, and she had realised for herself that it would be unwise.

The rucksac was heavy, but she did not feel the weight, partly because of its position between her shoulders, more because she was used to it. She seldom carried anything but a stick in her hands; she had learned that long ago; but she generally had a stout walking-stick for company. Sometimes she carried a six-foot pole, and used it skilfully when she wanted to jump a patch of bog or a moorland stream. The rucksac and the jumping-pole were legacies from one of the few inmates of the hospital in whom she had taken any interest. As a rule she forgot all about the patients; they were the nurses’ business, and she had nothing to do with them. But sometimes there were children, and when they were getting better she talked to them through the windows or over the garden fence. There had been the small boy who was a keen collector of birds’ eggs, and her gifts of one plover’s egg and one curlew’s—she had rigidly refused to give him more than one—had been the brightest moments of his convalescence. She had supplied tadpoles in bottles to other youthful sufferers by way of comfort, and in autumn she knew that handfuls of bilberries would always be acceptable.

The original owner of her rucksac had been a climber, sampling the Pennine mountains on his way to Cumberland. He had spent a night at a farm where, the following day, the mother had developed scarlet fever; the infection had been traced to the milk, and, to the mountaineer’s great annoyance, he had fallen ill a few days later. Happily for him, he had been passing through the city at the time, and had promptly been despatched to the isolation hospital. There, day after day, from his window, he had seen Priscilla striding across the heather, bareheaded, stick in hand, and had noted how, on her return from town with errands for everybody, and often with commissions for himself, she always carried her packages rolled into a bundle in a mackintosh and tied to her back with string. When he left the hospital, he had presented his rucksac to her, and had instructed her in the use of a jumping-pole, and these had added greatly to the pleasure of her expeditions ever since.

For once she carried a burden in her hands to-day, though to do so was much against her inclinations. Over her left arm lay a great sheaf of ‘bluebells’—wild hyacinths—newly picked and just coming into flower, and warranted to last at least a week in water. She had gathered them on her way to town, in a lane where they grew thickly in banks of deepest blue by the roadside; it had been necessary to come straight home after shopping, because her load was so heavy. They lay easily in the hollow of her left arm, and her right hand was free for her stick.

She turned when she had gone a few yards down her path, and looked back to the road, where she had heard wheels. Then she dropped stick and flowers, and held out both hands, for the black-and-tan collie strolling beside the farm wagon was one of her friends. She knew every dog that was in the habit of crossing the moor with his master, and never failed to give them greeting. The collie pricked up his ears at the sound of her whistle, gazed a moment, then came bounding over the heather to hurl himself upon her. She laughed and hugged and clapped him, and then filled his cup of joy to the brim by inviting him to a game, setting him racing round and round in wide circles, laughing and gnashing his teeth at her, while she made a pretence of trying to catch him. A whistle from his master recalled him at last, and he gave her a laughing good-bye and raced away. She laughed also, and picked up her stick and flowers again.

She had commissions for everybody in her rucksac. Stores were delivered regularly at the hospital, but there were always small extras needed in a hurry. There were stamps for Matron, groceries for her own mother’s housekeeping, haberdashery trifles for one of the nurses, and sweets for another—no doubt more for some convalescent fever children than for nurse herself.

She smiled as she looked down at the hyacinths, and walked on, making plans. Could she get them in unseen? Would she be home in time? They were a present for her chief friend among the nurses, who had been away for three days. The flowers were to welcome her home.

For some months after her arrival at the hospital, which was quite a little settlement in the heart of bleak, bare moors, Priscilla had found herself lonely. Her mother held the post of caretaker, her father was an invalid, and the village children, urged thereto by their mothers, had made it plain that a girl from an isolation hospital was not a desirable friend. She might have nothing whatever to do with patients or infection, but that did not alter the facts. Priscilla came from the fever-hospital, and they were not to play with her.

She had been to a private school before ‘things happened,’ as she was wont to say concisely, and had been sufficiently far advanced to be beyond the necessary school standard, though only thirteen. Her mother’s wish and her own inclinations had led her to continue her work to a certain extent; and the Matron, an elderly, kindly lady, had been interested in her from the first, and had urged her in the same direction, even giving her help and advice at times. Matron had been very good, Priscilla often thought, but scarcely realised how much her kindness had meant, even in matters of speech and behaviour. The fact that her only friends on the moor had been her mother, the Matron, and the nurses, had counted for more than she knew.

But it was when Nurse Mayne had come to the hospital that Priscilla had really known what friendship meant. The others had been kind, but had all been much occupied with their own affairs. But Nurse Mayne, who had joined the staff a year ago, had given Priscilla full and warm friendship. She was young, and Priscilla did not believe it was only love and gratitude which made her believe her to be exceedingly pretty. They had walked together on the moor, when nurse was off duty, and had talked for hours at a time. Priscilla knew all about her friend’s home-life—the married elder sister, the clever one at college, and the little one still at school. And Nurse Mayne knew Priscilla’s story; and while feeling there was little she could do to help, yet did what she could, and gave her friendship and warm interest. It was not such a little thing, after all; certainly it had meant much to Priscilla.

As she reached the top of a brown ridge of moor she stopped, for a carriage was creeping up the long drive which led from the high-road to the hospital. It was still a long way from the gates, but so was she. It would arrive first, and she would be too late to smuggle her flowers into nurse’s cubicle as she had planned. So there was no hurry; the flowers would have to be given in some other way.

She slung her rucksac from her shoulders, and dropped it among the heather, and sat beside it on a big stone topping the ridge. The road ran below her; she would see her friend and wave a greeting to her, and a question which had been much in her mind would be answered.

Nurse Mayne had gone south three days ago because the little sister at school was not well, and was to be sent home. Her eyes were weak and had been giving her trouble, and the doctor had ordered her three months’ rest in the country. That meant she must be out of school from the middle of June till the beginning of the autumn term, and just at present it was not convenient for her to go home. The married sister, whose husband was abroad, was staying with her parents, and for Katharine to come home from school six weeks too soon would be decidedly awkward. Priscilla had heard all about it, and knew how worried every one had been. So Nurse Mayne, who was Katharine’s elder sister Winifred, had gone home, and then on to London, to carry out a plan on which she had set her heart. Katharine must come to her. A month or two on the moors would be just what she needed; there was a spare cubicle she could have in the nurses’ bungalow, and she could be out on the heather all day, and would not be allowed to look at a book for any reason whatever. As for the patients, she would, of course, never go near them. The bungalow was far from the wards; there was no possible danger of infection. However, Winifred had admitted privately to Priscilla that she knew it was not usual to invite schoolgirls to stay at isolation hospitals, and she had been prepared for opposition to her plan. She had gone south determined to argue every point, meet every objection, and bring Katharine back with her; and Priscilla, sitting in the heather, was keenly anxious to know if she had succeeded.

If Katharine had come, would it make any difference to her? Would she be friendly? It would be intensely interesting to meet a girl from a big London boarding-school. But Priscilla, with her previous experiences in her mind, knew she must not count too much on the future. Even Nurse Mayne might not be able to convince Katharine that to describe Priscilla as ‘the fever-girl’ was ridiculous and unkind. She might not be willing to be friends, and Priscilla was uncomfortably aware that she could never plead for herself. Friendship offered freely she would rejoice in, but she was too proud to beg and persuade. She would ignore Katharine as she ignored the village children if she saw any sign of unwillingness or even hesitation in her.

‘I can get on all right without her, of course,’ she said to herself, as she sat nursing her knees in the heather. ‘But, all the same, it would be awfully jolly! It would make such a difference. I could show her everything, and she could tell me heaps. She’s only thirteen, I know, but she’ll know lots I don’t know anything about. It’s what I’ve always wanted—some one who wasn’t too busy! I wonder if she’s there!’

Her eyes were very wistful as she watched the approaching carriage. It was closed; at which she wondered, for the evening was fine, though the wind blowing down from the higher moors was cold. Priscilla was so much accustomed to it that she did not know it was cold; to her it was merely fresh and invigorating. She generally went bareheaded on the moor, and her hair seemed to have responded to this open-air treatment, for it was very thick and long and heavy, as if trying to make up for her lack of other covering. Like her eyes, it was rich dark brown, the colour of her beloved heather for nine months of the year. She always plaited her hair tightly before going out; but the wind teased and tore at it, and she felt untidy and tossed about before she reached home.

Her brown skirt was short, as was necessary for crossing the moor, and she wore a knitted jersey coat which had faded to a dull yellow. Her eyes wandered over these much-tried garments, which had served her all winter. ‘If she is there, she’ll think me an untidy object. But it would be simply silly to dress up here. I hope nurse will make her understand.’

She leaned forward eagerly for a glimpse into the carriage as it passed. Suddenly she started up, her eyes widening in great amazement. ‘There are two of her! Two girls! She’s there, but there’s another one as well! How awfully queer!’ And then the carriage had passed.

But she had evidently been seen, for as it went on towards the gates Nurse Mayne’s head appeared at the window and she waved a greeting. Then the driver whipped up his horse, since the last bit of road was almost level, and Priscilla stood staring after them.

‘Two girls! She’s brought a friend with her! Then she won’t want me; she won’t be lonely. They’ll be quite all right together,’ she thought regretfully, as she shouldered her rucksac and walked on. ‘It’s jolly for her, of course; but I am sorry! I wonder why the other girl’s come.’

CHAPTER II.
TWO SCHOOLGIRLS.

It had all seemed so simple to Winifred and Katharine.

There was nothing else to be done. But it had taken a good deal of argument to convince everybody, in the first place, that the hospital was the right place for Katharine to spend her unexpected holiday in, when her troublesome eyes gave out suddenly just before half-term; and, in the second place, that if she were going there, Dorothy had better go too. Of course Katharine wanted her, and of course Dorothy wanted to go. There was no question about that; the two were inseparable during term, and disliked holidays, because Katharine’s home was in Yorkshire, and Dorothy’s near London. The prospect of a three-months’ separation had been too much for them, and they had both begged that if Katharine must go, Dorothy might go too.

There was much to be said for the plan, after all, for Dorothy had to go somewhere. A fortnight after the summer term had begun she had developed diphtheria, and had promptly been packed off to hospital. She had not been very ill, and now was almost herself again; but Miss Chinchen, her headmistress, very naturally preferred not to have her back at school till she had been away for a thorough change, and Winifred, when she heard about it from Katharine, had agreed.

‘Dip.’s a nasty thing, and you don’t want it in a school. She should be quite free from infection by now, but you can’t be too careful. She ought to go away by herself for a while, and if her mother can’t take her to the seaside’——

‘There’s a baby-boy, a year old, who would have to go too, and Dorothy says she knows she’d kiss him. She couldn’t help it, after not seeing him for a month.’

‘She mustn’t. She mustn’t kiss anybody. I think she should certainly come with us, then, and I’ll look after her. You shall sleep with me, and she shall have the other cubicle to herself, and then there’ll be no possible danger. There isn’t any, really, but it’s as well to be extra careful. And I’d just as soon have two of you to look after as one.’ At which Katharine laughed.

Winifred had interviewed Miss Chinchen and Dorothy and Dorothy’s mother, and had succeeded at last in convincing them all that the girls would not really come in contact with the hospital at all; that she herself had to change and disinfect as a matter of routine when she came off duty; that they would be out all day in air as strong and sweet and health-giving as any in England; that she would keep a close watch on Dorothy for any unfavourable symptoms, and would not let her overtire herself or catch cold at first; that as Dorothy was officially certified free from infection, there could be no objection to her going away with Katharine, so long as kissing and sleeping together were forbidden; that she could manage two girls really more easily than one; and that, in fact, the only possible course was for her to take them both away to the moors at once. The proposal had helped Dorothy’s parents out of a quandary, since she could not be sent to seaside lodgings alone, and her only aunts lived abroad. It had relieved Miss Chinchen’s mind, and had thrown the girls themselves into a fever of delight and anticipation. They had already been parted for a month, and had dreaded another and much longer separation. Katharine had been very unwilling to go off into ‘the wilds’ alone, even with a favourite sister; Dorothy had never seen a moor, and was tired of seaside lodgings. To them both Winifred’s plan sounded the height of bliss, since they were to be together.

They met at the train with rapturous faces, and Winifred had to be really stern to keep them from rushing into one another’s arms. ‘No kissing! Katharine, I thought you understood that was a condition! I can’t let you out of my sight, evidently.—Perhaps you will be so kind as to get our tickets?’ and she turned to Mr Nairn, who had brought Dorothy from the hospital. ‘I mustn’t lose sight of these silly children.’

‘Shake hands, then, chum!’ and Dorothy stretched out both hands. ‘Is that forbidden, please, nurse?’ she mocked.

‘No; only kissing. Shake hands as much as you like.’

‘O-o-oh! She’s shaken my arms right out!’ wailed Katharine. ‘You’ll have to massage my shoulders, Winifred; I know they’re out of joint. I don’t want to kiss her, silly old thing, getting things like dip.! It was all to get out of school, you know.’

‘What about your silly eyes? “Three months’ rest!” What about getting out of school—yah! I always told you you’d do it, reading in bed as you do.’

‘I jolly well seem to have done it this time,’ Katharine said complacently. ‘But it’s not with reading in bed. You’re all behind the times, Dan. Things have changed while you’ve been loafing in hospital. We have to do beastly needlework with Mademoiselle three afternoons a week—in the summer term, too! Chinny’s discovered, or thinks she has, that none of us can sew a bit. So she’s having it put right, and ruining our eyesight. Ma’m’selle’s awfully particular; if you can see the stitches at all, they’re too big. I’ve been having frightful headaches.’

Dorothy snorted. ‘Considering what your stitches used to be like, my dear, I’m sorry for Ma’m’selle if she’s been trying to teach you to sew,—I always said Katharine must do her darning with a penholder,’ she remarked to Winifred.

‘Oh, well, darning——’

‘She won’t be allowed to do any darning while she’s with me.’

‘Goody!’ chortled Katharine.

‘You shall do it for her,’ Winifred laughed to Dorothy.

She groaned. ‘You’ll have frightful blisters, Katharine! It really isn’t worth it, nurse. You’ll have to doctor her for corns and all kinds of things.’

‘You shall darn my stockings, Dan dear, while I go out on the heather,’ Katharine said kindly.

‘Why does she call you Dan?’ Winifred asked.

‘It’s my initials—Dorothy Ann Nairn. The girls call me Dorothy Ann, but Dan is Katharine’s special and particular. Nobody else is allowed to use it.’

‘She’s half a boy, anyway; so it fits her,’ Katharine explained.

They were in the highest spirits—over-excited, in fact; and Winifred foresaw that Dorothy, at least, would be very tired before the journey was over. She suggested that they should sit quietly and rest as soon as the train had started, but they had far too much to say.

‘We’ve a month to make up for,’ Dorothy urged. ‘Katharine has tons to tell me. Who’s cricket captain? How’s tennis getting on? When are the sports? Who’s swimming champion? Tell me all the news!’

‘Cricket! Tennis! Sports! Swimming! These are what we go to school for nowadays,’ Winifred laughed.

‘Oh, the rest doesn’t matter! We must talk, really, Miss Mayne. Katharine mustn’t read, you know; and I’m sure it would be bad for her to look out of the window all the time. It will keep her amused if I talk to her.’

‘Grandmother! If you talk so much it will be bad for your heart, I’m sure. Winifred says we’re to be careful of your heart for a little while.’

‘It is a bit funny sometimes,’ Dorothy acknowledged. ‘But it’s better than it was. Talking to you won’t upset it, I guess.’

‘Tell us all about it! Did they jab you with a needle? Whereabouts? And did it hurt? Van Evans has had it done to her.’

‘Why are you so down on kissing?’ Dorothy demanded of Winifred. ‘I must be all right, or they wouldn’t let me out, or in trains.’

‘Quite all right. But even after you’re all right a germ might be hiding in your throat, and you might pass it on if you kissed. You ought to keep that kind of thing to yourself, you know.’

‘D’you really think there’s one hiding in me?’ Dorothy’s eyes widened.

‘No, I don’t,’ Winifred laughed. ‘It’s not the least likely. But although it’s hardly probable, you have to think of what is possible.’

‘They did all kinds of things to my throat before they’d say I was all right. They were awfully particular, and they nearly made me sick.’

‘It’s only one chance in several thousand, but I’d rather be prepared for it. You shouldn’t kiss any one for some time.’

‘But if I did take it you could just send me into the hospital and nurse me. It would be awfully convenient,’ Katharine remarked.

Winifred laughed. ‘I’m glad you kept back that remark till now, Katharine, my child. I could, of course; but I’m glad you didn’t say so to Miss Chinchen. She’d have been still less willing to let you both come.’

‘Oh, she’s an old silly!’ said Dorothy.

For a couple of hours they talked without a pause. Then Dorothy grew quieter, answering when spoken to, but staring dreamily out at the level fields most of the time. Presently she nodded, and then, to Katharine’s intense amusement, fell asleep. Winifred, much relieved, quieted her sister with a quick, almost stern word.

‘It’s the best thing in the world for her. Be quiet, Katharine! Let her sleep as long as ever she can.’

The bustle at York woke Dorothy, much refreshed by her hour’s rest, and she sprang out, very ready for lunch and quite unperturbed by Katharine’s teasing.

‘Lovely country, isn’t it?’ Katharine mocked. ‘Awfully jolly things to look at—cathedrals and all kinds of things!’

‘I believe she’s been asleep herself! Has she, nurse? She’ll have a frightful headache if she’s been looking out all the way. Then I shall laugh!’

‘You’ve both been asleep; and very sensible, too. I was afraid you, at least, would be knocked up if you kept up that chatter all the way. Now come and have something to eat!’

Not even a sleep in the morning, lunch at York, and tea at Harrogate could save Dorothy from being tired out by the time they left the train at last, and began the long drive up to the hospital. Both girls were very indignant when Winifred insisted that the carriage should be closed, but she was firm.

‘I’m not going to have Dorothy knocked up with a bad cold as soon as she arrives. She’s fagged to-night, and there’s a north wind.’

‘I thought we’d come here because the wind would be good for her,’ Katharine grumbled.

‘To-morrow you shall have all the wind you want. But we won’t run any risks to-night. Walking in the wind is one thing; driving’s quite another. To-morrow you shall see what you think of the moor. There’s something I want you both to do for me,’ said Winifred, to change the subject. ‘I’m not going to tell you what it is. I think you’ll find out for yourselves, and it will be more worth while if you do. But I’m very anxious you should do it.’

‘You are mysterious! Won’t you give us a hint?’

‘I’ll see first if you find out.—We’re nearly there now,’ she said presently, noticing Dorothy’s weary look and Katharine’s tired eyes. ‘You see we’ve reached the moor. This long road is only for the hospital.’

‘See that girl!’ Katharine pointed to a yellow-clad figure sitting in the heather. ‘She looks just right for a moor, doesn’t she, Dan? No hat—no gloves—no nothing!’

‘Ripping! She just looks a bit of the moor.’

Winifred smiled. ‘That’s Priscilla.’

‘Priscilla? Oh, do you know her? Then we can too, can’t we? How jolly!’

‘Priscilla! How weird! I never knew a Priscilla before.’

‘Where does she live, Winifred? Anywhere near us?’

‘Oh, she lives at the hospital.’

‘Lives there? But she’s not got anything, has she?’

‘Except hair; she’s got tons of that.’

‘Oh no! She hasn’t got anything,’ Winifred laughed. ‘I’ll tell you her story, so far as I know it myself, after tea. Now, here we are!’ as they entered the hospital enclosure. ‘The wards are over there. This is the laundry. That cottage is where Priscilla lives with her mother and father. He’s an invalid. That is Matron’s little house, and we all go over there for meals, but to-night we’ll have a quiet tea in my cubicle. It will be a tight fit; nobody must sneeze or wriggle. This is the nurses’ bungalow; you see how far it is from the wards. Now, when you want to go out, you will either use the big gates or a little one you’ll find in the fence just behind the bungalow; and neither of you will ever, on any account, go beyond this drive in the direction of the wards. The first girl who wanders across that lawn will be fired out in double-quick time.’

‘Doesn’t she sound fierce?’ Katharine commented.

‘I thought you were going to be so jolly, nurse?’ Dorothy said plaintively.

‘I hope I’ll be able to be jolly; I want to be, on every point but this. But on this one point I intend to be the very opposite of jolly. It’s a point of honour, you see. I gave my word you shouldn’t go near any infection. If anything happened, I could never look your mother or ours or Miss Chinchen in the face again. So you must both play fair and help me.’

‘We will!’ Dorothy promised instantly. ‘I’ll keep an eye on Katharine.’

‘I’ll see to Dan, Winifred. You know I’m all right!’

Winifred laughed. ‘Then we should all be all right!’ and she led them down the passage to her cubicle, with the empty one for Dorothy next door.

CHAPTER III.
PRISCILLA’S STORY.

‘Now tell us all about Priscilla!’ Katharine demanded,

They had had a very big tea, with lightly boiled fresh eggs—‘From our own fowls,’ Winifred explained. ‘Priscilla and her mother look after them.’ Dorothy was now resting on the bed, by order, and Katharine in the only arm-chair. Winifred sat on the window-sill and told them what she could.

‘There really isn’t much story to tell, but you’ll soon see for yourselves that Priscilla isn’t quite the kind of girl you’d expect her to be, living away in a place like this. I only mean in one sense, of course; in another way she’s exactly what I should expect. But they are educated people; her mother is a very nice little lady. We rarely see the father. I understand that they lived in Leeds; that Priscilla went to a good school till she was thirteen—she’s fifteen now; and that Mr Scarsby held quite a good position in some business. But I fancy he has always been rather queer, given to fits of depression and morbid anxiety for the future. Priscilla says as long as she can remember he has seemed to be haunted by the fear of losing his position or his money, and coming to actual want; or of dying or becoming unfit for work, and leaving them unprovided for. So he has always saved every penny he could, with the idea of being prepared for emergencies, and I gather that they had some difficulty in persuading him even to spare enough for her education. But her mother insisted.—Come in! Oh, those are lovely, Lizzie! Where did they come from?’ as a maid brought in a great bowl of wild hyacinths for the table.

‘Miss Priscilla was sorry she didn’t coom hoam in time, so as they’d be ready for your tea, nurse,’ said Lizzie.

‘How very kind of her! Will you thank her very much from us all, please? They are beautiful!’

‘ “Coom hoam”!’ mimicked Dorothy, as the door closed.

‘Oh, everybody says it,’ remarked Katharine.

‘You used to yourself when you first came to school.’

‘I’m sure I didn’t!’

‘Yes, you did, just a little. You’re a lot better now, but it still comes out sometimes.—Are the flowers from Priscilla, then, nurse?’

‘Did you notice that Miss Priscilla? We haven’t told them to, and I’m sure she didn’t. It’s instinct—and perhaps the fact that she talks nicely, and holds herself so well. I expect she has been down to town and gathered them for us on her way. She says she is errand-boy to the establishment, but she’s always willing for an excuse to cross the moor. Well, but I didn’t tell you about her uncle, did I? Her father had a brother of whom he was very fond. One day some bank went wrong, in which all this brother’s money was placed, and he was left penniless. The shock of it killed him, and at the same time seems to have unhinged Mr Scarsby’s mind slightly.’

‘It was just the kind of thing he’d always been afraid of,’ Katharine nodded, listening intently.

‘Hard lines! It would make him worse than ever. What did he do, nurse?’ queried Dorothy.

‘His savings were banked safely enough, and Mrs Scarsby thinks there must have been a good sum of money, though he would never tell her exactly. He was seized with a kind of fear that the same thing would happen to him. He withdrew all his money, though the bank was perfectly safe, and said he was going to take care of it himself. Then he disappeared, nominally on a fishing trip. He was a great fisherman, and used often to go off for a few days alone up some of the dales where there is good fishing. But this time they believe he took the money with him, for no one has seen it since. He came back’——

‘Oh, Winifred! was it stolen from him?’

‘They don’t know. He came back, saying it was safe now, and it was only then they began to suspect there was really something serious wrong with him. Before, they had thought he was just a little queerer than usual, and hoped his fishing holiday would put him all right. He told them he had “hidden” the money safely, and would fetch it when they wanted it, and then he collapsed altogether, and had a long illness, and when he got over it he’d forgotten all about it.’

‘Oh! Oh, what hard luck! And did he never tell them where he’d put the money?’

‘Did they never find it?’ Katharine asked pitifully. ‘What did they do?’

‘He never told them, and they never found it. All his brain-power seems to have gone. He’s very gentle and quiet; you don’t need to be afraid of him. Just speak to him if you meet him; he likes it. He does whatever they want, in a quiet way; but he isn’t strong, and never goes far from home. Of course, we can’t depend on him for anything, any kind of work, even gardening. He isn’t reliable; if you gave him directions he’d forget them and do the work all wrong, or wander away in the middle of it.’

‘So the mother has to work for them all?’

‘She heard of the post of caretaker in this hospital through a friend, and applied for it, hoping that the air of the moor would be good for him; he was always keen on the moors. She is supposed to look after the buildings when there are no patients; when the hospital is in use, as it generally is, she was at first expected to keep this bungalow and Matron’s house in order, and act as a kind of charwoman. But—wait a minute!’—as they exclaimed in dismay. ‘She did that at first. Then one day Matron had to dismiss her cook in a hurry for dishonesty, and Mrs Scarsby stepped into the breach, and cooked for them so well that Matron asked her to keep on as cook, and engaged Lizzie as housemaid. Mrs Scarsby likes the work, and can cook anything; she’s as good at invalid cookery as at ordinary work, and that’s valuable here. Of course, she never goes near the wards; and, of course, Priscilla helps her a good deal, besides attending to the fowls and acting as messenger; we’re on the telephone, but when things have to be fetched in a hurry she’s always ready. Look out here, for instance!’

They sprang up and came to look over Winifred’s shoulder, and all watched as Priscilla came round the corner from the cottage, and left the hospital enclosure by the little wicket-gate in the fence. Her rucksac hung empty at her back, and she carried her long jumping-pole. She went off across the moor with long, easy strides, her thick hair blown back as she faced the wind, her brown plait tossed about.

‘Doesn’t she ever wear a hat? It looks awfully jolly.’

‘I like the yellow coat! It’s faded to such a jolly colour,’ Katharine commented.

‘She sometimes wears a hat in summer if the sun’s altogether too strong, or in winter when the rain’s really too heavy. Both are very fierce up here.’

‘What’s the pole for? She isn’t a Girl Guide, is she?’

‘She’ll be a very good girl guide to you if you ask her to show you the moor. She knows every inch of it. The pole is to help her to jump across streams and patches of bog.’

‘How ripping! I wonder if she’d let me try!’ cried Dorothy.

‘You mustn’t, because of your silly heart, you know,’ Katharine said instantly. ‘Now, there’s nothing to stop me! I shall ask her to teach me to-morrow.’

‘Pig!—Where is she going now, nurse?’

‘To the farm for eggs, I expect. We have fowls, but we don’t get nearly enough eggs. We use a great many. So Priscilla fetches them from a farm about two miles away.’

‘How many miles does she walk each day?’ Dorothy asked curiously. ‘You said she’d been all the way to the town this afternoon.’

‘Oh, miles and miles! Fifteen, if need be, or more. She thinks nothing of it.’

Dorothy sighed enviously. All her tastes lay towards out-of-door life and active occupations, and her month in hospital had been a severe trial. So was the restriction placed on her energies at the present moment.

‘How long is my silly heart going to go on being a nuisance? I will try to be careful, for they told me some horrid stories at the hospital—to scare me, I suppose. They did it, anyway. But when will it be all right, Miss Mayne?’

‘Very soon now, if you take care for a little while and get strong in other ways. But I don’t advise jumping exercise just at first. I think you must leave that to Katharine.’

‘Don’t be a donkey, Dorothy Ann Nairn! D’you think I’d make you feel bad by jumping when you can’t?’ Katharine asked indignantly. ‘Don’t you be so silly! We’ll let Priscilla do the jumping, and we’ll walk round the pools like old ladies. If you have to crawl on your hands and knees I’ll crawl too, and if you need a bath-chair we’ll both ride in it, and she shall push.—I’m going to take care of her, Winifred; she’ll be all right. And she’s going to take away every book she sees me reading and sit on it. We’ve got it all planned out. On wet days I’m going to be the old lady, and she’s going to read aloud to me. I’m going to do knitting, because I don’t need to look at that.’

Winifred laughed. ‘What a beautifully domesticated picture—you knitting and Dorothy reading aloud! I don’t think it would last long. Oh, I’ll find you something to do on wet days; or perhaps Mrs Scarsby would give you cooking lessons, and you could help Priscilla. She prepares things in the kitchen, cuts up vegetables, makes breadcrumbs and peels potatoes, and so on, and then washes up when her mother has finished.’

‘I’m sure I could peel potatoes! When can we make friends with Priscilla?’

‘Not to-night. You’re both going off to bed. And to-morrow I shall have to go on duty, so you must manage Priscilla for yourselves.’

‘Will she be friendly? Is she jolly?’ Katharine asked suddenly.

‘She’ll be friendly if she thinks you really want her.’

‘Well, give my love to the dip. patients, and tell them not to sit up too suddenly,’ said Dorothy.

‘It’s my business to see that they don’t. Now suppose you say good-night—carefully, remember!’

They shook hands solemnly at arm’s length. ‘Nasty slobbery habit kissing!’ Dorothy said seriously. ‘I can’t imagine why people want to do it. Shaking hands is much more hy—hy—something or other. I heard lots about it at the hospital.’

‘You do swank about that hospital!’ exclaimed Katharine. ‘Sounds as if you thought no one had ever had dip. but you!’

‘Oh, I learnt a lot of things you know nothing about! I’ve had experiences!’ Dorothy retorted.

CHAPTER IV.
PRISCILLA’S SHOPPING.

Priscilla, walking lightly across the heather, was thinking of the schoolgirls as they were thinking of her. She was rather sorry there were two of them. Probably they would be sufficient company for one another. One girl might have been lonely; but two, and two who were such great friends that they cared to go away for a holiday together, would not be likely to want a third. She wondered if she would see much of them, and what they would do all day, and why the second girl had come, and what she was called. Priscilla looked down, as she had done before, at her short useful skirt and faded coat, and wondered if they would think her very shabby—quite unconscious that the dull yellow toned admirably with the deep brown of her dress, and that her hair and eyes were of the same warm shade, the colour of the rolling moors for the greater part of the year, soft and rich as velvet.

Not that the moor was all deep brown! There were the vivid green circles of moss in which she would plant her pole, feeling carefully for a sure footing before leaping across. There were wide patches of brilliant red, streaked with green when looked at closely, but bright red in the distance, where the young bilberry-shoots coloured all the slope; and sombre black stretches, where the heather had been burnt in the autumn. Everywhere there were bright green dots, where the young bracken was beginning to show, still curled tightly down close to its stem; and everywhere also were the golden stars of tormentil or white stars of stitchwort, or the low blue, white, and pink heads of milkwort, humble and tiny, but colouring the ground with its many spikes. But the chief colour, and the only colour at any distance, was that deep warm brown which Priscilla wore herself and loved almost as much as the royal glow of autumn.

She had hesitated for one moment before going out. There was a new dress hanging in her cupboard, and it was only human girl nature to wonder if she ought not to wear it to-night. Was there any chance of meeting the visitors? It was not pleasant to feel shabby, and she had worn her old brown skirt and yellow coat all winter. She knew the skirt was short, and the coat faded. Would it not be only sensible—— Then common-sense had come to her help and saved her. It would be ‘simply silly’ to dress up to cross the moor—to wear her only good dress to fetch home eggs! And, in any case, why should she care what two other girls thought? She did not realise that they had seen her once already, and that if she had appeared in a new and quite unsuitable dress they would have been the first to condemn her as trying to ‘show off,’ and would never have forgotten it. Fortunately she had been saved from such a mistake; and laughing at herself for being so silly, she had put on her old coat and set out. ‘But I don’t want them to think me too shabby to be spoken to!’ she acknowledged.

She thought as she went of how she had bought that new dress, and smiled at the remembrance. It had been the jolliest day she had spent for months.

She had been saving up all winter, for she was quite determined not to go through another summer without a new and longer dress, and equally determined that when she did have one it should be a good one. Her mother’s salary left little to spare, and there were three of them to clothe and feed. Such things as boots and underclothes were necessary; boots were a heavy item where Priscilla was concerned; but they were not particularly inspiring. She was willing that her mother should provide these, if in doing so she did not have to go without necessaries for herself or Mr Scarsby. But where new dresses were concerned Priscilla was growing independent. She had made a secret resolve to earn her own summer dress, and had worked hard to do so.

That was one way in which the Matron had been so kind. She was an elderly lady, and not very strong. Any work which meant stooping was forbidden her. One day in the spring, a year before, Priscilla had seen her walking round the hospital garden, sighing over the weeds, but unable to cope with them. She had offered to help, under directions at first, and Matron had received the idea with enthusiasm.

‘Sixpence an hour!’ she had said promptly. ‘Yes, of course, I shall pay you for your time. I should have to give that to any man or boy, and I can’t get one up here. You’re worth more, for you’re on the spot and I can have you when I want you. Sixpence an hour, my dear girl, and I’ll be grateful to you for ever as well.’

Priscilla had laughed and protested, but to no purpose. On those terms she could have all the work she wanted in the garden, but on no others.

‘I’ll do it for love, because you’ve always been so jolly to me,’ she had tried to insist. ‘You’ve lent me books, and shown me things, and helped me in heaps of ways. And I’d like the garden to look tidy.’

‘Sixpence an hour, and well worth it!’ and since Matron had insisted, of course she had got her way.

So Priscilla had weeded vigorously but carefully, and by her mother’s advice and in spite of her father’s experiences, had presently started a bank-account at the post-office. She had little need of money for trifles, but much for big things; so she had worked and saved until the new dress began to seem almost a possibility.

By the time the garden-beds were cleared of grass and thistles and the edges neatly clipped, Matron had grown ambitious.

‘If you’re going on helping me like this, I don’t see why we should be content with shrubs and evergreens! We’ll send for some bulbs for next spring, and raise some batches of perennials; and in the meantime we’ll put in a few annuals for this summer;’ and she had found a seed catalogue and taken the delighted Priscilla into consultation.

Under her directions Priscilla had dug and sown and planted out, working eagerly with keen interest in the garden and few thoughts for the growing bank-account. That summer the garden-beds between the different buildings and bordering the lawns and entrance-drive had been very neat, with a few clumps of forget-me-nots, poppies, and pansies, and rows of Virginia stock, among the evergreen shrubs, the holly and privet and rhododendrons, which had seemed sufficient, to the authorities. But in the spring there had been rows of wallflowers and banks of daffodils, which represented many a back-breaking hour and many an addition to the bank-account; and now in June, while the wallflowers were still sweet, clumps of antirrhinum, lupin, and delphinium were thrusting up their spikes, and borders of pansies were everywhere. Nasturtiums and sweet-peas were coming on, and Priscilla had been rich enough to go to Nurse Mayne the night before she left for London, and ask shyly, ‘Do you have to wait long for your train in Harrogate to-morrow morning, nurse? I want to do some shopping, and I thought perhaps—and mother thought so too—you might have to wait, and might be willing to help me, if I went that far with you.’

‘I’ve over an hour to wait,’ Winifred had said promptly. ‘I’ve been wondering what I should do with myself. I think it’s more than two hours!’ hastily deciding that a later train would do just as well. ‘I’d be delighted to help you, Priscilla. I should enjoy it. But couldn’t your mother go too?’

‘She can’t very well get off. The dinners are rather extra special just now.’ Winifred, with certain delicate patients in her mind, nodded. ‘She doesn’t much want to go to town, either, and it means leaving father. If you wouldn’t mind helping me’——

‘I’d like to very much.’

So next morning they had set off together, Priscilla full of the excitement of a rare holiday, but rather weighed down at first by the importance of her shopping and the fact that she was carrying all her earnings for the last year.

‘I want to buy presents for everybody! It’s such a change to spend some money. But, of course, I know I can’t. I must buy the dress, or everybody will laugh at me. But I’m going to buy some slippers for mother—she needs them badly—and some flowers for Matron, roses or something we can’t grow. She loves flowers, and she has been awfully good to me. I think that’s all, except my own shopping.’

The choice of the dress had taken time, but Nurse Mayne knew Harrogate well, and steered her successfully past the more expensive shops, whose prices reduced her to despair, to others where ready-made garments could be found at more reasonable figures. Priscilla was not fond of sewing, and had refused to consider the idea of making her dress.

‘I should never be satisfied with it. And mother doesn’t want me to try. She doesn’t feel able to help me. A dress is a big thing to start on when you’ve never made anything in your life. I’d rather do gardening, or run errands! I don’t think I’ll be difficult to fit. I’m sure I’m a very ordinary size.’

That had proved to be the case. To Winifred’s relief, Priscilla’s taste, which was very decided and would have been difficult to argue with, had proved to be good. She had fallen in love with a simple dress of a soft shade of blue, and it had fitted her without needing much alteration. To her delight, it had cost less than she had expected, and she had been able to add to it a short white coat which had taken her fancy greatly.

‘I feel really greedy buying two things, though!’ she had protested.

‘Nonsense! You’d have had to get a coat later. A dress isn’t much use alone. Now I’m going to buy you a hat. Yes; don’t make any objections! You can’t wear a nice dress and coat without a hat and gloves. The hat is a present from Matron; I was to tell you it’s a bonus, because you’re always willing to do her work just when she wants it. It’s one thing to get it done; that’s what she’s been paying you for. But it’s another thing to get it done just at the minute she asks for it. She knows she can depend on you, whether it’s for the garden, or a message to town, or to go to the farm when we run short of eggs, or to help indoors when we’re short-handed. And she says it’s well worth something extra, so I’m to get you a hat to match your frock. I fancy a soft white straw with that particular blue shade of ribbon or scarf. What do you think?’

‘I think it’s far too good of her! And I’ll feel so rich that I’ll want to come down to Harrogate every Saturday to wear all my new things.’

‘Not every Saturday! But perhaps we might come more often than we have done. And there are other places!’

‘It won’t be difficult to come more often!’ Priscilla had laughed rather tremulously, for the unexpected kindness had touched her deeply.

Winifred had still half-an-hour to wait for her train when the purchases had all been made, so she had insisted on lunch in a café near the station, and Priscilla had sat at a table by the window watching the crowds with happy, excited eyes.

‘Isn’t it queer to look out there’—and she nodded at the busy street and thronged station square—‘and then think of our moor, where you can walk for hours and see nobody but farm-carts and plover?’

‘It is queer, isn’t it? Which do you like best?’ and Winifred looked at her curiously.

‘Oh, the moor! This is interesting for a little while, but I couldn’t live here now. We used to live in town, you know. I’d get tired here very soon, I think.’

‘You’re never tired,’ Winifred remonstrated.

‘I used to be when we lived in town. I like to do what I like, and wear what I like, and behave as I like, and go where I like, and you can’t here.’

‘You certainly can’t. For instance, I must go if I’m to catch my train. Come and find the platform for yours, and then I’ll leave you there.’

‘I’m just awfully obliged to you, nurse! I’ve had a perfect day.’

‘You’ve spent a lot of money! I hope your mother will like all your purchases. Give my love to everybody at the hospital!’ and then Winifred had had to hurry away to catch her train.

So, as Priscilla crossed the heather on her way to the farm for eggs, she could not help thinking of the new dress she had not yet worn. But she realised how unsuitable it would be for such an errand as her present one; so she put away the thought resolutely, and did not dream that Katharine and Dorothy had seen her go, and were envying her her old clothes and bare head and jumping-pole, and the health and strength to cross the moor alone in all weathers.

‘At least it’s nice to know it’s there!’ was her final judgment on the blue frock. ‘Even if I hardly ever wear it, it’s something to know I’ve got it. And everybody thinks it’s pretty. Now when I get home I’ll plant out those last antirrhinums; they’re going to flower this year, the dears! And I’d better have sixpence or so in my pocket, just in case’—— and she nodded thoughtfully. ‘I might be glad of it!’

CHAPTER V.
PRISCILLA LEADS THE WAY.

Priscilla was helping her mother to wash up next morning, with the kitchen window wide open, when the sound of laughter and girl-voices made her look out. It was so unusual.

The visitors were going towards the big gates. They had discarded the travelling coats and skirts in which they had arrived, and wore knitted jerseys and caps. One girl was brown-haired, with a thick, heavy mane, and she wore pink; the other had long yellow curls, and her coat and cap were brown. Both wore green frocks, of which Priscilla could see little so far, and brown shoes and stockings.

They were laughing and whispering as they went, each apparently urging the other to something. ‘You!’ ‘No, you!’ ‘I can’t. You’d do it so nicely!’ ‘That’s silly! You’re the oldest!’ ‘But people always do things for you!’ The words came clearly through the open window.

Priscilla laughed at sight of the brown girl’s hanging mane and the yellow one’s curls. There would be some fine tangles to-night! The yellow one was Katharine of course; her likeness to Nurse Mayne was unmistakable. It was she who ‘would do it so nicely,’ and for whom ‘people always did things!’ What could it be the elder girl wanted and would not do herself?

They reached the gate, and stood there, laughing and hesitating. Then suddenly they caught hands and came running back together, but not to the bungalow. To Priscilla’s surprise, they turned towards the kitchen, and she drew back quickly from the window, but heard their voices clearly still as Katharine stopped short in dismay.

‘I forgot your silly heart! I say, is it all right? Is it still going? Is it there?’ she asked anxiously. ‘I’m awfully sorry’——

‘It hasn’t stopped this time! But you’ll have to do the asking. I’m shy. It would make me nervous.’

‘Shy! Oh, Dorothy Ann! But I will do it, because I made you run.’

Katharine came to the kitchen door and knocked, and Dorothy was close behind her as Mrs Scarsby opened it.

‘Oh, please, Mrs Scarsby, won’t you lend us Priscilla for the morning? Couldn’t you spare her to-day? We want to go out on the moor, and we’re afraid we’ll fall into bogs or get lost. My sister says Priscilla knows every heather-bush on the moor. Mayn’t she come with us, please?’

Katharine had a very persuasive manner, and knew how to use it. Mrs Scarsby laughed, and looked at Priscilla, who came forward, still drying a milk-jug. ‘I dare say she would like to. Oh, I could manage without her’——

‘Oh, she’s here herself!—Now, Dan, it’s your turn! I’ve done my share;’ and Katharine unexpectedly resigned her post, thus basely forcing her friend to do her share.

Dorothy laughed. ‘Will you come? Please do! We need you awfully. We haven’t an idea where to go, or how to get back when we get there.’

Priscilla’s eyes danced. ‘I really think perhaps I’d better. But are you sure you want me?’

‘It will make it twice as jolly if you’ll come,’ Dorothy said eagerly.

‘We don’t want only to have one another to talk to. We talked all day yesterday. We’re sisters, you know,’ Katharine explained seriously, ‘and you never saw two sisters who wanted to talk to one another all the time, did you?’

‘Sisters?’ Priscilla, taking down her yellow coat from a peg, turned, looking startled. ‘I didn’t understand that.’

‘Adopted sisters, you know. She’s Dorothy Ann Nairn. I’m Katharine Mary Mayne.’

‘Oh, I see! I thought for a moment you meant it.—You’re sure you can spare me, mother?’

‘Yes, dear. But try to be back half-an-hour before dinner-time, to help me then.’

‘Wait just a minute, please!’ Priscilla disappeared, and came back presently wearing her rucksac, but offered no explanation. ‘Now I’m ready;’ and she took up her walking-stick.

‘I’ve only brothers,’ Dorothy explained, as they set out, ‘and Katharine’s sisters are all grown-up, so we’re in the same boat so far as sisters go. So we adopted one another two years ago.’

‘I’ll tell you how we know we’re really sisters! We can say anything we like to one another, and the other one always understands. We never get the hump at one another; we never get cross. It’s awfully convenient.’

‘Are sisters never cross? I haven’t had a chance to find out.’

‘Well, they understand one another, anyway. They know when it’s only a joke. That’s how I feel with Dorothy Ann.’

‘Dorothy Ann?’ Priscilla looked at Dorothy in surprise. ‘They don’t call you that all the time, do they?’

‘They do when I can manage it. I can’t get everybody to, of course.’ Dorothy Ann sank down on a big rock at the top of the heather slope, and gazed out across the moor. ‘I say, isn’t there a lot of it? I like it. But I want a rest; going up places makes my silly heart jump still. I’ve had dip., you know, and it makes your heart jumpy for a bit.’

‘And she swanks frightfully about it, just because she’s found out she’s got a heart!—All right, Dorothy Ann! Sit still, like a good old lady, and you’ll soon be all right! It gives me a chance of a good look at the moor. Isn’t it a ripping colour?’ Katharine looked at Priscilla. ‘It’s like you somehow. The colour makes me think of you.’

‘Perhaps I’ve absorbed some of it,’ Priscilla laughed. ‘I’m up here half my time. It’s glorious in August. But do you really want people to use your whole name?’

‘She tries to make us. I do it just to please her.—Don’t I, Dorothy Ann?’

‘Rather! There are so many Dorothys. I like to be different, and have my name all my own. But there’s more reason than that. I’ve got two aunts.’

‘Yes?’ Priscilla asked doubtfully.

‘All our family are boys; there are six of them—four before me and two after. They aren’t all at home now, of course, but that’s how the family goes—all boys. And father never had any sisters, and mother was the only girl in her family. It’s boys everywhere; even among cousins I’m the only girl in the connection; there are tons of boys. Awfully rotten luck for me, but mother seems glad I’m not another boy. But father has two old aunts, who have never married, but always lived together—Aunt Ann and Aunt Dorothy—see? When I turned up after all those boys, and they could believe that I was really and actually a girl by way of a change, the aunts begged mother to call me after them both. They said they’d never had a girl called after them. They’re very old, and rather sweet, and she wanted to please them; so she did it, and of course they call me Dorothy Ann. They’d be frightfully hurt if they thought the Ann was being forgotten. So I think I ought to stick to Ann too. They’re in Switzerland now, for Aunt Dorothy’s ill and can’t live in England; so a year ago they sold up their home—they had a beautiful old house—and went to live abroad. Mother says it has lengthened Aunt Dorothy’s life by months. I don’t know what Aunt Ann would do without her; they’re just everything to one another—like Katharine and me! So I try to make people call me Dorothy Ann.’

‘And do they do it? At home and school?’

‘At home they do, though it’s more of a joke than anything else. Most of the girls do at school; but the mistresses—well, you know what they are!’

‘If her home name had been Dolly, they’d have called her Dorothy, and said they couldn’t have pet names at school. As it’s Dorothy Ann, they say Dorothy’s quite enough. They never call you what you want to be called, if they can help it,’ Katharine explained.

‘And there are three Dorothys in our form already. I should have thought they’d be glad to make a difference. You see, I won’t—I simply will not—be called Dolly or Dot or—or Dotty, or any other baby-name. Dorothy’s all right, if there weren’t so many of them, but all the short names for it are so silly.’

‘Oh, Dorothy’s a beautiful name! And there are no other Dorothys here. Am I to remember the Ann too?’

‘I always like people better if they do!’

‘Oh, then, I’ll try,’ Priscilla said hastily.—‘And you aren’t Kitty, or Kathie?’ and she turned to Katharine.

‘No! Nor Kat. I’m not a kitten.’

‘I’ll remember,’ Priscilla laughed.

‘Dan’s rested now. Let’s go on.—Come on, old lady!’ and Katharine held out her hand to her friend.

‘Dan?’ Priscilla asked in surprise.

‘Short for the whole of it. Besides, she spells Dan, and it suits her; she ought to have a boy-name.’

‘I’ve been more with boys than girls,’ Dorothy Ann laughed. ‘Where are you going to take us, Priscilla? Can we go where those bluebells came from? They’re all over with us at home; May is bluebell month.’

‘It’s June up here. We’re later than you near London. But I thought you wanted to see the moor?’

‘We do, awfully. Don’t they grow on the moor?’

Priscilla laughed. ‘No! In the woods and lanes, away down in the dale.’

‘Oh, sorry! I didn’t know. I’m not used to moors. Then we’ll go and see them another time.’

‘Take us over the moor—that’s what we want—and show us everything. What’s this, for instance—all these dinky little gold stars in the heather?’ Katharine asked.

‘That’s tormentil. You’ll find it everywhere up here. That creeping pink thing is red rattle; yellow rattle is down in the fields—heaps of it.’

‘How queer! And these ducky little blue spikes? They turn the whole bank blue.’

‘Milkwort.’ Priscilla began to search in the heather, and presently held out two more sprays. ‘These are the same.’

‘But—why, how funny! Those are pink and white! And yet it is the same!’ Dorothy Ann cried.

‘Yes, there are the funny side wings;’ and Katharine came to look. ‘Does it grow in all colours, then?’

‘All those three. I don’t know which is prettiest’

‘I like the pink;’ and Katharine stuck a sprig into her brown coat.

‘I’ll have white,’ said Dorothy Ann, and ornamented her pink coat in the same way.

‘Then the blue for me,’ Priscilla laughed, and showed them the waxy pink bells of the bilberry as they went along.

‘I love the red leaves! It’s a gorgeous colour! They’re prettier than the flowers,’ Katharine exclaimed.

‘She’s artistic,’ Dorothy Ann laughed. ‘She’s awfully keen on colours. Her painting’s not half bad. But she mustn’t do any now, of course.’

‘Pig! You needn’t keep reminding me, Dorothy Ann!’

‘You don’t have to wear glasses?’ Priscilla asked.

‘Not if I rest my eyes now. I’m not short-sighted, you know. I can see’—and Katharine gazed around—‘oh, as far as you can, I guess! I can see those two rock things standing up on the hill over there across the dale!’

‘They’re not rocks. We’ll go and see them some day. I’m glad that your eyes will come all right again.’

‘I get headaches if I do work. I’d need glasses if I had to do much just now. But they say I’ll be all right if I rest all summer and don’t overdo it afterwards. It’s a ripping excuse for needlework-time!’

‘She’s rather pleased about it,’ Dorothy Ann remarked. ‘She’s going to make the most of her groggy eyes next term. Oh, what’s that funny thing, Priscilla?’

‘Cotton-grass;’ and Priscilla brought a handful of stems crowned by blowing tufts of white. ‘It is queer, isn’t it?’

‘You do know things! How did you find out all the names?’

‘I didn’t know anything when we came, two years ago. I’d lived in town and never been on a moor for more than a day at a time. Matron helped me to find out things. She has a book with coloured plates, and she lets me have it whenever I find anything new. If you’re fond of flowers, there’s something I’d like to show you when your heart is used to climbing hills, Dorothy Ann.’

‘It’s getting on. Where are you taking us to-day?’

‘To a favourite place of mine;’ and Priscilla led them wandering over the moor by tiny paths they would have passed unnoticed.

First she took them to a spot whence they could look all up and down the long green dale, six hundred feet below, with dense dark woods, and yellow buttercup meadows, and a winding river, and gray old towns and villages. Then farther on she showed them the shining lake at the head of the dale, among its low green hills, and promised to take them there some day soon. Then they turned from dale and lake, from woods and fields, and faced only brown rolling moor, and plunging into the dry heather by another winding path, found themselves treading on soft white sand.

‘How ripping! I thought it would be all rock up here! I’d like to go barefoot,’ Dorothy Ann cried eagerly.

‘I’ve done it. It’s very jolly. The heather tickles, of course, and there are ants and beetles, but if you don’t mind them it’s all right.’

‘I don’t mind. We’ll go barefoot someday. And I’m going to learn to jump with your pole soon too. You’ll let me use it, won’t you?’

‘I’d eat beetles and ants if I could catch them. I’m just starving,’ Katharine vowed. ‘Show me some beetles, Priscilla—big ones!’

‘I’m starving too. And yet we had a huge breakfast.’

‘Perfectly enormous. Dan ate two eggs, Priscilla! Think of it—after porridge!’

‘It’s the wind,’ Priscilla laughed. ‘Come this way now.’

‘I really think we’d better go home for something to eat, you know. Beetles might not agree with us,’ Dorothy urged.

‘Oh, what a weird stone!’ cried Katharine, as they reached the top of a slight slope and looked into a big shallow cup, scooped out of the heather. In the middle of it stood a great gray boulder, many times larger than any they had seen so far, as big as a house; and crowded together round its base and underneath it were a number of smaller ones, as if they had rolled there for shelter.

‘It’s the Hen and Chickens Rock,’ Priscilla explained. ‘You find these queer rocks in all kinds of shapes here and there on the moors. There’s the Cow and Calf at Ilkley, and the Toad’s Mouth on the hill across the dale. And there’s one place where there are hundreds of them all together, all with names; there’s the Druid’s Altar, and the Idol, and the Yoke of Oxen, and the Monkey’s Face, and the Lover’s Leap, and the Pivot Rock, and the Dancing Bear, and heaps more. From this side this one is quite like a sitting hen.’

‘I think it’s far more like an elephant.’

‘Oh, I think it’s like a hen!’ Katharine caught the resemblance more quickly. ‘All those little ones are the chickens getting under her wings—I see!’

‘In between the chickens, where you see those holes, there are wee caves, and if you aren’t too big you can crawl into them,’ Priscilla suggested.

‘Come on!’ and Dorothy Ann forgot her heart, and raced down the slope.

‘We’re not too big, are we?’ and Katharine raced after her, and caught her just in time. ‘I won’t have you exploring without me, Dorothy Ann!’

Priscilla laughed, and ran too; but they were already exploring the cracks and corners and tiny caverns, Katharine on her hands and knees, because she was small and could be pushed through narrower slits than Dorothy Ann, both exclaiming in delight at the floor of silver sand between the boulders.

‘Let’s have houses! You choose one, Dan, and I’ll come and call and ask for your husband, and how your daughter’s getting on at the isolation hospital, and if it was a very sharp attack.’

‘Baby! All right, I’ll have this ducky little cave. You can be next door.’

‘I’m going to decorate mine with bracken and bilberry.’

‘I often keep house here;’ and Priscilla swung the rucksac from her shoulders. ‘I thought you’d like it. Now we’ll have some biscuits!’ and she began to unbuckle the straps.

‘Biscuits!’ and they eyed her hungrily. ‘Oh, Priscilla, have you really got biscuits?’

‘Don’t tease us, Priscilla! We’re hungry enough to eat our boots.’

‘What about chocolate?’ and Priscilla laughed at their hungry faces.

‘You’re a perfect dear! How did you think of it?’

Priscilla handed each of them two big hard biscuits and a cake of chocolate. ‘I never go out for the morning without something. I know how hungry you get, and there’s nothing to eat up here. But there’s a spring of good water just out there, if you’re thirsty.’

‘You’re a real fairy godmother!’ Katharine vowed, crunching contentedly.

‘She’s like the Swiss Family Robinson mother. Have you anything else in that bag? I’d got quite a pain. Really, I didn’t think I could walk home.’

‘Oh, you aren’t far from home. We came round. We’re only ten minutes’ walk from the hospital.’

‘Really? Oh, then, I say, let’s stop here! I like this!’ and Dorothy Ann slipped off her coat and lay on the heather in much enjoyment.

Katharine did the same. ‘This is blissful! We are having a joy-day!’ she sighed happily. ‘I say, Dan, think of parsing and analysis! It is Thursday, isn’t it? I feel all mixed up already.’

‘Think of dictée, and French translation, and algebra!’

‘And needlework!’ and Katharine’s cup of happiness was full.

‘Why are you dressed alike?’ Priscilla looked curiously at the green sailor frocks, with wide collars trimmed with brown braid, and brown belts and ties, which were so neat with the brown shoes and stockings.

Dorothy Ann laughed. ‘Gym. tunics. Green and brown are the school colours. Everybody has green sailor suits for gym. The infants look funny little dots in them, and the seniors are all legs; but they’re just right for the Middle School—that’s Katharine and me.’

‘How old are you? I’m fifteen.’

‘We’re thirteen. I’m a month older than Katharine, and ever so much more sensible.’

Katharine laughed, but scorned to reply. ‘I suppose you don’t have anything to do with the hospital, Priscilla?’

‘Not with the patients—not as a rule, that is. I have helped when they’ve been short-handed for some reason.’

‘And you didn’t catch anything? Winifred’s dreadfully afraid we shall.’

‘No, I didn’t catch anything. I didn’t think about it. I’m always very well, and there’s no reason you should take things if you’re well and don’t worry about it. Nurses don’t.’

‘I suppose they don’t. I’ve often wondered why they didn’t.’

‘Of course, I had to take care, and change my things, and disinfect as they do, and I kept away from everybody till it was certain I was all right. I didn’t want to carry scarlet-fever to any of the village kiddies. But they can’t understand that. They think because I live there I must breathe germs all the time, and carry diseases about and scatter them wherever I go. It’s awfully silly, but you’d think I’d got the plague.’

‘How soft!’ Dorothy Ann scoffed. ‘Then aren’t they friendly?’

‘Oh no, they won’t speak to me. I suppose their mothers tell them not to. When I go into a shop they all get to the other side, and they pull the babies away when they see me coming.’

‘How awfully beastly for you! I say, aren’t you lonely?’

‘How simply silly of them!’ Dorothy Ann’s tone was as indignant as Katharine’s had been sympathetic. ‘What awful duffers they must be!’

‘It is silly, of course, but I never think about it now. I felt bad at first. I must get home now;’ and Priscilla changed the subject abruptly. ‘Mother needs my help at dinner-time. But there’s no need for you to come for half-an-hour yet.’

‘Oh, but we can’t find our way! We’re hopelessly lost!’ and Katharine sat up in dismay.

‘You really mustn’t leave us to our fate like that!’ Dorothy Ann added, still lying lazily on the heather, however. ‘The search-parties would only find our mouldering bones, weeks afterwards, and then you’d have to have a funeral. You brought us here; you’d better stick to us, Priscilla.’

Priscilla laughed. ‘If you go up to that gorse-bush on the edge of the hollow you’ll see the hospital, and a straight path leading to it. It’s one of mine; I’ve come here so often. I bring books and work, and sit among the Chickens when I feel like being alone. There’s quite a trodden path by now; you can’t possibly miss it. But if you don’t turn up in an hour I’ll come back and fetch you.’

‘Shall we risk it, Dorothy Ann?’

‘I think we might, Katharine.’

‘You can’t possibly get lost;’ and Priscilla laughed, and left them lying on the heather, two green spots on the brown carpet.

‘This—is—ripping!’ murmured Dorothy Ann drowsily, five minutes later. ‘Just hear the bees!’

‘There’s an earwig going down my neck, and some heather tickling. But I can’t be bothered’—— Katharine’s voice died away; evidently she could not be bothered to finish her sentence.

‘Isn’t it jolly hot? There’s no wind in here.’ Dorothy Ann was growing drowsier.

‘Don’t bother. I want to—to think—about Priscilla’——

Dorothy chuckled sleepily, but felt disinclined to reply, and any further attempt at conversation was left to the bees.

An hour later Priscilla, alarmed by their long absence, came running up the path, and stood on the edge of the hollow and laughed. Then she went down to wake them. ‘Our strong air seems to be taking effect.’

‘Dan, you lazy beggar, you’ve been asleep!’

‘I’m half an invalid still,’ Dorothy Ann chuckled. ‘I’m used to having naps. But what about you? You are a lazy kid!’

‘You’re very late for dinner,’ Priscilla warned them.

‘I believe I’m hungry again!’ Katharine’s voice was full of surprise. ‘Are you, Dan?’

‘Starving! Let’s hurry.—I say, Priscilla, don’t tell anybody, will you? There’s a dear!’

Priscilla laughed again, and promised faithfully to keep the secret. ‘It’s really a compliment to our good air!’ she said, brushing twigs of heather off one green tunic, and then off the other.

CHAPTER VI.
JOY-DAYS AND OTHERS.

‘What was it you wanted us to do for you, Winifred?’ Katharine asked over supper that night.

Winifred laughed. ‘You’ve done it very nicely.’

They had talked about Priscilla to her ever since she came off duty. She had advised them not to go for another walk during the afternoon, but to take things easily for the first day; so, saying nothing about their morning nap, they had taken a book and gone to lie on the heather just outside the enclosure, on the understanding that Dorothy Ann would read aloud. In half-an-hour Katharine had tired of this, however, and had returned to the garden to help Priscilla, who was mowing the lawn. Dorothy would have helped too, but had been reminded of her heart; so she had consented to sit with a magazine, and read out jokes while the others worked. In the evening they had begged for another walk, and Priscilla had taken them to gather hyacinths in the woods and lanes.

‘I wanted you to make friends with Priscilla and be company for her,’ Winifred explained.

‘Why didn’t you tell us?’ asked Katharine.

‘We’d have done that anyway. We couldn’t have helped it. She’s awfully jolly,’ said Dorothy Ann.

‘I thought you would. But I couldn’t ask you to. It wouldn’t have been at all the same thing to her. She’s very proud, and if she had thought I’d asked you to be friends for her sake you’d never have got hold of her at all.’

Katharine nodded. ‘I’ve known girls like that at school. You have to get it into their heads somehow that you really want to be friends. It they think it’s only because you feel you’ve got to, you never get on at all.’

‘Oh, well, we’ve got on all right with Priscilla!’ Dorothy Ann said lightly.

That was only the first of many ‘joy-days,’ as Katharine called them. Under Priscilla’s guidance they explored moor and dale, attempting longer distances as Dorothy Ann grew stronger. Soon she was able for all-day excursions, when Priscilla’s rucksac held sandwiches and biscuits, cakes and fruit, and they went to a farm for glasses of milk at midday.

She led them straight across the moor and down the hill towards the great lake at the head of the dale. Leaving the moor by a field-track, they found their way through woods, where were long banks of wild rhododendron in full flower and a carpet of hyacinths beneath, to the side of a stream and waterfall. Here they lunched, sitting on great boulders close to the tumbling beck, and scrambled about for a while on the rocks. Then Priscilla led them on by woodland paths down to the shore of the lake, and they walked out on to the great dam, and stood there bareheaded in the wind blowing down from the higher moors, fancying themselves far out at sea. Their homeward way lay through low-lying meadows beside the river, where every stile, as they crossed from one field to the next, gave change of colour. If one meadow was golden with buttercups, the next would be crimson with sorrel or white with hemlock, or occasionally, to their delight, splashed vivid purple-blue with meadow crane’s-bill. Here Priscilla was as helpful as on the moor; she knew the flowers, and could satisfy their curiosity.

Another day they spent on the ridge where, nearly a thousand feet up, huge rocks in all kinds of weird shapes were gathered, scattered among heather and bracken, and clothed in bilberry and bearberry. They wandered from the Idol to the Monkey’s Face, and many another, marvelling at their curious forms, and the strange markings upon them, and smooth round holes bored in their sides; but Priscilla had no knowledge of geology, and could not answer questions here. Lying flat in the wind on one of the biggest boulders, they looked out on the one hand over the wide vale of York spread at their feet, and on the other up the long green dale to the lake at the head, while behind were velvet brown ridges of moor.

‘Your old Hen and Chickens is one of these, that has wandered away from the rest and got lost. Priscilla,’ said Dorothy Ann. ‘How did they get up here? That’s what I want to know.’

‘I’d like to know too. We’ll go up to the other side of the dale and see the Toad’s Mouth to-morrow.’

That was a big climb, and no one remembered Dorothy Ann’s heart till they had reached the top. Then it was not she but Katharine who stopped, with a wail of dismay.

‘Dorothy Ann! What about your heart? You aren’t supposed to go climbing!’

‘Then I guess it’s better,’ Dorothy Ann said stoutly, ‘for it hasn’t worried me.’

‘It must be,’ Priscilla laughed. ‘We’ve come down six hundred feet, and up nearly as much. I think you must be all right again, Dorothy Ann.’

‘I guess I am! We’ll say no more about it;’ and Dorothy Ann plunged on through the heather. ‘I want to see those two funny rocks we’ve looked at so often, standing up on the hill like pillars. I suppose they’re like those we saw yesterday, only thin and straight. What are they called? The Needles? Or Walking-Sticks?’

Page 47.

They lunched sitting close to the tumbling beck.

Priscilla laughed again. ‘See when you get there,’ she said; and, to their vast amazement, they found the ‘rocks’ not rocks at all, but masonry, the ruined pillars of some ancient house or gateway, built of great squared blocks of stone, with the remains of arches springing from their sides, and holes for cross-beams.

‘Well, that’s funny!’ said Dorothy Ann. ‘What kind of house was it, Priscilla? It must have been huge!’

‘Nobody knows. I’ve never heard any story about it.’

‘Is it quite forgotten? How rummy!’

‘I think it’s rather sad;’ and Katharine could never look at the great ‘stoops’ without a feeling of desolation.

They ate their sandwiches, sitting in the wind sweeping down from the open moor behind, on what had once been the entrance-step of the mysterious ruin; then Priscilla led them along the cliff and down into the woods, where the undergrowth was one vast sea of blue wild hyacinths, to the lonely tarn hidden beneath the rocks. Here there was fine scrambling over boulders and by tiny paths among the bushes. Dorothy Ann was no longer an invalid as she climbed like a goat over the masses of fern-draped rock; the water-lily leaves covering parts of the silent pool, and the reflections of trees and cliffs in its dark water, fascinated Katharine.

They spent one Saturday afternoon in Harrogate, and had tea and ices at a café. Priscilla made no remark when this was arranged, but secretly wondered if the girls expected her to go in her old short skirt and coat, and, if so, whether they would not be ashamed to be seen with her. She came out from the cottage in her new blue dress, wearing the white coat and hat, and with her long plait tied with a white ribbon, and was greeted by Dorothy Ann with raised eyebrows and the brief remark, ‘Swank! Some dress!’

‘What a jolly frock, Priscilla!’ cried Katharine. ‘Why have you kept it dark all this time?’

‘Yes, why have you been sitting on it?’ Dorothy Ann demanded severely.

‘It sounds a queer way to treat a dress! I hope it doesn’t look so crushed as all that!’ Priscilla laughed.

‘You know I didn’t mean that. It looks awfully jolly, and some swank! But why haven’t we seen it before?’

‘Because it would be silly on the moor. Saturday afternoon in Harrogate is quite another thing.’ And they found it so, indeed, as they mingled with the crowds and thought with amusement of their lonely haunts, and the days when they did not meet a soul and the only sounds were the ‘tu-whitt’ of the plover’s cry and the humming of the bees in the heather.

One day, also, Priscilla led them up the steepest road she knew, till they had climbed a thousand feet above the river and bridge. At the highest point of the road they found the wayside banks covered with pansies, yellow and purple—not the little heart’s-ease of the fields, but real pansies which would not have disgraced any garden. Among the pansies was wild saxifrage, and Priscilla carried home small roots of both in her rucksac. ‘Matron will be pleased with them,’ she said.

In the meadows of a little hill the girls gathered handfuls of fragile pink water-avens, which were new to them both, and which Katharine persisted in calling anemones. From the hill-top they looked out over miles of moor unknown to them—south towards Ilkley, and north to Whernside and the mountains.

But the greatest ‘joy-day’ of all was when Winifred, being on night duty, ordered a wagonette from the nearest farm to be ready for them, and after sleeping all morning came out refreshed, and carried them all off across the hills and through the lanes to Fountains. That day lived in their memories for months. Priscilla had never been there before, though living so near; and none of them had ever seen such a park as Studley, with such magnificent yews and beeches and such herds of deer, or dreamed of such an enchanted spot as little Skelldale, with the great ruined abbey standing proudly between close-wooded cliffs. Dorothy Ann explored every corner and climbed every stair, reaching each possible and several apparently impossible points; Priscilla asked endless questions, and wanted to know more even than the guide-book could tell; Katharine wandered about in a blissful dream through nave and aisles, transepts and chapels, her wide eyes seeing the white-robed, silent monks pacing the cloisters or chanting solemnly in the choir, or the crowd of pensioners at the gate. Winifred was equally fascinated by the surrounding buildings, the refectory and warming-room, the chapter-house with its three deep-set Norman doorways, and the cloister-court with its well and ancient cedar; while the vaulted cellarium amazed them all, and reduced even Dorothy Ann to awed silence.

Winifred’s invitation included tea at the lodge beside the lake, where the island was one mass of wild purple rhododendrons, and the chaffinches came to sit on the stone balustrade and wait for their share of the cakes. As the party drove home in the early evening Katharine sighed happily.

‘This has been the most glorious day yet! It ought to have been somebody’s birthday! Are you sure it isn’t yours, Priscilla?’

‘Mine’s in December. It’s rather late, isn’t it?’

Winifred laughed, and showed no surprise when a telegram awaiting them at the hospital told that their ‘joy-day’ had been a birthday party, after all. A baby-son had arrived for the married sister who was staying with their parents, and whose presence at home had made Katharine’s return from school undesirable. He was a first baby and the first grandchild, and Katharine’s excitement over her promotion to the dignity of aunthood was intense. This was the aspect of the affair which struck her as most satisfactory, and she felt several years older, and much older than Dorothy Ann, whenever she remembered she was an aunt. She would have liked to start for home at once, but realised that with nurses and babies about there would not be much room to spare; so she consented, though very reluctantly, to wait for a month or so before seeing her nephew.

These were great days for Priscilla. She was learning as much from the younger girls as they were from her. The books at which she had been working lay untouched on their shelves this summer; but she worked steadily during evenings or early mornings at the garden, feeling herself in honour bound to keep it in good condition, so that Matron should not have cause to feel ashamed of it, and to say that her gardener had failed her. Katharine and Dorothy helped her in her work, and from morning till night they were together. The two and a half years which separated her from them in age were forgotten, and they were the best of friends.

Priscilla soon knew all about their school-life. As they tramped over the heather, or sat crouching among the Chicken rocks below the big Hen while a sudden rainstorm swept across the moor, or lay out on the rocks in the sunshine and searched for ripening bilberries, Katharine gave vivid imaginative little descriptions of the girls and mistresses, till Priscilla felt she knew them all. There was Mademoiselle, who was a general favourite, in spite of her leanings towards needlework and her uncomfortable habit of ‘getting you in a corner alone and talking French at you;’ and Miss Bingham, who taught mathematics, but also superintended drill and games and was a ‘good sport,’ and was always referred to by both the girls as Binks or Binky; and Miss Graveson, the music-mistress, who was young and enthusiastic, and much liked; and Miss Chinchen herself.

‘We call her Chin-Chin-Chinaman, and Winifred jumps on us for it. But I’m positive certain she did it herself when she was at school.’

‘We asked her if she did, and she went red and couldn’t say no,’ Dorothy Ann added.

Among the girls there were Van Evans and Menie Macdonald, who were such great friends though so very unlike in character. ‘Like us,’ put in Dorothy Ann. Van and Menie would be seniors next year, when the present Sixth had left, and they would make the school very jolly, for Van was up to anything, but Menie never let her ‘go too far and make a silly of herself,’ said Katharine. And there was Phyllis, who was in the Third with Katharine and Dorothy, and who always knew everything, because her mother was a friend of Miss Chinchen’s, and Phyllis always ‘got to know things somehow.’

Dorothy Ann’s revelations were on different lines. From her Priscilla heard of the big cricket-field, a short distance from the school, and the matches played there during the summer. There were four tennis-courts at one end, too, and space at the other end for basket-ball, and the whole school went there nearly every afternoon, except when they went to the baths for swimming. The captain of the cricket-club was leaving at Christmas, and Dorothy Ann, realising that there would be no cricket for her this summer, would have given much to know who would be chosen next year. If Van would consent it would be all right, but she was much more keen on tennis.

‘If some of the others were here,’ she said when she heard Katharine describing one after another of their companions, ‘they’d tell you that Katharine’s the girl with a grievance. That’s what the seniors call her.’

‘Really?’ Priscilla looked doubtfully at Katharine, who laughed. ‘She doesn’t look like it.’

‘She has one, all the same. All her sisters were at our school, you know.’

‘All of them! There were only three before me,’ Katharine interrupted indignantly. ‘You make it sound as if there had been a dozen!—Joan and Margaret and Winifred all went to Miss Chinchen’s, Priscilla, and no one can forget them. Joan—she’s the one that’s got the baby now—was awfully pretty, and Margaret and Winifred were very clever.’

‘Winifred’s pretty too. I don’t know the other one,’ Dorothy Ann put in.

‘Awfully pretty,’ Priscilla nodded.

‘They were all three pretty, and all clever,’ Katharine agreed; ‘and, of course, Miss Chinchen can’t forget them. Joan got married; Margaret’s at college and doing awfully well, winning scholarships and all that kind of thing; and Winifred could have done the same if she hadn’t been so keen on nursing. And the trouble is that everybody expects me to be like them, and I’m not. I’m not pretty, and’——

‘No,’ said Dorothy Ann promptly.

Katharine threw a lump of moss, which hit her in the eye, and went on: ‘And I’m not clever. I can pass the usual sort of things that everybody has to pass, but nothing out of the ordinary. I could never come out first in anything, so I could never win a scholarship. I’m not brilliant in any single way.’

‘No,’ said Dorothy Ann again, and put up her hands to stop the next missile.

‘And they think I ought to be. So they look at me in a grieved kind of way, and say, “And you are Margaret Mayne’s sister!” or, “Joan would have done that easily!” or, “You are not like your elder sisters, my dear Katharine.” That’s Miss Chinchen. And I don’t think it’s fair. I can’t do anything really well, and I’m never higher than sixth in the form.’

‘There are fifteen of us, so it’s not so bad.’ Dorothy Ann changed her tone suddenly, and became sympathetic.

‘It would be good enough for any one else. But they expect me to live up to my family, and it’s not fair. I’ve told them all I’m the end, and the brains and good looks were used up before they got to me, but nobody can see it. I often wish the other girls had been dunces or a little less pretty.’

‘So that’s why she’s the girl with a grievance. She’s always having her family held up to her as an example. I shouldn’t like it myself,’ Dorothy Ann acknowledged.

It was during one of their moorland rambles that Priscilla first mentioned her father. The girls had seen him at times wandering aimlessly about the garden or on the moor within sight of the hospital, answering gently when spoken to, never venturing a word on his own account. They knew he had been told they were friends of Priscilla’s, but doubted if he knew them again next time he saw them. He never seemed to go far from home, and they had never once met him on the higher moor behind the hospital. A little river ran down through the moor close by the houses, forming deep pools here and there; and he sat by it for hours at a time, rod in hand, sometimes catching a few small fish, but more often satisfied just to sit there, listening to, and looking at, the water.

Priscilla, like her mother, was very gentle and patient with him, though she never talked about him. But one day, when they had scrambled to the top of the big Mother Hen, and were lying there in the sun and wind, Katharine examining the frayed hem of her green tunic, and remarking complacently that now she would have to have a new one next term, Priscilla broke a long silence with a sudden deeply thoughtful remark.

‘Do you know, I often think it may have been up on to these moors father came that time before he was taken so ill.’

Katharine raised her head quickly and stared at her. Dorothy Ann rolled over on the rock and did the same.

‘When all the money was stolen from him, d’you mean?’

‘It wasn’t stolen; I’m certain of that. He didn’t say much to us when he came home, but the one thing he did say was that the money was safe; he had “put it away safely,” and it would be all right now. And he meant it; he knew what he was saying.’

‘Where do you think he’d put it, then?’

‘Where could he put it on the moor, Priscilla?’

‘I think he’d buried it. It’s the only thing he could do with it up here.’

‘I say, suppose you could find it?’ cried Dorothy Ann.

‘Or suppose he woke up sometime and told you where to look?’

‘That would be better, of course,’ Dorothy Ann agreed.—‘Do you think he ever will, Priscilla?’

‘We hoped he would at first. That’s partly why we came here. Mother thought he might get stronger in this air; it had always done him good before.’

‘But why do you think it was these moors?’ asked Katharine. ‘There are moors everywhere—miles of them.’

‘Yes, you could never search for a buried treasure unless you had some clue to start with;’ and Dorothy Ann, who had sat up with the lust of a treasure-hunt in her eyes, subsided again. ‘Why should it be these moors, Priscilla? It might just as well be over there where the pansies grew, or away up beyond the reservoir.’

‘Because he’d been here before; it was a favourite part of his. If he had got a queer idea into his head about burying the money, he’d be more likely to choose a place he knew. I think he’d known it for years, for when I was very tiny he used to tell me stories about the moor, and I remember bits of them, and they seem to fit this part. There was one about a big stone and a lot of little ones, and I’ve often wondered if it was this very rock he was thinking of. And I’ve sometimes thought that if I could get him to go all over the moor with me we might happen to pass the very place where he hid the money, and he might remember. The sight of it might remind him. What do you think?’

‘I think it’s jolly likely!’ Dorothy Ann cried eagerly. ‘Why don’t you try?’

‘But suppose it made him bad again—the excitement, and all that, you know?’ Katharine said doubtfully.

‘Yes, I thought of that. I think it might be risky. He might be a lot worse than he is. And we can get on all right without the money.’

‘If you had it, you could go to school again, and you know you’d like that,’ remarked Dorothy. ‘You were saying only yesterday you wished you could go back with us and have good times too.’

‘But she doesn’t want it if getting it would make her father worse!’ Katharine said swiftly.

‘No. If there’s any risk at all we’d rather go on as we are,’ Priscilla said gravely.

‘But suppose the excitement—if it happened, you know—made him better, woke him up, and all that?’ Dorothy Ann insisted. ‘You have to risk things sometimes.’

‘This would be a big kind of thing to risk. And he wouldn’t come, anyway. He gets tired when he has walked a very little way from the gate, and he seems to have a queer nervous feeling about not liking to lose sight of the house. I think he’s afraid he’d never find it again. It’s natural, after all. He knows he’d have to be shown the way back, and if he lost the person he went out with he’d never find the house again if he couldn’t see it. So he never goes farther than the beck; I don’t believe he has ever been up here as far as these rocks, although they’re so near. They’re out of sight, you see. So I don’t suppose I could get him to come over the moor, even if it would be wise to try. But I’ve wondered sometimes if he’d remember the place if he saw it.’

‘Well, if he ever does, you’ll write and tell us all about it, won’t you?’

‘You’ll forget all about us when you get back to school; there’s so much going on.’

‘We won’t forget. How could we, after all the jolly times we’ve had together?’ Katharine said reproachfully.

‘We’re not so mean as all that. Of course you must write to us, and we’ll write and tell you all our news,’ Dorothy Ann said indignantly.

‘I sha’n’t have much news to tell. When you go we shall settle down again, and nothing more will happen for five years or so.’

‘It might; you don’t know. In five years you’ll be twenty, and you can’t go on like this for ever.’

‘I shall be a nurse. Matron will have me, I know. I’ll have to wait, of course, but I’ll be getting experience here.’

‘And, anyway, we’ve had some awfully jolly times this summer. Think of all our joy-days! You can always remember those, you know,’ Katharine said consolingly.

‘I’d rather have jolly times to look forward to than feel they ‘re all behind me,’ was Priscilla’s not unnatural remark, and the thought often returned to her as their visit drew to a close.

The girls were sorry to go, but both were looking forward eagerly to the next stage in their holidays. Dorothy Ann was to go with her parents and younger brothers to the sea on the east coast. Katharine was longing to see her mother and the baby nephew. Priscilla felt very desolate as they talked of these plans and of their meeting next term; but she did not show it.

As she stood in the heather waving her farewells as they drove off to the station, she could not help wondering if all that had been pleasant enough before would still satisfy her, or if things would not seem very flat and empty now; and she was right. In one sense she was poorer than before their visit, for now she had lost something. Then she had been contented; now she missed them at every turn. Then she had not known she was lonely; now she knew it all too well. Gardening, studying, long walks on errands for the hospital, even Nurse Mayne’s company, were no longer enough; the last she almost dreaded, because at times Winifred reminded her so keenly of Katharine. Up on the moor, among the rocks, down in the dale and woods, or away by the lake, every favourite spot was filled with memories of their days together; more than once Priscilla found the ‘joy-days’ hard to look back upon, and almost wished they had not been.

CHAPTER VII.
ROUND A CAMP FIRE.

A fortnight before Christmas Katharine went flying from class-room to music-room, from cubicle to study, in search of Dorothy Ann. She found her at last, and dragged her into a corner. ‘Dan, I’ve a letter from Winifred. She wants us to go and stop with her for a week in the holidays. Do you think your folks would spare you? She knows January is a funny time to go to the moors, and the hospital’s a funny place to ask us to, but she does want us to come awfully. It’s because of Priscilla. Winifred says she’s been so frightfully lonely all the autumn, and missing us so dreadfully; and there’s a note from Priscilla herself just begging us to come. Winifred’s asked mother, and she says I may go, if I like, for a week after Christmas. Will you? And would your mother let you? And could you travel alone?’

‘I could, of course,’ Dorothy Ann said indignantly; ‘but they’d never believe it. You know what people are.’

Katharine had noticed the unreasonableness of ‘people’ herself. ‘They can’t help it. They’re always like that. Well, who could come with you? Or could you come home with me? No; then you’d miss Christmas.’

‘I couldn’t miss Christmas. But father sometimes goes to Leeds on business’——

‘Goody! Then make him go after the New Year, and we’ll come back to school together. Bring lots of warm things; it will be jolly cold on the moor. Here’s Priscilla’s letter; you’ll see how much she wants us.’

Dorothy Ann read Priscilla’s pleading note, and its effect was such that she wrote to her mother at once, begging to be allowed to go north, if only for a few days. ‘She wants us awfully, mother! It’s horribly lonely for her, and you know how good she was to us in the summer! You said then you were sorry for her, because she must be so lonely. She says it’s been heaps worse since then, because she keeps missing us all the time. Katharine’s going, anyway; so do let me go too!’

She pleaded eagerly and insistently, with the result that one afternoon in mid-January she met Katharine and Winifred at Harrogate, and they took the train for the moors.

‘Isn’t it funny to arrive in the dark? It’s not six o’clock yet. Think of the sunshine when we came in June!’

‘You’ll find several things very different from what they were in June,’ Winifred remarked. ‘But the moor is much the same.’

‘We won’t see Priscilla sitting in the heather this time. I say, isn’t it dark?’ Dorothy Ann commented when they had left the main road and were driving up the lonely way to the hospital. ‘Now I know why you have all those whitewashed stones here and there!’

‘Much need. We’ve no gas-lamps here. Even Priscilla has to do her errands in daylight.’

Priscilla met them at the door, her face radiant. She carried in their rugs and parcels, but at first refused to come herself. ‘You want your tea. I’ll come in later.’

‘What nonsense! We want you more than tea. Come and talk to us while we have it.’

‘Tell us all your news, and we’ll tell you ours,’ said Katharine.

So Priscilla sat on the window-sill and listened, protesting that she had no news to tell. They talked breathlessly, yet managed to make a very good tea, and by the time they had finished she was fairly up to date in all their school news. ‘How are your eyes?’ she asked of Katharine.

‘Oh, heaps better! They say it was partly because I was run down, and the moor pulled me up again just in time last summer. Anyway, they don’t worry me much. Of course, they’re very bad sometimes.’

‘When she wants to get out of needlework or practising!’

It was nearly bed-time when tea-supper was over. Priscilla stayed chatting for an hour, and then said good-night, promising to come first thing in the morning to take them to see how the moor looked in winter.

As Katharine brushed her curls in preparation for bed she said decidedly, ‘Priscilla’s got something to say, Dan, but she’s waiting till she gets us alone. Didn’t you see it in her eyes?’

Dorothy Ann looked up quickly from her long brown plait. ‘No, I didn’t notice anything. She said she hadn’t any news.’

‘I know; but she has. You’ll see to-morrow.’

‘You are weird, the way you notice things, Katharine.’

‘Well, aren’t I always right?’

‘Gen’rally, ‘cept in grammar.’

‘Oh, grammar!’ Katharine laughed with infinite scorn, and began to plait her hair.

As they climbed the moor-path next morning, Dorothy Ann turned to Priscilla with the boyish directness of manner which characterised her. ‘Katharine says you’ve something to tell us. She says she saw it in your eyes last night. Have you? Or is it only her imagination? She’s got a big one, I know.’

Priscilla glanced at Katharine. ‘I didn’t know I showed it. I tried not to. There is something. I’ve been longing for you to come; I wanted to tell you about it. Wait till we get to the Hen and Chickens; I’ll tell you there.’

They looked at her curiously, even Dorothy conscious of the suppressed excitement in her tone. ‘Is it about your father?’

Priscilla nodded, and walked on in silence; and they hurried beside her, too eager to have thoughts even for the moor. It was very much as it had been in June, for the season was mild, and there had been no snow as yet. There were no flowers on the gorse-bushes, no young shoots of bracken, no pink leaves on the bilberry plants, no golden stars of tormentil or blue sprays of milkwort. But the rolling open brown moor was the same, with tawny masses of dead bracken everywhere; the wind was as fresh and sweet, though colder. There was less change up here than down in the dale with its naked woods.

‘Let’s get in among the Chickens,’ said Priscilla abruptly, as they reached the edge of the cup which held the great rock. ‘I think there’ll be showers. We get a lot of rain in winter.’

They crept into the biggest cavern, which would just hold them all comfortably, with about two feet to spare at the inner end. A shallow hole was scooped in the sand, and a heap of dry wood lay near it.

Priscilla produced paper and matches from her rucksac, and laid and lighted a small fire. ‘The smoke goes out by that crack. I generally have a fire for company. Sometimes I bring my dinner and cook it, and stop here all day and work. There’s so little daylight at present. I’ve been swotting at those books you said your girls were using; I ordered them in Harrogate. I had to do something, and do it hard, because things felt so flat when you went away. I’ve been awfully lonely.’

‘I’m sure it was horrid at first,’ Katharine said sympathetically.

‘I kept seeing you two everywhere. Sometimes I wished there was some place we hadn’t gone together, so that I could go there without thinking of you.’

‘We’re like the three witches in Macbeth,’ said Dorothy Ann, as they sat round the camp fire. ‘Some day I’d like to cook my dinner here, Priscilla. But now tell us about your father.’ Her eyes were as much excited as Priscilla’s own, which were very bright and eager in spite of her quiet tone.

‘I haven’t even told mother yet,’ said Priscilla. ‘I don’t want her to be disappointed if nothing comes of it. But he’s different lately. Well, I’ll begin at the beginning. After you left I tried to coax him to come for walks with me; but nothing came of it for a long time. Then he had influenza; we all had. One of the nurses went for a holiday, and brought it back with her, and we all had it in turn. I think influenza should be treated as infectious, and patients sent to isolation hospitals.’

‘Yes, it is awfully catching. Well, Priscilla?’

‘I wasn’t bad, I suppose because I’m always out so much. Mother and father were worse, and had to have a doctor. And the tonics father had to take had a tremendous effect on him; when he got better he seemed far stronger than he’d been before. That was in November, and we had jolly weather, sunny and pleasant; so I tried again to get him to go for walks. And by degrees he began to go with me. At first he wouldn’t go far, but he seemed to have forgotten his fear of losing sight of the hospital, so long as he was holding on to my arm. He kept asking if I was sure I knew the way; but after a while he saw that I did, and then he seemed to feel better about it. Gradually I got him to go up on the moor, and he liked it; and sometimes we went quite a long way down the road. Mother was awfully glad about it; but she didn’t know all I was planning to do. I never brought him here, to these rocks; we used often to pass quite close, but the moor rises so much all round that you don’t see them till you’ve climbed up to the edge of the hollow, and I never proposed that’——

‘But why not?’ Dorothy Ann cried, amazed and impatient. ‘I thought you thought he’d remember them?’

‘She wanted to get him used to it first, silly,’ Katharine said swiftly. ‘She was afraid it might be too much for him all at once.’

‘Oh, I see! I didn’t think of that. Sorry!’ and Dorothy Ann subsided.

‘Yesterday I decided to risk it;’ and Priscilla leaned forward, the subdued fire in her dark eyes blazing up suddenly. They unconsciously leaned forward also, tense with eagerness and excitement. ‘I wanted to know before you came whether anything would happen. So I brought him up to the edge, very slowly, and didn’t say anything. But he did!’

She stopped and drew a long breath. An exclamation broke from the other two. ‘What did he say? Priscilla, go on!’

‘He just said, “The Hen and Chickens!” and stared in a queer way, frowning as if he was trying to remember. I’d never mentioned their name.’

‘Then he remembered! And it didn’t do him any harm?’

‘And he didn’t say any more?’

‘He stared at me as if he hardly saw me—as if I wasn’t there and he was looking right through me—and then he said a queer thing. He said, “Four—to the right; four—to the left!” and then he sat down on that rock up there, and put his head on his hands as if he was trying to think.’

Priscilla leaned back against the rock and gazed at them. Katharine was white and anxious, Dorothy breathing quickly in excitement.

‘What did you do? What do you think he meant? What could he mean, Priscilla?’

‘But did it hurt him, Priscilla? Did it make him worse again?’ Katharine cried sharply.

‘I didn’t know what he meant, and just then I didn’t care. I was terrified that I’d hurt him, and felt that I shouldn’t have done it. I tell you I was shaking all over. I only really remembered afterwards what he’d said. I put my arms round him and asked him to come home, and he got up with a big sigh and said, “I told you, child?” I said, “Yes, yes, father dear;” and he said. “You won’t forget?” as if he knew he would. I wanted to cry; but I promised him I wouldn’t forget, and begged him to come home, and he came with me quite quietly, just as he always does. And—and I don’t believe he’s any the worse for it!’

‘Oh, I am glad!’ Katharine drew a long breath of relief. ‘Oh, Priscilla dear, don’t! Don’t do that!’ and she threw herself upon the elder girl and hugged her, as Priscilla covered her face with her hands.

‘Well, if he’s none the worse, I’m sure there’s no need to cry about it!’ Dorothy Ann’s practical temperament could see no reason for this sudden breakdown.

‘No, there’s no need. I’m an idiot, and I won’t cry. But when I’d got him safely home I went out on the heather and’——

‘Just howled,’ said Katharine, with understanding. ‘I know. I’d have done it too. It was because you’d been so frightened. But tell us, Priscilla! Is he just the same as ever?’

Priscilla’s hand crept out and gripped hers. Katharine’s complete understanding was very comforting.

‘He seems just the same; but several times he’s said to me, “You won’t forget?” I think he knows he’s told me something, and thinks it was something important. He can’t remember what it was, but he’s trusting that I shall. Of course, I always tell him I’ll remember, and when mother asks what he means I say it was something he saw up on the moor. She thinks he must be better since he’s evidently thinking about it. I didn’t think I ought to say anything to her until we knew if there was really anything to tell. If you two hadn’t been coming to-day I think I’d have told Matron; but as we’d talked about it I thought I’d tell you first.’

‘It was awfully jolly of you! But what do you think he meant, Priscilla? It sounds’—Dorothy Ann laughed in spite of her eagerness—‘it sounds like an order at gym.! “Up the middle in eights! Four to the right, four to the left!” Can’t you just hear Binky, Katharine?’

Priscilla looked at Katharine. ‘I’ve been thinking—if it had anything to do with the money, and if we could find it, we might be able to find some doctor who could cure him. This shows that his brain is all right; it isn’t gone—it’s only asleep. We thought perhaps he couldn’t wake up; that something had gone wrong in that dreadful illness, and he would never be any different. But if it’s only asleep, perhaps he could be wakened up, if he could see the right kind of doctor.’

Katharine nodded. ‘Oh, I do hope so! Wouldn’t it be nice to have him all right again?’

‘Nice?’ said Priscilla, and gazed into the little fire with blazing eyes.

‘But how are you going to get the money, Priscilla?’ Dorothy Ann insisted. ‘What do you think he meant? Have you thought about it? Have you begun to hunt, or did you wait for us?’

‘If he really hid the money up here, he must have buried it. There’s nothing else he could do,’ Priscilla argued, gazing thoughtfully across at them. ‘So we’ll have to dig. I brought my garden spades; I waited for you, of course’——

‘You darling! We’ll love to help!’ exclaimed Katharine.

‘We’ll have a regular treasure-hunt!’ Dorothy Ann’s eyes sparkled. ‘But where shall we start, Priscilla? Oh, what do you think he meant?’

‘I’ve been thinking about it ever since. I thought, perhaps if there were four Chicken rocks on each side’——

But Dorothy Ann was already outside and counting. ‘Five on that side and six on this. You’d count from the head of the Hen, of course. D’you think he divided it, and put half under the fourth on each side, in case one lot was found and stolen?’

‘That’s what I thought he might have meant,’ Priscilla acknowledged.

Dorothy seized a spade and began to dig vigorously.

Katharine caught up the second spade, and ran to the other side of the great rock; then returned hastily and handed the spade to Priscilla. ‘You’d like to. You ought to find it, not one of us. I’ll watch.’

‘I say, I didn’t think of that;’ and Dorothy Ann paused. ‘Take mine, Priscilla! I only meant to help you.’

‘No, no, please go on! I can’t use both spades,’ Priscilla laughed nervously. ‘It’s awfully jolly of Katharine to think of it.’ She took the spade, and began to dig also.

Dorothy Ann laughed ruefully. ‘Miss Mayne says it’s Katharine’s imagination makes her do jolly things, like that. ‘Fraid I haven’t any! But I do want to dig up that treasure! We’ll take turns, Katharine. You have a go now.’

Presently Katharine stopped digging, with a wail. ‘I’ve got to rock! I can’t go any deeper.’

‘So have I.’ Priscilla frowned. ‘It’s all rock here, with just a layer of sand. What shall we do?’

‘We can’t get through rock. And he couldn’t,’ Dorothy Ann argued. ‘It can’t be here, after all. He must have meant something else.’

‘What could he mean?’ They stood and looked at one another.

‘We can’t dig up the whole moor on the chance of finding something!’

‘Now, Katharine, trot out that imagination, if it’s any good!’ Dorothy Ann mocked. ‘What did he mean?’

‘I say!’ said Katharine softly, and looked up to the edge of the hollow, where the path from the hospital reached the crest of the wave of moor.

CHAPTER VIII.
PRISCILLA’S BURIED TREASURE.

Priscilla’s father stood there. His awakening brain, stirred by the freshness of the early morning into some dim memory of the day before, had led him along the path again. He stood looking down at them, something in his face which they had never seen there before—a vague trouble, as if something were distressing, almost angering, him. Then he came quickly towards them.

The younger girls shrank a little, for the displeasure in his face was growing. Suppose he had remembered the money, and was angry that they should search for it? He might only half-understand. The spade and the holes in the sand made their intentions evident. They knew he was not responsible for his actions, and there was a touch of fear in their faces, but they stood their ground bravely and waited for him.

There was fear in Priscilla’s face too, but it was fear for, not of, him as she went to meet him and laid her hand on his arm. ‘What’s the matter, father dear? Did you want me?’

‘Send them away! What are they doing here?’ and he looked nervously at Katharine and Dorothy Ann. ‘They must go away, Priscilla. They shouldn’t be here.’

‘You’d better go home, girls,’ she said clearly.—‘We weren’t doing any harm, father—just playing among the rocks.’ And then in a hurried whisper to Katharine, ‘Hide in the heather up there and watch. Don’t go right away; we might need you.’

They needed no further hint; the one thing they dreaded was to be sent away from the excitement altogether. They disappeared over the crest of the moor, then dropped flat and crawled back at a different point, and lay concealed among rocks and heather to watch.

Priscilla’s hand still lay on her father’s arm. He seemed troubled, and she was trying to quiet him.

‘Do you want me to dig, father? Where? Where shall I dig?’

He looked at her vaguely, and the girls lying in the heather held their breath. Would he remember any more?

Then Katharine’s hand gripped Dorothy’s so tightly that it ought to have hurt her, but Dorothy Ann did not feel it. While Priscilla stood watching, her face white, her father went deliberately to the head of the big Hen and carefully took four paces to the right.

Priscilla gave a little gasp. Dorothy Ann whispered excitedly, ‘Four paces! We never thought of that!’ Katharine did not speak, but watched, fascinated and breathless.

He marked the spot he had reached with his stick, then turned to the left, and as carefully took four paces at right angles. This brought him to a low rock, in no way unlike any of the others scattered about the hollow. No one searching for a hiding-place would have suspected it more than any of the rest.

He looked at Priscilla. ‘Here!’ he said, and watched her with a strange look as she caught up a spade and began to dig as well as she could with her shaking hands.

Up in the heather the two girls looked at one another. ‘Why did he put it there?’ murmured Dorothy Ann. ‘Why not under the big one?’

‘Because, if anybody heard it was here, that big rock was just the kind of place they’d search under. It’s the only one on the moor. But there’s nothing to mark out that little one from all the rest. He only used the big one as a guide to the real secret place,’ Katharine explained swiftly. ‘It was awfully clever.’

Dorothy Ann nodded. It was simple enough, as so many things were, when explained by Katharine. They both watched and stared as Priscilla paused in her digging. Had she come to rock again? Was it all a mistake?

She looked anxiously at her father. ‘Father dear, you’re tired. Won’t you come home? I’ll come back and dig. I won’t forget the place.’

‘No, no! Dig! Go on, Priscilla! Will they come back?’ and he looked round nervously.

‘No, they won’t come back;’ and she dug on, very nervous as to the result if she should really find anything.

‘Under the rock; you must dig in now,’ the directions came jerkily.

She nodded, and worked on. Her spade struck something hard, with the harsh sound of metal. She knew it was not rock this time. She was trembling as he dropped the spade and took up a trowel to clear away the sand. Then very carefully she drew out an iron box, and looked up fearfully at her father.

His face was working strangely. ‘Take it—to Priscilla.’ He stumbled over the words, and she knew he meant her mother. Then his overstrained brain gave way; he fell in a heap beside the rock, and lay there quietly.

Priscilla dropped the box, whose rusty clasp broke and showed its contents as a bundle wrapped in a mackintosh cover. Some such collapse as this she had dreaded, and that was why she had asked the girls to wait. Tears were running down her face, but she paid no heed to them as she shouted frantically, ‘Go for help! Fetch somebody quickly! Oh, Katharine, you come here!’

Dorothy Ann turned and ran down the path to the hospital as she had never run even in the sports at school. Bursting in at the gates, she went straight to the Matron’s house, and, finding no one there, was running, heedless of infection, towards the wards, when she very fortunately ran into a man who was digging up the garden-beds.

‘Hello, lass! wheer be ye coomin’ to?’

‘Oh!’ she gasped; ‘it’s Mr Scarsby—on the moor—he’s been taken ill. Priscilla sent me. You must come and fetch him. He can’t walk—bring somebody else to help’——

‘Eh, Ah’ll coom! Is he took bad, then, t’owd gentleman?’ and he ran to find the coachman who drove the ambulance. They brought a stretcher and set out, Dorothy Ann stumbling in front, quite breathless by this time, to show the way.

Katharine had run to Priscilla’s side. ‘What is it, Priscilla? Can we do anything? What’s the matter with him?’

‘It’s the shock.’ Priscilla dashed her tears away. ‘I was afraid of it. I tried to get him to go home, but it was no use. Bring some water, and I’ll bathe his face. I don’t know what else to do. Oh, I wish I hadn’t done it! I ought never to have brought him here. I know mother will say so.’

‘But you couldn’t know it would hurt him! And you’ve found the money. You can have all kinds of doctors for him now.’ Katharine would dearly have liked to see inside the mysterious bundle, but knew better than to suggest it just now.

‘What’s the good of money and doctors if I’ve killed him?’ Priscilla sat down and covered her face with her hands.

Katharine shook her gently. ‘You mustn’t, Priscilla. Don’t do it! They’ll be here in a few minutes, and then we’ll get him to bed and have the doctor, and perhaps he’ll be all right when he wakes up again. It was awfully exciting for him to see the thing he’d hidden years ago and forgotten all about. Of course it was too much for him. I’ll fetch water; you must bathe his head.’

She roused Priscilla to action, and kept her busy till Dorothy Ann appeared, followed by the stretcher-bearers. With many rough exclamations of sympathy, they raised him gently and carried him away, Priscilla nervously trying to help, Dorothy Ann panting from her run.

Katharine sat looking on, but not offering to lend a hand, and as the procession went up the path Dorothy Ann turned to her incredulously. ‘Why don’t you do something to help? Aren’t you coming?’

‘Come here!’ said Katharine; and then, in a loud whisper which could not reach the retreating men. ‘I’m sitting on the box!’

‘Oh, I see! Yes, of course, we couldn’t leave it there.’

‘No. You go with them, and when you get a chance ask Priscilla what she wants done with it. Ask her if you and I shall bring it home for her.’

‘Don’t you mind stopping?’

‘No; but tell me how he is when you come back. And don’t be long.’

Dorothy Ann nodded, and ran after Priscilla and the men; and Katharine carefully arranged her skirt so that the box was altogether hidden, and sat, elbows on knees and chin in hands, to await further instructions.

Before very long Dorothy Ann came running back, and threw herself down on the sand. ‘I asked Priscilla. She said, if we didn’t mind, would we keep guard over it for a while? She’ll come back as soon as she can. She doesn’t want her mother to see the box till she’s sure there’s something in it. It might not be the money, and then it would be such a frightful disappointment if she’d told every one she’d found it.’

‘She’s awfully anxious not to upset her mother more than she can help. Then I think we should fill up that hole again, and carry the box in among the Chickens. It’s going to rain, and we can’t sit out here.’

‘All right. I’ll fill it up;’ and Dorothy Ann seized the spade.

‘Make quite sure there’s nothing else in the hole first.’

‘I never thought of that, idiot that I am!’ Dorothy Ann went, down on her hands and knees, and made a thorough examination with hands and trowel. ‘No, there’s nothing more. Shall I fill it up now, Katharine? Some one might come along, and they’d think it was so funny.’

‘Wouldn’t it be better to leave it for Priscilla?’ Katharine had reconsidered the matter. ‘She might like to look for herself. No one’s likely to come; no one ever does. There’s the first drop. Let’s get inside.’

They carried the box into their cavern, and Katharine sat on it again, while Dorothy Ann revived the dying camp fire, and tended it carefully till she had a cheerful little blaze. The rain began to fall heavily, but they were dry and warm as they sat talking over the strange morning and its possible results.

‘I wonder if there’s really much money in the box,’ Katharine mused. ‘Winifred thought he’d saved up a good deal. Isn’t it funny to think I may be sitting on a fortune? It’s jolly hard! I wish I had a cushion!’

‘Have my coat!’

‘No; you’ll need it. But our caps would help;’ and Katharine spread their knitted caps on the box and sat on them. ‘That’s better!’

‘I wonder what they’ll do—when he’s better, of course. I should think they’d go away from here; wouldn’t you?’

‘Sure to. And they’ll send Priscilla back to school. Wouldn’t it be jolly if she could come with us?’

‘Ripping! But do you think they will? She’s sixteen.’

‘She could go for two years. She left when she was thirteen. I think they’ll send her.’

‘Would she like it? I wonder how she’d get on?’

‘She’s often said she’d like to go back. She’d be in the Sixth, I suppose. Or perhaps not; the Fifth would be more likely. She must be a bit behind. Not so very much, perhaps, for she has been working, and Winifred has been helping her all autumn. That will make a lot of difference.’

‘Still, it’s not the same as being at school. She’d have a good deal to catch up at first. Wouldn’t it be queer if she did go back with us? We’d seem only kids to her, once we got to school and there were others for her to make friends with.’

‘It wouldn’t make any difference that way, I’m sure. But, of course, she’d make other friends in her own set. At least, I suppose she would;’ and Katharine lapsed into thoughtful silence as she gazed into the fire, which Dorothy Ann was feeding with dried twigs of heather.

‘I hope she won’t forget us! If she doesn’t come by dinner-time I shall feel like Casabianca. We’ll have to go home for dinner in turns.’

‘She won’t forget us,’ Katharine said confidently; and her trust was justified when Priscilla came striding along through the rain soon after twelve o’clock, wearing a mackintosh and a sou’-wester hat with a long flap covering her neck at the back, her hair tucked inside, her rucksac on her shoulders.

‘I say, you look ready to go ten miles in rain!’ Dorothy Ann said admiringly.

‘I often do. I have to be ready for it;’ and Priscilla unslung the rucksac and laid it down carefully.

Katharine had sprung up joyfully. ‘I’ve taken care of it for you. I’ve been sitting on it all the time. How is he, Priscilla?’

‘Mother’s got him into bed and sent for the doctor. He’s just the same,’ Priscilla said very gravely. ‘Matron says we can’t possibly tell how it will affect him till he wakes up. I told her all about it, so that she could explain to the doctor. I thought some one ought to know.’

‘Not your mother?’

‘I want to know what’s in that box before I confess to mother. If it’s all been for nothing I think it will about kill me. But you’ll be getting hungry. I thought we might have our dinner here and go home later, so I brought some eggs’——

‘Priscilla! What does dinner matter? We want to know as much as you do!’

‘Oh, Priscilla, aren’t you going to open that box?’ wailed Dorothy Ann. ‘I can’t wait another minute! We’re just aching to know what’s in it!’

Priscilla looked from one to the other. ‘Don’t you mind? I thought you’d be starving.’

‘We’re starving to know if you’ve found the buried treasure!’

‘Oh, well, then we needn’t wait!’ Priscilla had been curbing her own impatience with difficulty.

Kneeling by the box, she raised the lid and began to undo the wrappings, and Katharine and Dorothy Ann pressed nearer, kneeling also. The leaping flame gave them light, and danced in their tense, eager faces. They were so silent with excitement that they could hear the pattering of the rain on the sand outside. Dorothy Ann was breathing quickly, Katharine hardly at all.

Priscilla’s hands shook as she drew out a thick leather case and unbuckled the straps. It had several pockets, and all were full of papers. She drew out the slips, then looked up at the girls. They were Bank of England notes for ten and twenty pounds.

‘I—say!’ whispered Dorothy Ann. ‘Five of those will make a hundred pounds! Count them quickly, Priscilla!’

‘She’ll be a millionaire,’ murmured Katharine, and at that Priscilla woke out of her dazed dream and laughed.

‘No fear of that! There are no millionaires in our family. But there are some hundreds of pounds here. I must take all this to mother at once. She ought to know. No, we won’t count it. She must do that;’ and she bundled the money into the case again and buckled the straps.

‘Oh, Priscilla, won’t you tell us?’ they cried.

‘I’ll come right back. But I must take it to mother. You can be getting the dinner ready. You’ll find everything in my bag;’ and she went off, the iron box clasped in her arms.

‘Oh dear! I suppose she’s right, but it would have been jolly to count it ourselves!’ wailed Dorothy Ann. ‘There were pots of money there—quite a thousand pounds, I’m sure! I feel like the boy in Treasure Island! But I wish it had been all in gold pieces!’

‘She’ll be back in half-an-hour. Let’s do as she said, and get dinner ready.’ Katharine was investigating the contents of the rucksac. ‘Bread—packet of butter—packet of salt—nicely packed in a jolly little pan—lots of eggs,—plates—spoons—it must have been heavy! Cake—three apples—biscuits; quite a ripping little dinner! Where shall we set the table?’

‘Hadn’t we better cook the eggs first? There’s not much room. How did she mean them to be done? I suppose that’s what the pan’s for. Shall I put them in and stick them on the fire?’

‘Yes; but don’t you want water in the pan?’ Katharine made the suggestion tentatively, not quite sure of her ground.

‘I don’t know! Do you? I’ve never boiled an egg.’

‘Strikes me we ought to know,’ Katharine said shamefacedly. ‘It’s rather awful not to know how to boil an egg. How old are we, Dan?’

‘Five,’ said Dorothy Ann solemnly. ‘I used to think I was thirteen; but that must have been a mistake. Shall we risk it?’ and she held the pan over the fire.

‘No, don’t. If we ought to put water in, it will go and get burnt or something, and that will spoil the pan. Priscilla will roar at us; but I really don’t know,’ Katharine confessed.

‘She didn’t bring any water!’

The argument seemed to Dorothy Ann unanswerable, till Katharine crushed her swiftly. ‘Because there’s heaps in the beck outside. It’s running like a torrent. She wouldn’t think of bringing water.’

‘Shall I get some, then?’

‘I don’t see that it could hurt the eggs to have a little water. It couldn’t get inside them.’

Dorothy Ann made a hasty trip in the rain, and returned with the pan full of water. ‘How are we going to know when they’re done?’

‘I’m sure I don’t know! How can you tell with an egg?’ Katharine asked helplessly. ‘I don’t suppose it will change colour, or go soft. Some things go soft; I know that, because you have to keep feeling them. But we know eggs don’t.’

‘They don’t change colour; that’s quite certain!’

‘And some things bubble, but’——

‘You can’t expect an egg to bubble!’

‘I know water bubbles when it’s ready to make tea. They ought to teach girls this kind of thing at school,’ Katharine said indignantly. ‘Fancy us wasting our time on algebra when we can’t boil an egg!’

‘It is rotten;’ and Dorothy Ann surveyed the eggs gloomily. ‘I shouldn’t have the faintest notion when the silly things were done.’

‘You ought to know, Dan; you’re the oldest!’

‘I don’t know the first thing about cooking. I guess we’d better not risk it.’

‘Well, we know they’ve got to boil. We might let them begin doing it, anyway. I guess it will take them some time; the water’s stone-cold. Perhaps Priscilla will be back before they’re done,’ Katharine suggested brilliantly.

‘But how are we going to know? It’s not a bad idea, though. Do you put them in at once, or wait until the water’s hot?’

Katharine looked at Dorothy Ann blankly. ‘D’you suppose it matters? Oh, would you have thought there could be so many ways of boiling an egg?’

‘We don’t seem to have struck one way yet,’ Dorothy Ann chuckled. ‘I’m going to boil the water, and wait for Priscilla to put the eggs in. I can’t help it if she does laugh. We don’t want to spoil them.’

And when Priscilla returned in less than an hour, she found them watching a boiling pan, which had had to be refilled more than once because the water would persist in boiling away.

‘Oh, did you wait for me? I hoped you’d have had your dinner. You poor things, you must be starving!’

‘We thought it would be jollier to have it all together,’ Katharine said demurely.

‘Oh, well, the eggs will only take three minutes, as the water’s boiling;’ and Priscilla dropped them carefully in.

Dorothy Ann winked solemnly at Katharine, who was trying to listen intently without betraying herself, and so be prepared another time.

‘Will you time them, Dorothy Ann? You have a watch, haven’t you?’

‘Time them? Oh—er—yes, of course, Priscilla. Three minutes, did you say?’

‘You don’t want them hard-boiled, do you? They’re new-laid.’

‘No, of course not,’ Dorothy Ann said hastily. ‘Three minutes, then! Time’s almost up.’

‘I’d like mine done hard,’ Katharine said suddenly, intent on gathering information.

‘Oh, give hers five minutes, then, Dorothy Ann. But it isn’t so good for her; she’ll have indigestion.’

‘She doesn’t generally like them hard,’ began the unimaginative Dorothy, and stopped short at the glare she received from Katharine.

Fortunately Priscilla was stuffing her mackintosh and sou’-wester into a crack between two rocks, and did not notice the series of grimaces which passed behind her back. As she turned to them again her face was very bright, and the girls forgot the eggs as they cried eagerly, ‘What did your mother say, Priscilla? Wasn’t she surprised?’

‘How much money was there?’ Dorothy Ann asked breathlessly.

‘And how is your father now?’

‘Asleep; they say it’s a very good sign, and we’re not to try to wake him, but just to wait for the doctor.—Surely those eggs are ready, Dorothy Ann?’

‘I forgot all about the silly things!’

‘You are a brilliant cook!’ Priscilla laughed. ‘We’ll let Katharine’s have its full five minutes. Mother was very much surprised, of course, but she isn’t angry with me. I was just afraid she might be. Of course, she’s awfully glad we’ve found the money. It means we can do so much more for father.’

‘And all of you. Will you go back to school?’

‘We haven’t had time to think about that yet. I expect they’ll want me to. If I go to any school, it will be yours. I think I’d like that.’

‘But how much money is there, Priscilla?’ cried Dorothy Ann.

Priscilla looked at them wide-eyed. ‘Seventeen hundred pounds!’ she said.

CHAPTER I.
A GLOOMY MAY-DAY.

Katharine Mayne was curled up in the corner on top of the little cupboard in the kindergarten-room.

The big ‘kinder’ was a favourite resort of the elder girls out of school-hours and on unusual occasions. The first day of the summer term was one of these special occasions, and the big room was crowded. New-comers hurried there in search of friends as soon as they had greeted Miss Chinchen; all were exchanging holiday experiences and making plans.

Katharine’s cupboard stood in a corner close to the big bay-window. The window looked to the front-door, but there were bushes in the way which cut off the view of arriving visitors in a very annoying fashion. But by climbing up on to the top of the cupboard it was possible to see over the bushes and get a glimpse of the front steps, and there was keen competition for the position in consequence. This time Katharine had secured it, and meant to keep it until she had seen what she wanted. Various girls begged for a turn, and if they were small enough she hauled them up one at a time for a few minutes. But she would not give up her place to any one.

‘You know I’m watching for Dorothy Ann!’ she said reproachfully to one who was more insistent than the others. ‘As soon as ever she comes I’ll get down, and you can all fight for it. But I’m not going to budge till I’ve seen her.’

Menie and Van, the two seniors, came strolling in, arm-in-arm. The Scots girl had beautiful red hair and a softly freckled skin, with deep-blue eyes, and was tall and graceful. Van was shorter, and very dark; her hair and eyes blue-black.

‘You won’t get Dorothy any sooner because you’ve seen her on the steps, Katharine,’ Menie pointed out. ‘She’ll have to go to Miss Chinchen first, all the same.’

Van laughed. ‘But it’s a satisfaction to know she’s in the house, isn’t it, Kathie?’

Katharine wriggled impatiently. ‘Of course it is! If you hadn’t seen Van since February, Menie, and it was the 1st of May, you’d be a wee bit excited, perhaps. I don’t believe you would, though. You’d sit quiet till she came in, and then you’d just look up and say, “Oh, Van, is that you? I hope you’re quite well?” ’

‘I should mean just as much as you do; all the same,’ Menie said seriously; while Van and the rest laughed. Katharine’s tone had been such an exact imitation of Menie’s quiet, slow manner.

‘You’re sure your Dolly Ann is really coming back this term, Kath?’ Van inquired, as they passed on. ‘Perhaps she’s still in Switzerland with her aunts.’

‘Oh no, she’s home. I had a letter. One of the aunts died, and the other one has come home with Dorothy Ann and her mother.’

‘She must have had a ripping holiday! Nearly three months in Switzerland! And all last summer she was out of school! I must say Dolly Ann manages things jolly well;’ and Van and Menie passed on to find friends.

Katharine said nothing. It had been a severe blow to her when Dorothy Ann had been taken out of school early in February to go with her mother to Switzerland. But Aunt Dorothy, the invalid, had died, and Aunt Ann had seemed so utterly lost and alone that Mrs Nairn had not had the heart to refuse her request that she should come and keep her company for a time, and that she should bring Dorothy Ann also. The old lady had nursed her sister for the last five years, and in all their lives they had never been parted. Now she was very desolate, and seemed almost unable to face life alone at seventy. Mrs Nairn had hurried to comfort her, and had even consented to take Dorothy Ann out of school for the rest of the term, on the understanding that they would return for the beginning of school in May.

Dorothy Ann had been delighted, of course. The thought of three months in Europe, and the chance of seeing France and Switzerland—Paris, Berne, Geneva, Lausanne—had been fascinating. She had comforted forlorn Katharine by the reminder that it was ‘only for three months,’ and had laughed at the indignation of the other girls and their pointed references to her three months’ holiday of the previous summer.

But, apart from the question of parting from Katharine, there had been one tinge of regret in Dorothy Ann’s joy. ‘Nothing’s ever quite perfect, however jolly it is. There’s always something to be sorry about!’ she had decided mournfully. She wished that she could have stayed at school till half-term, even had it meant losing two or three weeks of her time abroad; for Priscilla was to come to school at half-term, and Dorothy Ann would have liked to be there to welcome her.

Many letters had passed between the girls since that exciting week in January. Every one had been excited as soon as the news was known, from Matron down to Lizzie the housemaid—every one except the unconscious cause of it all, and his slow recovery of speech and memory bad given them added reason for joy. Katharine and Dorothy Ann had gone off to school reluctantly when their week was over, but Priscilla had been very good in keeping them posted in all her news. They had rejoiced with her in her father’s gradual recovery, and had shared her mingled joy and regret when her parents had left the hospital for an east coast resort, where it was hoped the sea and moorland air together would restore him to complete health. Then had come the news that Priscilla was to join them at school; and immediately following upon that, Miss Nairn’s pleading letter had called Dorothy Ann and her mother to Switzerland. It had been hard on Dorothy, and she had been sorely disappointed that she must go at that particular time. It was all very well for Van Evans to say, ‘Dolly Ann manages things jolly well,’ but it had not seemed quite so satisfactory to Dorothy herself.

Katharine, perched on her watch-tower, glanced at Priscilla and sighed. They had travelled from Yorkshire together, and had arrived before tea, so had had time to unpack and change into their school frocks. Priscilla, like all the others, wore her green sailor gym. costume, with belt, tie, and trimmings of brown braid, and the brown shoes and stockings on which Miss Chinchen insisted. As Katharine had once said, ‘Everybody looks nice in that shade of green, whether it’s black girls, like Van, or red ones like Menie, or fair, like me, or brown, like Priscilla and Dorothy Ann.’ Katharine’s sigh was because Priscilla was not strolling up and down arm-in-arm with any one, or even talking to anybody. She was sitting at one of the low tables, writing a note to her mother telling of their journey—a most improper proceeding on the first evening of the term, in Katharine’s opinion. A post-card would have been quite enough. Priscilla ought to have scribbled that, just to satisfy Miss Chinchen, and then have joined the crowd eagerly discussing plans for the term. Instead, she sat there scribbling ‘reams,’ as Katharine thought indignantly, and did not seem to have anything to say to anybody.

She did not even look up when Phyllis, who always knew everything, came in and was immediately surrounded by a noisy crowd.

‘Any news, Phyl?’ ‘What’s the latest?’ ‘Picked up any gossip yet?’ ‘Oh, I say, she has got something to tell! Just look at her face!’—this last from Katharine’s corner. She did not leave her post, but turned from the window for a moment to wait eagerly for the answer.

Phyllis sat dejectedly on one of the long tables used by the kindergarten children. The room was big and bare, furnished with four of these low tables and still lower ‘baby’ forms, at which the seniors were wont to look amusedly as they laughed and said, ‘Was I ever small enough to sit on that?’ Now they sat on the tables, and found them just the right height.

‘I’m just full of bad news!’ Phyllis announced tragically. ‘Will you have it all at once, or in bits?’

‘Oh, I say! Tell us quick and get it over!’ and everybody gathered round her except Katharine and Priscilla. Katharine stood up on her cupboard, so that she looked over the heads of the crowd. Priscilla sat listening gravely.

‘I don’t know which is the worst bit! Here goes, then! Mademoiselle’s left!’

‘Oh—Phyl! And without saying good-bye? Or letting us give her a present? But why? Did she know last term?’ cried Clare, another Third-Former.

‘Yes. She wouldn’t tell us because she didn’t want to say good-bye all round. She’s sent a letter instead. She says she knew she’d cry and we’d all cry, and she couldn’t stand it, so she asked Chinny to say nothing about it.’

‘We can send her a present, of course. I’ll take on that job;’ and Van Evans produced pencil and paper. ‘Now, girls, contributions quickly, please!’

‘There’s more bad news,’ said Phyllis, with gloomy enjoyment.

‘Oh, get it out quickly, then! We can stand any blow now,’ said Van.

‘Miss Chinchen can’t get the cricket-field this summer. The man won’t let it to us again. He’s going to build rows of little houses on it. And she hasn’t been able to find another one.’

‘Oh, but—I say! That’s nonsense! We simply can’t’——Van cried, in dismay.

‘Then won’t there be any cricket this summer?’

‘Nor tennis? Nor basket-ball? Oh—oh, I say! That is too awful!’ groaned Clare.

‘This is terrible, you know! What does she expect us to do all summer?’

‘Chinny says we’ll have to go for long country walks,’ said Phyllis, with infinite scorn.

‘Walks! Country walks! Oh, my goodness!’

‘What a gloomy prospect! Wish I hadn’t come!’

‘It’s simply hideous.’ Even Van looked extremely sober, not relishing the thought of being senior girl in a school which seethed with discontent from the very first evening. ‘Can’t we do anything? We simply must have games!’

‘We might send a petition, or a protest, to Chinny,’ Menie Macdonald suggested, in her quiet, practical way.

‘Good idea! You must take that in hand, Menie.’

‘It won’t do any good. She says there isn’t another field to be had anywhere near enough,’ Phyllis insisted.

‘Oh, but there simply must be!’ Van argued desperately. ‘It’s cruel! It’s—it’s disgusting! That man ought to be shot! Couldn’t we sue him, or something?’

‘Couldn’t we get one farther away? We wouldn’t mind the walk,’ Menie suggested.

‘Put that in the petition. We don’t mind how far we walk—five miles, if need be. There are plenty of fields about! She could get one if she really wanted to,’ Van said in disgust.

‘She won’t have one that’s far off, because it would take so long to get to it,’ Phyllis observed. ‘I heard her say so to mother.’

‘What silly stuff! As if we didn’t like the walk!’ exclaimed Van.

‘You were groaning at the thought of walks a moment ago,’ Menie pointed out.

‘Country walks—yes! But walking to our own field is quite different,’ Van declared.

‘Phyl’s got something more to tell,’ said Katharine, from her corner. ‘I can see it in her eye.’

‘It can’t be anything worse. We’ve heard the worst, surely! Come on, Phyllis; you’ve blighted our lives twice already. What’s the last crushing blow?’

‘I didn’t say it would be the last,’ Phyllis retorted, a spice of enjoyment mingling with her gloom.

‘You horror! Go on, do, and get it over!’

‘You aren’t making it all up, are you, Phyllis?’ and Menie eyed her suspiciously.

‘No; it’s all the awful truth!’ said Katharine. ‘She’s feeling bad herself, too, though she’s trying to get some fun out of it by piling it on for us.’

‘Fun! There’s not much fun about it! And there’s no piling on needed. Listen to this! The one who’s coming in poor dear Mademoiselle’s place isn’t French; she’s only English! Isn’t it hateful? I do think we might have a proper French mistress, anyway. This one teaches heaps of languages; but it’s not the same.’

‘Oh no, it’s never the same! We’ve always had a proper Mademoiselle before!’

‘Chinny must be trying to do things on the cheap this term,’ said Van.

‘I don’t see why an English one should be any cheaper than a French one,’ Katharine argued. ‘I think it will be rather jolly. She won’t be so likely to catch you in corners and let out streams of French at you, and then shrug her shoulders and say “Oh, là-là!” when you stare at her. I liked Mademoiselle all right, but I did hate it when she talked French at me.’

‘But that was what she was here for,’ said matter-of-fact Menie.

‘Oh, kids like you can’t understand!’ Van said impatiently. ‘It’s not the same thing at all. Her accent could never be like Mademoiselle’s, for one thing.—What’s the creature’s name, Phyllis, and where does she come from?’

‘Miss Chinchen told mother all about her,’ Phyllis said importantly. ‘She’s Miss Tarring, and she comes from America.’

‘America! Worse than ever!’ Van groaned.

‘Why?’ persisted Katharine; but no one took any notice of her, and as she would not leave her cupboard and had to keep one eye on the front steps, she had to be content to be left out in the cold.

‘Oh, she isn’t an American! She’s an old friend of Chinny’s, and she used to teach here before Mademoiselle came, about ten years ago. Then she went with all her people to America; but now she’s decided to come and live in England again.’

‘Ten years ago! Then she must have known Margaret, and Joan, and Winifred!’ Katharine wailed. ‘Oh, I say! I’ll be a frightful disappointment to her, and I shall hear about it all the time!’

‘Katharine’s grievance again!’ Van laughed. ‘She’ll expect you to live up to your sisters’ reputation, Kathie.’

‘I know; they all do. It’s awfully mean, and silly too. Well, she’ll just have to be disappointed, and disgusted, and surprised, and all the rest of it, that’s all.’

Phyllis continued her story, and launched her final item at them. ‘And she’s bringing four new girls with her—four! All nieces! Four American girls in the school!’

The news was received with the silence of blank dismay. It was not a usual time for new girls to join the school, and somehow every one had taken it for granted that the personnel would be the same as it had been all spring, and that the friendships and ‘sets’ would go on unaltered. But—four new girls! The loss of Mademoiselle had been the first hint of change; this was the last straw.

‘Four! Why, they’ll be in everything! One you could forget, but four!’ groaned somebody.

‘I hate having mistresses’ relations in the school!’ Van said hotly. ‘D’you remember Ethel Sharpe, Miss Chinchen’s niece? She always used to sneak away and tell her everything—things there was no need for her to know!’

‘But Ethel always was that kind of girl,’ Menie pointed out. ‘These American girls may be quite different. There’s no reason they should be sneaks.’

‘They’ll have every chance to sneak if they want to,’ Phyllis remarked. ‘For, as there are so many of them, Chinny’s going to put them all to sleep with Miss Tarring in the little dormitory. It only holds four, but they’ve put in an extra bed for the baby. One of them’s quite a kid. So if they want to tell aunty things they’ll have plenty of chances.’

‘Ugh! They’ll talk us over every night! This term’s going to be hateful; I feel it in my bones!’

‘It is hateful!’ Van said in disgust. ‘And I suppose if there are four of them they’ll be all ages; we shall get them all through the school. Do you happen to know their names or ages, Phyl?’

‘There’s a big one and a baby, so I suppose the others are In-Betweens.’

‘The big one will be a nuisance,’ Van frowned. ‘We don’t want her. The baby won’t count much. You and Katharine can have the In-Betweens.’

‘Thanks!’ said Phyllis and Katharine together.

‘I believe,’ began Katharine suddenly while the news was still being discussed—‘I believe they’re coming in now! There’s a taxi, and it’s awfully full—bursting with girls, and heaps of luggage. And—oh, there’s Dorothy Ann! How clever of her to come just at the same minute!’

‘Dolly Ann always works things jolly well,’ Van laughed. ‘Now we shall hear all about the Yankees!’

CHAPTER II.
DOROTHY ANN’S AUNT ANN.

Dorothy Ann, arriving in the big ‘kinder’ a few moments later, was not surprised to find herself the centre of attraction and a person of much importance. She had expected it. After three months abroad it was only natural, and she had been looking forward to recounting her adventures not only to Katharine and Phyllis, but to crowds of interested seniors. The point which surprised her, and annoyed her slightly till she understood, was that the crowd which surrounded her immediately was not interested in her experiences, at least at the moment. It was not herself they welcomed, but the news she brought.

Katharine, of course, came flying down the passage to meet her, having been waiting at the door, and hurled herself upon her in a wildly joyful embrace. But when she led her in in triumph, the questions which descended in a storm on Dorothy Ann were all about the American girls.

‘Did you see them, Dorothy Ann? What are they like? Did you hear their names? Are there really four of them? Does Miss Tarring look as if she could be nice?’

‘You must know something about them, Dolly Ann,’ Van remonstrated, as Dorothy looked blank. ‘You must know more than we do, anyway. You came in with them. Were your eyes shut?’

‘I don’t know yet what you’re all jabbering about! Oh, is it those new girls who came in the taxi? The door burst open and streams of girls came out. Their mother was with them. No, she was too young to be the mother of the big one. Perhaps she was their aunt.’

‘No, she isn’t. Well, yes, of course she is their aunt! I didn’t mean that. But that’s not how she matters to us. She’s our new French mistress instead of Mademoiselle, my child,’ Van explained.

‘I say! Has Mademoiselle left?’

‘Yes. And the new girls are all Miss Tarring’s nieces from America. Now you know as much as we do. Tell us what they’re like! How old do they look? Are they dark or fair? Do they look like Americans? What do they wear? Did you hear their names?’

Dorothy Ann sat on one of the low tables, and took the questions one by one. ‘I didn’t hear their names, of course. I only saw them for half-a-minute. Then I went in to speak to Chin-Chin-Chinaman while they were getting down the luggage. I couldn’t stand and stare. The little one was jumping all over the place; I should think she’s a lively kid. She looked about nine. The big one’s as tall as Menie, with lots of fair hair; and the baby’s very like her, but her hair’s cut straight round at the back—awfully quaint. The other two’——

‘The In-Betweens, Phyllis calls them.’

‘They’re quite different; they can’t all be sisters. The middle two are as dark as anything—as dark as Van, or darker. I guess their mother was a Red Indian; regular blue-black hair, and long and straight, and dark eyes and faces. They all had on long coats and, oh, some kind of hats! So I couldn’t see very much. That’s really all. The big one was helping with the luggage, and the baby was tugging at a bag that any one could see was too heavy for her—any one but herself, of course. She thought she could manage it, but she couldn’t; so the biggest In-Between said, “I’ll do that,” and called her some name ending in Bell, and went to help her.’

‘And the other In-Between? What was she doing?’

‘Oh, she was staring up at the house, as if she was awfully struck by it, and I heard her say, “Isn’t it just lovely? I never thought a school would be so pretty as this!” ’

‘Shows her good sense,’ Katharine said approvingly. ‘It is jolly pretty, but we’re so used to it that we forget. She should see it when the roses are out!’

‘Now tell me everything! I’m sure I’ve done my share. Has Mademoiselle really left? Why? And why aren’t we having another French one? Oh, and who’s cricket captain? Van?’

There was a general groan.

‘Cricket! Oh, Dolly Ann, you haven’t heard the awful news yet,’ said Van.

Dorothy’s dismay, when the situation was explained, was as keen as theirs. A summer term without cricket and tennis was unthinkable. There would be nothing to live for. ‘We might as well go home at once,’ she said gloomily.

‘Of course, there’s the mistresses’ tennis-court in the garden. Perhaps they’ll let us use that sometimes,’ Menie suggested.

‘Sometimes! I dare say they will; but what’s the good of that? We want it all the time, and several courts at once! Now don’t try to comfort us, Menie, for it can’t be done. We’re all hopelessly in the dumps. But you might draw up that petition. I’ll help, and we’ll get it signed, and present it to Chinny to-morrow morning.’

‘But it won’t do a scrap of good,’ said another senior gloomily.

Dorothy Ann was looking thoughtful. ‘I say!’ she said suddenly. ‘I’ve something to tell you all. I didn’t think there was any hurry about it, and these things seemed so much more important. But I’m wondering if it won’t matter a good deal to us, after all. Not having the field will make such a lot of difference to everything.’

‘It just knocks the bottom out of everything for the whole term! What have you got to tell us, Dolly Ann?’

‘You know my people live just a few miles away, out in the country? And you know mother and I went to Switzerland to be company for my aunt Ann, because Aunt Dorothy had died?’

‘Why aren’t you wearing black for her?’ Phyllis asked critically.

‘They didn’t want me to, Aunt Ann especially, and we tried to do everything she wanted. She’s over seventy, and she was awfully lonely at first; it’s frightfully sad for her. They’d always lived together, and she’d done everything for Aunt Dorothy for years; she just seemed lost without her. But we cheered her up a lot, and took her travelling about, and at last we persuaded her to come to England. She has no home, because they sold their ripping old house five years ago, when they decided Aunt Dorothy would have to live abroad. It was an awfully jolly old place down in Devonshire, where they’d lived all their lives together. I stayed with them often, and I just loved it. They had lovely old furniture, and they stored that and their books and pictures in London; but they sold the house altogether, because they knew Aunt Dorothy would never be able to live in it again, and Aunt Ann said she could never bear to go back there without her. So, when she came home with us a month ago, she had to find a new house.’

‘Won’t she live with you?’ Menie interrupted, her eyes fixed sympathetically on Dorothy Ann’s face.

‘Not altogether. She wants to have a home of her own, and send to the warehouses for all her things, and have them all round her again. And we live too far in the country; it’s only a few minutes by train, but she wanted to be where she could drive in when she felt like it; she’s not keen on going in trains. So she looked about for a house, and she thought it would be nice if she could find one near my school, so that I could come and see her often. Of course, mother and father will come often too; she thought if she could be about half-way between me and them it would be right. So she’s taken’—Dorothy paused dramatically and looked round at their curious faces, which were merely interested, but showed that no one had foreseen, and certainly no one had realised the importance of, the news she had to tell—‘she’s taken Waterside!’

‘Waterside! That lovely old house by the river, with the island, and the pond, and the huge gardens and orchards? Oh, I say! She must have heaps of money!’

‘Oh, heaps! There’s only her now, you see.’

‘You’re very lucky, Dorothy Ann!’ Menie said soberly. ‘Fancy having Waterside for a kind of second home!’

‘Let’s all be friends with Dorothy Ann!’ suggested somebody, laughing.

‘I say, Dolly Ann, I’m awfully fond of you! And I get on awfully well with old ladies!’ teased Van. ‘They always like me! But I want to know why you’re telling us all your family history. What has it all to do with us? It’s jolly for you, but’——

‘She said it might matter a good deal to us,’ Katharine put in swiftly. ‘She hasn’t finished yet.’

‘Oh, well, go on quickly, then, Dolly Ann!’

‘If you call me that, my aunt will never forgive you if she hears you. She hates to have names messed about. Mother’s name is Margaret, and she’s always been called Peggy; but Aunt Ann won’t have it. She calls her Margaret every time. She’ll call you Myfanwy, and Menie Marion.’

‘I don’t suppose she’ll take the trouble to call us anything. When is she going to get the chance?’

‘Haven’t you left out a paragraph, Dorothy Ann?’ Menie asked seriously.

Dorothy Ann laughed. ‘I’m afraid I have. Aunt Ann’s awfully shy; but in a funny, quiet way she’s frightfully keen on girls. She used to watch all the girls in the hotels we stayed at; she never dared to speak to them, but she was always looking at them and listening to them, and she used to watch when I tried to make friends, and ask me afterwards to tell her about them. She asked heaps of questions about school and all of you. She says she knows Katharine and Priscilla already, because of the stories I told her! So, when she decided to take Waterside for six months, to see if she liked it, before buying it altogether, she asked it I thought Chinny would let us all come and enjoy the gardens sometimes. So I thought it might be something instead of cricket. It won’t be as good, of course; I know that. But it would be something. I don’t see why Chinny shouldn’t let us go—on Saturdays, anyway. We’d be all right there, and we’d be out of her way, and Aunt Ann would love it. I don’t suppose she’d ever speak to any of you, or at least not till she’d got used to you; but she’d watch. She’d love it if we made a row, and she’d look on when we played things. There’s tennis—two courts—and a croquet lawn.’

‘Couldn’t she let us have a field for cricket?’ Van’s eager question rose above the chorus of delight.

‘There’s no field. It’s all gardens. I’m afraid cricket’s off,’ Dorothy Ann said regretfully. ‘But there are other things. The gardens are awfully jolly.’

‘But would she really have us there?’ Menie asked doubtfully. ‘Why should she? It’s far too good of her.’

‘Because she’d enjoy it herself. I tell you she’d love it. I haven’t had time to ask Chinny yet, because of the new girls; but Aunt Ann really wants us to go. She’s moving in this week, and the house won’t be all right for a week or two, but the gardens are ready for us at once. I was afraid we shouldn’t have much time, because of cricket and tennis; but if we’ve nothing else to do I don’t see why we shouldn’t go often.’

‘It sounds all right!’ Van said emphatically.

‘It’s awfully kind of your aunt,’ Menie said warmly.

The others crowded round Dorothy Ann with eager questions about the house and gardens, and Katharine left them and hooked her arm into Priscilla’s. ‘It’s an awfully jolly old house, down near the river and the village, just across the fields. I wonder if you’ve noticed it when we’ve been out for walks? It’s been standing empty for months. There are big greenhouses and summer-houses, and the river splits in two just there and runs round a long narrow island, all trees and bushes, and that belongs to the garden too. I hope they haven’t tidied up the garden too much; it looked so beautifully wild.—I say, Dorothy Ann!’

She put her question eagerly, and Dorothy Ann laughed. ‘I begged Aunt Ann to leave some of it, so there’s a great patch of jungle, as wild as can be; and they haven’t spoilt the island.’

Katharine sighed happily. ‘Jungle! What a relief! I was afraid it would be all flower-beds and lawns!’

‘No fear! I saw to that, and Aunt Ann quite understood.’

‘You made her understand, in fact,’ Van laughed.

Dorothy Ann nodded, and slipped out of the group, leaving them still discussing her news. She took Priscilla’s other arm, and they walked up and down the big room. ‘Well, old girl, how are you getting on? It’s a change from the moor, isn’t it? Which do you like best? Why didn’t you come and speak to me, instead of sticking in a corner?’

‘Because there were so many others, and they’d known you so much longer than I had.’

‘That’s just like you, Priscilla!’ Katharine said indignantly. ‘You shouldn’t stop to think whether people want you or not. You should just feel sure they do, and then fly at them.’

‘Should I? I don’t feel so sure about that. I might be an awful nuisance sometimes, and that would be hateful. I’m getting on all right, Dorothy Ann. I had to catch up a lot at first, of course, but I’ve had half a term to do it in. I think I’m up to the rest of the Fifth now.’

‘Oh, I don’t mean lessons!’ Dorothy Ann said scornfully. ‘Are you making friends, and all that? Do you like our school? It’s quite the jolliest one in existence, you know. And how is your father? Where are they now?’

‘Still living quietly at Runswick. They get both sea and moor there, and it’s doing father a lot of good. He’s quite different, you know.’

‘How? Tell me! You haven’t been writing to me since you came to school,’ Dorothy Ann said reproachfully.

‘I’m sorry, but there’s so little time, and I had to write to them. And Katharine used to write and tell you all the school news.’

‘And so she thought you wouldn’t want letters from her too! Isn’t she a donkey, Dan?’ observed Katharine.

‘An awful donkey! Katharine didn’t tell me your news, silly! Now tell me all about your father.’

‘He’s not strong,’ Priscilla said slowly. ‘I don’t think he ever will be. But he’s quite all right—not the least like he was at the hospital. He doesn’t remember very much about his illness, and it’s a good thing. But he knows he was ill for a very long time, and that we couldn’t find the money. He knows how we lived at the hospital, and he must guess he was rather bad all that time; but he doesn’t ask questions about it. He isn’t fit to do any work, of course; if he had any big strain it might upset him again. But so long as he lives quietly he’s quite all right, and he may live for years. Mother and I never dared to hope he’d be all right again. She’s happier now than I ever remember seeing her. There’s no need for him to work or worry, you see. There’s money enough for them to live on quietly, and in a few years I shall be able to help. I’m going to be a teacher, and a good one!—not second-rate, I mean. There’s money enough to take me through college, and there are scholarships as well, if I could get one. Father doesn’t worry about money now; he seems willing to leave it all to mother.’

‘I’m just awfully glad!’ Dorothy Ann said fervently. ‘That’s jolly fine! And have you ever been back to the hospital? Don’t you miss the moor?’

‘I went to stay with Matron for a week at Easter, and we’re all going to a farm up there for the summer holidays. Yes, I miss it awfully,’ Priscilla said wistfully. ‘I like it better than the sea, or anything. When I shut my eyes I can see the moor, all soft dark brown, and sometimes I long for it till I feel almost sick.’

‘When I see she’s feeling that way I let her talk to me about it, and then we talk about the holidays, and it quite bucks her up,’ Katharine added.

‘Yes; Katharine always knows, and it does help. I miss the wind so dreadfully. There’s no real air down here, and it isn’t clean and fresh, as it is with us. I suppose it’s with being so near London.’

‘Why, we’re quite out in the country here!’ Dorothy Ann said indignantly.

‘Are we? Then the country must be different. It’s not like home. I feel all limp and sleepy for the first few days down here.’

‘You look all right;’ and Dorothy Ann surveyed her. ‘I like the look of you in your gyms. That green suits you; I knew it would.—And she does her hair nicely, doesn’t she, Katharine?’

‘Hadn’t you better go and get your hat off?’ Priscilla laughed. ‘It’s almost supper-time.’

‘I forgot the early supper on first night! I suppose the gong will go in about three minutes. Yes; I’d better run. Wonder if we’ll see the new girls at supper!’ and Dorothy Ann vanished upstairs.

CHAPTER III.
FOUR NEW GIRLS.

Supper at Miss Chinchen’s was at seven for the small children, and eight for the Middle and the Upper School, except on the first night of the term, when the whole school met in the big dining-room at half-past seven. It was the first meal at which all were present, for many girls had not arrived by tea-time. After supper on ordinary nights the Middle School girls went off to bed; but the Fifth and Sixth Forms were allowed an extra hour, a privilege much prized by them, and much envied by the juniors. In winter they gathered in groups in the firelight; in summer they wandered in the garden, or sat in the big kindergarten-room, which had French windows and a flight of steps leading to the lawn, and spent the time in chat and gossip, with fancy-work or crochet.

On this first evening all went in to supper with the same idea which had occurred to Dorothy Ann. Would the American girls be there? When and how were they and the new mistress to be introduced? What would they be like? How soon would there be a chance to make friends—or at least to find out if it was desirable to make friends? There was a certain attitude of suspicion among some of the girls, born of the fact that the new girls were related to a mistress, and therefore undesirables; but every one felt that it would be necessary to know something of them before deciding whether they were to be accepted or treated as outsiders. The fact that they were foreigners, and had only just arrived in England—Phyllis insisted upon that—was sufficient cause for curiosity also. Every one was expectant, and very curious.

To a certain extent they were soon satisfied, but not entirely. Miss Chinchen sat at her own table at the head of the room, and Miss Tarring sat beside her. She was tall and very dark, with a great deal of black hair, a clear dark skin, and soft black eyes, which Katharine instantly acclaimed in a whisper as ‘understanding.’ Her fears of being confronted at every turn by her brilliant predecessors began to fade; Miss Tarring did not ‘look that kind.’ The general opinion among the girls, formed at their first glance and never altered, was that Miss Tarring was extremely good-looking, ‘far handsomer than poor dear little Mademoiselle,’ but very foreign in appearance. Could there be any foundation for Dorothy Ann’s remark about Red Indians?

Two nieces, the elder In-Between and the ‘baby,’ sat on Miss Tarring’s left hand, and the other two on Miss Chinchen’s right. So, though there was no chance of speaking to them at present, the eyes of the whole school could, and did, rest on them, and the girls formed their own opinions of the accuracy of Dorothy Ann’s descriptions.

The eldest was a tall, pretty girl of sixteen, with a quantity of fair hair drawn back and tied loosely with a big bow. The nine-year-old baby had the same fair hair, hanging in a straight, heavy fringe just above her eyes, and cut square round her neck, with a big bow standing up at one side. Both she and the tall girl had very dark eyes, which contrasted oddly with their light colouring; whether they were black or very deep blue no one could decide for some time.

The other two sisters were very unlike them, except in one particular—all four had the same dark eyes, ‘like purple pansies,’ was the general verdict. These two, aged about fifteen and thirteen, had blue-black hair like their aunt’s, very long and heavy and straight, worn tied back with ribbons. These details were absorbed by the whole school during the first few seconds, and before Miss Chinchen had said grace; and so was the fact that they were all dressed alike. All four wore loose white ‘middy’ blouses and dark skirts; even the baby’s little blouse was of the same pattern.

One other fact was soon common property, but was noticed first by Katharine, and passed on by her to Dorothy Ann, who started it on its way round their table. The big girl and the younger In-Between did not talk much; that was natural enough, seeing they sat next to Miss Chinchen under the eyes of a whole new school. Occasionally the elder girl murmured some remark; the younger one looked shy. But the other two, the elder of the dark-haired girls and the baby, talked all the time, in undertones, of course; there was no trace of shyness in the big dark eyes even of the little one as she surveyed her future classmates calmly, and the elder girl’s fearless gaze flashed back defiance, curiosity, amusement, challenge, equal to those she felt directed at her from every quarter.

‘That black girl has got cheek!’ Van murmured, as the stranger kept up a stream of low-toned comments which continually reduced her little sister to giggles, and at last drew forth an obvious rebuke from her aunt. ‘Now she’s getting it hot! I don’t wonder. I believe she’s been saying things about us.’

‘She isn’t shy, anyway,’ Menie observed.

‘Shy! She doesn’t know what it feels like to be shy. She’s got cheek enough for six.’

‘The other two look more shy. I like the big girl’s face,’ said Menie. ‘I wish we knew their names.’

‘They made a mistake when they put those two to sit together! It looks as if the Chinaman had arranged it, and as if she doesn’t know them very well yet. They seem to have the two noisy ones at one side and the two quiet ones at the other.’

‘You’d have thought it was a very good arrangement, though, big and little at each side. It’s just what I’d have done myself,’ Menie observed.

‘I don’t believe Miss Tarring would have done it;’ and Van glanced from the giggling youngest girl to the serious elder one. ‘You’d have thought the two who look so much alike would be the most alike, wouldn’t you? But they’re not; that’s a fact!’

Katharine and Dorothy Ann, at their table, were also discussing the strangers.

‘I like the little dark one’s face,’ Katharine decided. ‘She looks quiet and jolly.’

‘I like the bigger In-Between! She’s got a jolly lot in her.’

‘Dan, I couldn’t tell you while she was with us; but I’m bothered about Priscilla.’

‘Why?’ Dorothy Ann glanced at Priscilla, sitting at the seniors’ table. ‘She hasn’t much to say, has she? Now Van’s talking enough for a whole cricket-team. Is Priscilla always quiet like that?’

‘Yes; that’s what’s wrong. She doesn’t talk.’

‘What’s the matter with her?’ To Dorothy Ann’s mind all healthy girls talked.

‘I mean, she doesn’t talk to the others. She’s all right with me; but—well, she hasn’t made friends. That’s what’s the matter. She’s had a whole half-term here now, and she’s still an outsider. And I don’t know what to do.’

Dorothy Ann frowned. ‘Sure? Who is it she doesn’t get on with? Van? Menie’s usually jolly enough to new girls.’

‘I don’t think it’s their fault. I believe it’s her own, and I’ve told her so.’

‘Now what do you mean, Katharine? Priscilla wouldn’t be nasty to anybody.’

‘No; but she might not be nice! I mean, she might be shy, and—well, d’you remember what Winifred said to us that first day at the hospital about Priscilla?’

‘About making her believe we really wanted to be friends, and weren’t doing it because we thought we had to?’

‘Yes. When she came here she was shy, and not sure if the girls would really want her. She knew they’d all have their own friends, and that she would be an extra one, and I believe she thought she wasn’t wanted. She’s that kind. If Van and Menie didn’t simply rush at her and say how awfully glad they were to see her, she’d think they weren’t pleased she’d come.’

‘But how could they be, till they knew her?’ Dorothy Ann asked reasonably. ‘You can’t be awfully glad about strangers. Priscilla’s a silly.’

‘I’ve told her so. But she hasn’t made any real friend, and nobody can do it for her. It would only make things worse to say anything to Menie or Van.’

Dorothy Ann nodded. ‘Aren’t they nice to her?’

‘Oh, they’re quite all right! But that’s not the same as being friends.’

‘No. But she’s got you and me.’

‘Yes; but we don’t count for so much here as we did in the holidays,’ Katharine said wisely. ‘There’s nearly three years between us, and two Forms. We can’t be with her much, and, anyway, we’re only kids here. She’s a senior, and she ought to have friends in her own Form. We can’t do much.’

‘We can’t do anything to put things right,’ Dorothy Ann sighed. ‘If she’s started wrong, I suppose she’ll have to go on wrong all through. I’m awfully sorry. No wonder she’s lonely, and wishes she was back on the moor! It makes all the difference having friends. You don’t think it would do any good if I tackled Van? I’m not scared of her.’

‘She’d look you up and down, and say, “My dear kid, please mind your own business!” And then you’d want to kick her. You know you always say you don’t like it when Van looks at you as if you were a worm.’

‘Menie, then? She’s all right.’

‘ ’Twouldn’t do any good. Priscilla would find out, and things would be worse than ever. You can’t ask girls to be friendly. I’ve heard them say Priscilla’s “queer,” because she’s so quiet and keeps so much alone. You can’t go and tell them she’s not.’

‘She’d been out of all school things for nearly three years,’ Dorothy Ann mused. ‘She’d find it difficult to get into our ways at first, and by the time she’d got used to it I suppose the harm was done. I don’t see what we can do, except be extra nice to her ourselves.’

‘That’s what I thought. But sometimes I just want to shake her, when she comes in and never speaks to anybody—just sits down with a book, or begins to write a letter.’

‘Do it next time you feel like it,’ Dorothy Ann advised. ‘I hope I’ll be there to see. Katharine Mayne shaking a Fifth-Former! It will be quite exciting!’

Katharine laughed. ‘Chinny’s going to make a speech. Now we’ll hear the American girls’ names.’

‘Let’s guess! Sadie, and Mamie, and—oh, Sally, and Belle! I’m sure those sound American!’

‘Sally? The others are all right, but I’m not so sure of Sally,’ Katharine said doubtfully.

‘Lulu, then! The baby’s sure to be Lulu.’

‘You said her name ended in Bell.’

‘Then one of the In-Betweens must be Lulu.’

It was past bed-time for the juniors, and Miss Chinchen’s speech was short. She knew there would be no surprise in anything she had to tell. It was with intention she had called on Phyllis’s mother a few days before. She found it far easier to make announcements to a school prepared for news, either good or bad, than to give information which would take the girls by surprise, and she knew she could trust Phyllis to spread any story unasked.

She briefly introduced Miss Tarring as a former mistress of the school who had returned to take Mademoiselle’s place. The girls were not thrilled by this piece of news, but interest deepened as she went on to refer to the nieces who accompanied her. ‘We will leave you all to make friends, but the juniors must go to bed in a quarter of an hour. Bernice Tarring will be in the Fifth for the present’—the eldest girl looked up and smiled. ‘We may promote her to the Sixth when she has become accustomed to our methods of work. Imelda will be in the Fourth’—the lively dark girl shot demure glances round to see how her name was received, and her eyes twinkled at the mystified looks she saw on every side. ‘Leonora will be placed in the Third’—the dark-haired girl by Bernice did not raise her eyes—‘and Annabel will be in the First Form. I am sure you will all give them a hearty welcome and make them feel at home. You may leave your seats now;’ and she left the room with Miss Tarring and the other mistresses.

‘Not a Sadie or a Mamie among them!’ Dorothy Ann murmured disappointedly. ‘What is that second girl’s name? I didn’t catch it. Did you?’

‘Mel—something; that’s all I heard. Leonora’s pretty, but it’s too long,’ said Katharine.

‘We’ll call her Nora. So the baby’s does end in Bel.’

‘Annabel’s pretty too; they’re all pretty. Pretty to look at as well!’ Katharine decided.

‘Who’s going to make first move? Van or Menie ought to make a speech. I hate being introduced!’

Van was saying the same thing to Menie. ‘It’s always an awkward moment. Afterwards you wonder why you were so silly. I never know what to say.’

‘It’s worse for them.’ Menie knew she ought to make the first advance, but hesitated.

The strangers had hesitated also, taken by surprise by the sudden departure of the mistresses. Leonora looked after her aunt, as if she would have liked to follow her; and Katharine, noticing, saw Bernice slip a comforting hand through her arm. Then Bernice faced the crowd with a smile which had just a touch of shyness in it.

The second girl, with the mysterious name, put her elbows on the table and her chin between her hands and proceeded to stare quizzically at the schoolgirls, quite at her ease, and quite obviously determined to force them to do their part and take the first step, no matter how long she waited or how uncomfortable she made them. Her great black eyes danced as they hesitated; but she stared steadily and relentlessly, till even Van stirred uneasily. The baby, Annabel, after a glance at her, proceeded to copy her, adopting the same attitude, with chubby little arms planted firmly on the table. The gaze which was so disconcerting in the elder girl was merely ludicrous on her round little face, however; and instead of helping to stare her new friends out of countenance, Annabel broke the spell of surprise and shyness which had held them. Led by Van and Dorothy Ann, who collapsed at the same moment, the whole school broke into a shout of laughter, and the dark girl turned indignantly on her little sister.

‘Annabel, you did that! Why d’you need to go copying me, you silly? I wanted to see who could stare longest!’

‘I wanted to, too!’ Annabel’s voice was shrill with indignation.

She had broken the ice, however. Van and Menie hurried forward, and the rest crowded after them.

‘I’m very sorry we were so rude,’ Menie apologised, in her soft Scots voice. ‘I’m afraid we were shy. I never know what to say first. You must have thought it very dreadful of us;’ and she looked down at fair-haired Bernice, who rose hastily.

‘Oh, we didn’t! I know it’s always awkward at first, and I guess you don’t often get four new girls all at once—all sisters!’

‘We don’t, and that’s a fact,’ said Van. ‘Then you are sisters? You don’t look it, you know.’

Bernice laughed. ‘Sure we are! There are two quite distinct lines in the family, as you can see; but we really do belong. Melda and Leo are like father. Melda really was rude just now. I was just going to pinch her when you all laughed.’

‘It’s as well you didn’t,’ Melda rejoined amiably; ‘for I’d certainly have pinched you back. They’d have laughed more still if we’d had a regular scrap. It was their place to speak first, anyway.’

‘Of course it was,’ said Dorothy Ann, who was leaning over the table, her arm round Katharine. ‘I was just going to do it myself, but I thought I ought to give the seniors a chance’—at which Melda laughed, quite understanding. ‘I say, do tell us your name again! We didn’t quite catch it. Mel——? I’m Dorothy Ann Nairn; call me Dorothy Ann, please! If you call me Dolly or Dot, I won’t answer. This is Katharine; that’s Phyllis. The quiet girl sticking at the back is Priscilla. Now, what are you?’

‘Some names! Priscilla! Katharine! Dorothy Ann! I’m Melda—Imelda, but you can cut it short. It’s Spanish. It was grandmother’s name; they say I’m like her.’

‘Spanish! Is that what you are? We thought you were Red Indians, you and the other one.’

A queer look shot from Melda to little Annabel, who looked up at her quickly, as if about to speak. Bernice laughed, and Melda said hastily, ‘No, not Indian. We had a Spanish grandmother, and Leo and I are like her.’

‘Only to look at, though,’ Katharine remarked. ‘The other one, Leo, isn’t like you really, is she?’

‘I say!’ said Melda admiringly. ‘You have been using your eyes all supper-time! Did you get anything to eat?’

‘Oh, was I staring?’

‘No; you only looked occasionally.’ Dorothy Ann said promptly. ‘No one could help seeing how much she talked.’

Melda laughed. ‘I ought to have been put next to Leo, and Annabel with Berny. That’s the usual way. Miss Chinchen doesn’t know us yet.’

‘We tried to guess your names, but we could never have guessed Melda.’

‘Dorothy Ann was sure one of you would be Sadie, and one Mamie. She thinks all American girls are called Sadie and Mamie.’

‘Oh, but we aren’t Americans! Don’t you think it! Not for half-a-minute! At home they called us “You English girls.” Annabel’s the only American among us.’

‘I am, too!’ Annabel was hanging on her sister’s arm and listening eagerly.

‘Oh, but how? We thought you all were.’

‘Not a scrap,’ Melda insisted. ‘We went to America ten years ago. We were born in England, all but Annabel. Say, have we picked up much accent? They laughed at us there, because they said we talked so English.’

‘It’s not so bad as I expected,’ Dorothy Ann said candidly. ‘I thought you’d talk with a frightful twang; but you don’t.’

‘Aunty’s been at us all the way across, and before too. She calls it “correcting our accent.” There’s a whole list of words we aren’t to use,’ Melda said solemnly.

‘Oh, tell us!’ Dorothy Ann cried persuasively; but Melda laughed and shook her head.

Bernice was chatting with Menie and Van as if she had known them for years. Her shyness had only been for the first moment, and she was quite self-possessed and at her ease. Leonora still clung to her arm, and said nothing to anybody; but she was surveying critically the crowd of juniors and Middle School girls round Melda and Annabel. Katharine had been drawn to her from the first, and now, realising that they had not met her yet, she turned to look for her. Their eyes met, and Katharine slipped away from Dorothy Ann, and wormed her way through the crowd of seniors. Her voice took on a persuasive protecting note, and a touch of her native dialect crept into it, as it often did in moments of great earnestness.

‘Coom away and talk to me and Dorothy Ann! You mustn’t stick with these old seniors! It’s much more fun with us! Won’t you coom now?’

Leonora’s shy little face relaxed into a sudden smile, showing unexpected dimples. ‘I’d joost loove to coom!’ said she.

‘Was I talking north-country?’ Katharine’s eyes widened. ‘I didn’t know; but they say I do sometimes. But what do you know about it? You said that as if you were Yorkshire yourself.’

‘There was a jolly old man on our boat coming from New York. He talked like that; so I asked him all about it. He used to talk Yorkshire to me for hours. I thought it was so funny—foony, I mean.’

‘It does sound funny when you do it. I tumble into it without thinking, I suppose. You don’t mind coming away from your sister, do you?’

‘Not since you came to fetch me,’ Leonora said. ‘I thought I’d just wait and see if there was anybody who’d bother to do that. If everybody forgot all about me, then I’d just wait with Berny. But I guess you’re nice, since you remembered and came for me; so I’d like to come.’

Katharine looked down at her curiously, surprised by the shrewdness which could make her ‘wait to be fetched,’ and form her judgment, on their kind-heartedness by the result. Then she tucked Leonora’s hand under her arm. ‘Oh, well, come along! You’re going to be in our Form, so you’d better make friends quick.’

‘I want to see the garden. The front of the house is so pretty.’

‘ ’Tis jolly, isn’t it? It’s an old country-house made into a school, you see. We’ll go into the garden in a minute; but we’ve something to do first. You and the rest had better sit down for to-night.—Come on, Dorothy Ann, and all you other lazy things! Let’s clear away; then we can go out. It’s stuffy hot in here.’

‘Stooffy hot!’ murmured Leonora, and watched curiously as Phyllis, Dorothy Ann, and the rest began to clear the long tables. At the end of the room Priscilla was already putting plates and knives in neat piles.

Menie explained to Bernice and Melda, while Van went to bring some big trays. ‘Miss Chinchen likes us to do certain things, and clearing away after meals is one of them. Maids are very difficult to get, you know, especially near London, and she’s nearly always short of somebody. She says it doesn’t hurt us to do small jobs, and I don’t suppose it does. It saves the servants, and when there are so many of us it doesn’t take long.’

‘We’ll help!’ Bernice and Melda spoke together. ‘Oh, yes, we’d like to! We couldn’t possibly watch you all being busy. I can’t sit still and look on at other people working. I’ll do that;’ and Bernice went quickly to take a tray from Katharine.

‘Thanks! It’s just rather big for my arms.’

‘I like the idea,’ Bernice said to Menie. ‘We always used to help at home.’

‘Some of the girls grumble, and new ones don’t like it at first; but they soon get into the way of it. It really only takes a minute.’

‘Is there anything else we can do?’ Melda demanded, as the big trays were handed through to the waiting-maids.

‘Some one has to collect all the boots and shoes, and take them down to the scullery.’

‘You don’t clean them yourselves?’

‘Oh no! But we have to put them outside our cubicles ready, and then collect them all after supper.’

‘I’ll do that!’ Melda said swiftly. ‘I’ll help, anyway. I’d like to see the cubicles. We don’t know our way about yet.’

‘Come and help me, then,’ said Van, and they went off upstairs together.

‘We’ll go out in the garden. It’s a jolly evening;’ and Menie led the way.

CHAPTER IV.
THREE SILVER RINGS.

Katharine was already acting as guide to Leonora, whose appreciation of the old house and garden pleased her greatly.

‘We use the back-lawn, with those steps where the seniors are sitting, coming down from the kindergarten-room. There’s a pile of cushions just inside the door; you mustn’t sit on the steps without a cushion, because they’re stone, and people get chills and illnesses that way. Miss Chinchen’s very particular about the front-lawn; there’s a tennis-court at this side, but the mistresses usually use it. Some of the girls have gardens along the side of our lawn. Oh yes, you can have one, if you like!’ in answer to Leonora’s eager question. ‘All behind here is the kitchen-garden and orchard, and we’re not supposed to go in there without permission; the little gate’s kept locked. But during the summer we have to help to pick the fruit. There are heaps of it, and it takes so long to pick enough for us all. They make jam and tarts and puddings, and we’re supposed to help to get the fruit ready.’

‘I’ll like doing that. Who are the little girls Annabel’s with?’

Katharine looked, and laughed at sight of Annabel, the stranger, with a small girl on each arm, making a hurried tour of the garden before bed-time.

‘The dark one is Van’s little sister Gwen, and the reddy one is Jeanie Macdonald, Menie’s sister. Annabel isn’t shy, is she? It hasn’t taken her long to make friends.’

‘Annabel shy?’ laughed Leonora. ‘I guess not!’

‘I can see she isn’t. Now come and talk to some of the other girls. We always sit round the steps. The babies will have to go to bed in a minute, and then it will be our turn. Here’s Meg; she’s Menie’s middle sister. She’s in the Third with us. And Phyllis, and Irene and Violet—those two are sisters, and Violet always does what Irene does. Van says she’s just Irene’s shadow. And this is Clare; she’s awfully musical. And, of course, Dorothy Ann!’

Melda had returned from her tour of the upper regions, and was sitting on the top step with Dorothy Ann, hearing all about the tragedy of the cricket-field. Katharine and Leonora, slipping into a corner beside them, shared a cushion, and listened to the talk of the seniors on the steps below. Priscilla, a writing-pad on her knee holding her unfinished letter, sat on a stool on the gravel-path below the steps, listening, but saying nothing, as usual. Others had brought chairs and rugs, and were sitting on the lawn.

Bernice, nursing her knees, was talking to Menie and Van, Mary and Marjory, all seniors. ‘Why don’t you arrange for certain girls to do duty each day? We were all tumbling over one another in there. I know I trod on several toes without meaning to. Six could do it all almost as quickly, if they hustled round. You should make a list of orderlies for the day, as we used to do in camp.’

‘It’s a good idea,’ Menie said approvingly. ‘We could each do it for a week.’

‘Oh, did you go camping in America?’ Van asked eagerly.

‘Did we?—Did we, Melda?’ laughed Bernice. ‘I should rather think we did! Out in the woods, you know, in tents; and we had canoes on the river, and swimming, and went for hikes.’

‘What?’

‘Oh, long walks to different places! We had to do all the work, of course, so we had orderlies for each different thing—cooking, and washing up, and keeping the camp tidy, and so on.’

‘Did you have a camp fire?’ Dorothy Ann leaned forward eagerly from her top step.

She was hardly prepared for the effect of her simple question. All three girls turned to look at her, and then looked at one another. Then Bernice said hastily, ‘Oh, you mean for cooking! Of course we did—several. Can you make a good fire in the open air? Melda’s great at it—far better than I am.’

‘Can you make fire with two sticks, as the Indians do?’ Melda asked.

‘No. Will you show us? What could you want a camp fire for, except cooking?’

‘We had a camp fire once—Dorothy Ann and I,’ said Katharine; and Dorothy Ann’s question was forgotten, and the quick look which flashed from Melda to Bernice again passed unnoticed. ‘It was up on the moors, in Yorkshire. Priscilla lived there, and she lit it for us; we’d never have managed it ourselves.’ Priscilla looked up from her letter and laughed. ‘It was in a little, wee cave, and we had our dinner round it, and boiled eggs in a pan.’

‘Oh, Katharine Mary Mayne! Who boiled the eggs?’ cried Dorothy Ann, with dancing eyes.

‘Priscilla. We didn’t know how,’ Katharine said calmly.

‘Didn’t know how?’ There was a chorus of delight from the rest.

Dorothy Ann chuckled as Priscilla looked up again quickly. ‘Oh, we didn’t tell you, Priscilla! We told you we thought it would be nice to wait till you came back. I don’t mind owning up now, but I wouldn’t have told you at the time. We hadn’t the faintest notion how long they needed, or when they’d be done, or how you could tell. So we thought we’d wait, and you never guessed.’

Priscilla laughed. ‘Oh, I never guessed! I thought it was so nice of you to wait for me.’

‘We hoped you would,’ Katharine said complacently. ‘It was just a chance we put any water in the pan. Dorothy Ann was going to put the eggs in, and put it on dry; but I was sure that couldn’t be right. I thought there had to be something to do the bubbling, and we knew the eggs couldn’t.’

‘You dreadful children!’ Menie looked scandalised, while all the rest laughed, and Melda rocked in her seat.

‘Awful infants, aren’t they?’ Van agreed. ‘I wonder Priscilla trusted them with the pan. It’s a marvel they didn’t burn the bottom out of it.’

‘I never guessed, Katharine.—You pretended jolly well when I came back, Dorothy Ann.’

‘We did our best,’ Katharine acknowledged. ‘That’s why I wanted mine boiled hard, to know how another time.’

‘If I didn’t know how to boil an egg I’d keep quiet about it, anyway,’ Phyllis mocked. ‘I wouldn’t give myself away like that.’

‘I don’t care. It made you all laugh,’ Dorothy Ann said defiantly.

‘I don’t believe you do know, Phyllis. How many minutes does an egg want when it’s put into boiling water?’ Katharine’s arm shot out, pointing an accusing finger at Phyllis. ‘Boiling water, mind! Quick now! And how long when it’s put on in cold? And how much longer for hard-boiled?’

‘It’s time the babies went to bed. Here comes Binky to fetch them. I’ll help her to find them all,’ Phyllis said hastily.

‘Oh yes! That’s a fine way to wriggle out!’

‘Well, I’ve never had to do it!’ Phyllis protested.

‘Neither had we. We thought we knew all about it till it came to the point. Don’t you laugh at us any more!’

‘How nice it is out here!’ Bernice leaned back against the stone wall of the steps, enjoying the sunset light. ‘How pretty those long shadows are on the lawn! Do you often sit out here?’

‘Always, when we’ve no work to do. If it’s raining, we use the big “kinder.” ’

‘The country was lovely as we came down from Liverpool, and all so neat! English fields and hedges are just dainty.’

‘You should say up from Liverpool,’ said Dorothy Ann.

‘Oh! But why? We came down by the map,’ Bernice argued.

‘Yes; but you were coming to London. You come “up” to London, no matter if you’re in the Hebrides.’

‘How funny! Is that really so?’

‘I say! London people have some cheek!’ cried Melda. ‘London’s the centre of the world, of course!’

‘Oh, of course!’ Dorothy Ann assented; and they laughed again.

‘The hedges were all white as we came along,’ Bernice continued. ‘It looked like snow. Would it be may? Aunty was asleep, so we couldn’t ask her.’

‘It’s too early for hawthorn; it’s never out on May-day. Blackthorn, then! The flowers come before the leaves.’

‘That’s it. It was very pretty. And yellow dots on the railway-banks, like drops of gold. What were they?’

‘Oh, little dandelions, I suppose,’ Dorothy Ann said vaguely.

‘Coltsfoot,’ said Priscilla, looking up suddenly.

‘I forgot you were there!—She knows every flower under the sun, Bernice. I say, Melda’s making notes!’

Melda laughed, and bent over a notebook she had taken from the pocket of her middy blouse. ‘All your flowers and things are different over here. I’m going to make lists. I feel real silly; just a dunce! I don’t know the first thing. What’s this ripping bird up on the house here, saying, “Stick to it! Stick to it! Pretty dear! Pretty dear!”? He says everything twice over.’

‘Browning!’ said Van solemnly. ‘Oh, I don’t mean that’s his name!’ hastily, as Melda began to scribble again. ‘He’s a thrush. But a gentleman called Browning made the same remark about his twice-over-ness.’

‘A thrush!’ said Bernice in surprise. ‘We had thrushes in America, but they weren’t like that. They sing in the woods; they’re wonderful. Your thrush is a whistler.’

‘This is going to be real puzzling, if you’ve got our birds with different names and different songs!’ and Melda looked up in dismay. ‘Oh, I say! what are those squalling things over there? They’re pretty; see the green and black in their backs, Leonora! But they’re jolly bad-tempered.’

‘Starlings. Don’t you have them?’

‘Not where we lived, anyway. I never heard such a row!’ and Melda scribbled energetically.

‘Say, Melda, share that list with me, there’s a dear! It will save me making one too,’ Bernice suggested.

‘Well, will you give me any you find out, Berny?’

‘Of course. I’ll play fair.’

‘Let me in too,’ said Leonora, speaking for the first time. ‘I’ll look out for new things too. Aunty won’t mind, will she?’

‘All right; we’ll work it together. I don’t see why she should mind.’

‘You are funny, you three!’ Katharine protested; while the others listened curiously. ‘What d’you want to do it for? Is she going to give you prizes?’

They all laughed; and Bernice said promptly, ‘We want to know everything. It feels mighty queer to come to a new country where even the trees and flowers are different. I’m going to find out all about this place just as quick as I can.’

‘So’m I,’ said Leonora.

‘That’s my stunt too,’ Melda said, in a business-like tone. ‘We’re all going to hustle round and find out; then we won’t feel so silly. Tell me some more! We want to hear your cuckoo. Ours only says “Cuck-cuck-cuck!” Oh, what’s that cute little blue-and-yellow bird upside-down on the coco-nut?’

‘Only a tom-tit—a blue-tit, you know. Katharine Mayne put the coco-nut up last term, but there’s nothing left in the shell now.’

‘Say, let’s get him another one! He’s a dainty little chap. We don’t have him either.’

‘Why do you all dress alike?’ Katharine asked curiously of Leonora.

Bernice heard the question, and answered promptly, ‘Well, I like that! Here are dozens of you all dressed in green frocks, big and little, all the same, and when four of us wear middy blouses you ask why we’re all dressed alike!’

‘Oh, well, these are our gyms.! We wear them all the time in the house and garden. You’ll need to have some too,’ Katharine explained.

‘Ours are what we had for camping. So we wore them for travelling too.’

‘Oh, I see! What a pretty ring, Leonora! May I see it?’

Leonora handed her a silver ring, with circles and other designs upon it, and Katharine and Dorothy Ann examined it curiously.

‘What does it all mean? Is it ancient Egyptian, or something? Are these suns and moons? What’s this bunch of stick things in the middle? Do you wear it all the time?’

‘It’s a keepsake from some girls at home.’

‘Oh, how jolly! Did they give it to you to remember them by? Have the others got them too?’

Bernice and Melda laughed, and took off their ‘keepsake’ rings and handed them round, and looked at one another with laughing eyes as the girls exclaimed and admired them. ‘They’re all exactly the same. They’re awfully jolly. Has Annabel got one too?’

‘No; she wasn’t old enough,’ Bernice said seriously.

‘Not old enough? What a shame! She’s old enough to remember, surely!’ Dorothy Ann said indignantly.

‘I’m quite sure she had friends,’ Katharine said, as she returned Leonora’s ring.

‘Oh, heaps! She always has. But they didn’t give her a ring,’ Bernice explained demurely, her eyes bent over her own ring.

‘Then I think it was jolly mean of them, if they could give them to the rest of you!’

All three laughed at the indignation in Dorothy Ann’s tone. ‘She didn’t mind. She didn’t expect one,’ said Melda.

‘Do you know, I’m awfully sleepy! I believe I could go to sleep right here. When do we go to bed?’ asked Bernice.

‘It’s time for all but the Fifth and Sixth Forms now. I wonder Binky hasn’t been along; she’s on duty to-night. We get a while longer—till half-past nine.’

‘I think I’ll go with the others to-night;’ and when Melda and Leonora were summoned presently with the rest of the Middle School, sleepy Bernice went with them.

‘I’ve got a name for you, Melda!’ Katharine announced, as they went upstairs together.

‘Oh, what’s that? Anything horrid?’

‘I don’t think so. You’re Melda Want-to-Know. You’re always asking questions.’

Melda laughed. ‘Sure thing! I guess I am! You’re real smart, Katharine Mayne! What will you call Berny and Leonora?’

‘I don’t know yet. I’ll tell you when I find out.’

It was quite a usual thing for Katharine and Dorothy Ann, and other equally devoted couples, to brush and plait their hair out in the corridor, and indulge in gossip, before retiring to their cubicles for the night. But this evening most of the Middle School were out there in their dressing-gowns, and they brushed their hair and discussed their new friends till the last possible moment.

‘It’s a jolly good thing they have the little dormitory to themselves, after all. We can talk about them so much better,’ said Dorothy Ann, coming out with her brown locks streaming over a pink gown, and looking a wild object indeed.

‘They aren’t shy, are they?’ and Katharine turned a shower of yellow curls over her face and began operations. ‘Even Leonora isn’t, really; she’s only quiet.’

‘Shy! Not much! You could never leave them outside things! They simply walk into everything and take it for granted everybody’s going to be friends at once. Of course, it’s all right; they’re jolly, and we’re quite glad to have them. But they don’t wait to be asked.’

‘Except Leonora; she did. It’s funny how keen they are on finding out things. Lots of girls wouldn’t fag.’

‘Rather jolly, though. I think Melda’s going to be good sport. She’s the Americanest of them all.’

‘Americanest! What an awful word, Dan!’

In the small dormitory at the end of the passage, where Annabel lay already asleep, the three girls who wore the silver rings were similarly engaged. Their thick, long hair took time to brush, whether it was fair or black, and they had much to say.

‘They’re real quick, aren’t they?’ laughed Melda, speaking low lest Annabel should be disturbed. ‘They’ll find us out, Berny, sure as eggs.’

‘They’re getting on. I didn’t think they’d get warm so quickly,’ Bernice admitted. ‘They nearly had us over the rings;’ and all three laughed.

‘Poor Annabel! It was mean not to give her one, wasn’t it?’ Melda laughed.

‘And about the camp fire! “Did you have a camp fire?” Dorothy Ann quite made me jump for a minute.’

‘ “What could you want a camp file for, except cooking?” ’ Melda quoted. ‘Oh, there’s more than cooking in camp fires, if they only knew!’

‘They will know before they’re done. If Van and that Dorothy Ann once find out there’s a secret, they’ll hustle round till they get to the bottom of it. So do be careful, you two!’

‘Oh, well, they haven’t guessed there is a secret yet! I want to know why she makes them call her Dorothy Ann; it’s queer.’

‘ “Melda Want-to-Know!” ’ Bernice laughed. ‘I like the little Yorkshire girl with the yellow hair. She chummed up with you because she thought you looked lonely, Leo. Come here, kid! I’ll do that for you;’ and she began to plait the long black hair.

‘I wasn’t lonely. I was just waiting to see which of them was the nicest,’ Leonora explained. ‘She’s Katharine, and Dorothy Ann’s her friend. I like her too. Sometimes Katharine talks just like my old man on the boat.’

‘I want to know’——began Bernice, then stopped and joined in Melda’s laugh. ‘Well, I do! I want to know why that girl with the pretty brown hair and still prettier brown face and eyes is so quiet and out of everything. She isn’t like the rest. Priscilla, they call her—the one who knows about flowers.’

‘Yes, I saw that too. She’s awfully quiet. Perhaps she’s new too.’

‘She was new last term. I asked Menie. But she’s had plenty of time to make friends. Menie says she’s “rather queer;” she wouldn’t say how. I’m going to find out.’

‘Queer! I rather liked her. Perhaps they’re making it up. You’d better chip in and put things right. Berny. I guess it’s up to you. That’s what “the girls at home” gave you your pin for, isn’t it?’

‘I was thinking that. I’ll do it if there’s anything to do,’ Bernice promised. ‘It’s just what I was thinking myself.’

CHAPTER V.
A PLACE FOR A CAMP FIRE.

‘I’ve found a name for Bernice, Melda!’ Katharine announced on Saturday morning, after a few days’ consideration.

‘Oh! What is it?’

‘She’s “Bernice I’ll-do-that,” ’ Katharine said solemnly.

Melda chuckled. ‘Sure she is! You do hit it off, Katharine Mayne! You’re some smart, you are!’

‘But your name would do for her, and hers would do for you, just as well. She wants to know, and you say you’ll do things, and Leonora’s just the same.’

‘What’s Leo’s name?’

‘I haven’t decided yet. She doesn’t say as much as you do. Leonora-Mouse, perhaps.’

‘But, I say, Melda!’ Dorothy Ann broke in, ‘Bernice will get bullied into all kinds of things, just because she is so jolly willing, if she doesn’t look out. Van shirks awfully sometimes. More than once already I’ve heard Chinny tell her to do things—fetch the little ones in, or take them out, or send somebody to her—and if Bernice or you says, “I’ll do that,” as you do all the time, Van just slacks. Her name ought to be “Thanks awfully, old girl!” She gets out of all she can. You shouldn’t encourage her; it’s bad for her morals. After all, she is head-girl.’

‘Menie’s finding Bernice jolly useful too,’ Katharine added. ‘Why d’you do it, Melda? I shouldn’t bother if I were you. Let them do their own work, lazy things!’

‘ ’Tisn’t worth talking about, little stunts like that!’ Melda said carelessly.

They were sitting on the garden steps, watching a game of tennis on the lawn. There were no regular classes, as it was Saturday morning, but only a certain amount of practising, darning, and other odd jobs. Melda, having finished her own stockings, had characteristically volunteered to help Katharine, who was sighing over hers, and threatening to discover a headache if she found any more holes. Melda worked quickly, and presently had finished off Katharine’s stockings also, and was able to take up the crochet lace on which she was at work.

The players on the lawn were Menie and Van versus Bernice and Priscilla, to the great astonishment of the last-named. She had played the evening before with Katharine and Dorothy Ann and Melda, Katharine having chosen her as partner, while Melda had been Dorothy’s choice. Thanks to considerable practice with the nurses in her hospital days, Priscilla played well, and the game had been watched with approval by a group of seniors gathered in the doorway. So, when Bernice, a good player herself, had been invited by the two head-girls to join them and to choose her partner, she had at once turned to Priscilla, with the persuasive smile which so often gained her point.

‘Won’t you make up the four? I guess we’ll give them a decent game, even if we don’t win.’

‘I’d love to!’

Priscilla’s instant acceptance had strengthened a suspicion growing in Bernice’s mind. She had been watching her new companions closely for the last two days.

‘She only wants to be invited. She won’t do anything till she’s asked. Perhaps she’s shy, or a bit scared of them. I’m not that kind myself, but I know some girls are. I’m going to ask her every chance I get, and see how it works,’ she decided.

After dinner Miss Chinchen made an announcement. ‘I have received a very kind letter from Miss Nairn, aunt of Dorothy Nairn, extending to us the hospitality of her gardens at Waterside on Saturday afternoons. I need not say how much we all appreciate this kind offer. The Third Form and upwards will be ready to start at half-past two to-day. The juniors will go next week.’ The faces of the little ones fell. Every one realised, however, that for a first visit at least the whole school could not be inflicted on one old lady, and that the upper Forms must have first chance. The small girls dispersed into the garden, and the Middle and the Upper School hurried upstairs in much delight to change from gym. costumes into afternoon coats and skirts and white blouses.

Dorothy Ann and Katharine slipped away half-an-hour before the others set out two by two, and by special permission Priscilla went with them. Miss Nairn’s letter had begged that her niece might precede the others, ‘as I am not used to the ways of schoolgirls, and shall be glad of her help.’ Dorothy Ann had obtained leave to take the other two with her, as she was anxious to introduce them privately to her aunt, and Miss Chinchen, who had taken Priscilla’s measure very quickly, had been glad for her to go with the other two as a steadying influence.

‘I can understand your wanting Katharine,’ Priscilla said, as they set out. ‘But are you sure your aunt wants to see me? I don’t see why she should.’

‘Because she’s heard so much about you, my dear. She knows all about us on the moor, and the hospital, and the Hen and Chickens Rock, and everything. She said she’d like to meet you. I don’t for a minute think she’ll come out and speak to the crowd, you know. She’ll be far too scared of them. She’ll be too busy, or have a headache, or make some other excuse. That’s what she wants me for, I expect—to make excuses for her.’

‘Scared of them? Dan, how could she be? What is there to be scared of?’

‘Nothing; but she won’t believe it. She’s a dear, silly, little old thing; but she’s as shy as shy, and she’ll think a lot of girls would laugh at her, or that she wouldn’t understand their talk and jokes, and then she’d feel silly. I know just how she’ll feel.’

‘But it’s a pity for us to go, if she feels like that.’ Priscilla looked troubled.

‘My dear, she wants us to go just awfully. She’ll love it—so long as she doesn’t have to come out and talk to the girls.’

‘It doesn’t feel right. It seems sad, somehow.’

‘Perhaps she’ll get used to us,’ Katharine said hopefully. ‘She must see us one at a time, that’s all.’

They walked decorously through the town and down to the river. But when they reached the footpath on its bank under overhanging trees, Dorothy Ann caught Katharine’s hand. ‘Let’s race Priscilla! I know she can run; she used to race us on the moor. See if she can catch us now!’

‘I’ll give you half-a-minute’s start!’ Priscilla retorted; and she caught them as they were nearing the bridge, where the path branched off to cross the fields.

Fraysford was a little market-town midway between London and the country. It was connected by a line of quick electric trams with one of the tube-railways running directly to the heart of the City; so it could claim to be a suburb, though the journey to the Bank took nearly two hours, even by electricity. On the other hand, it stood on the borders of Buckinghamshire, and to cross the boundary bridge was to enter a district of rich meadows, slow streams, elm-fringed lanes, quaint villages, and soon to reach woods and hills, farms and commons. Fraysford still had its curious old market-hall, where on Saturday nights one could buy fresh meat or hats, fish or ribbons, fruit or boots and shoes, toys or cakes, all from stalls kept by loud-voiced merchants. It had one ancient gray street, only recently invaded by the trams, and numerous small and slummy districts lying on the waterside, or ‘moor,’ as it was locally called—to Priscilla’s great indignation, until it had been explained to her that ‘moor’ in this part of the country only meant the old English ‘mere.’ There were quaint old houses in the High Street, and curious timbered inns with traditions of treaties signed in their parlours in Roundhead days.

There was a wide, breezy common, with an outlook over the woods of Bucks and Middlesex; and the town was an ideal starting-point for country expeditions. Many villages of historical interest lay within easy reach, with memories of poets and statesmen resting in their churchyards under ancient yews and cedars. Waterside was one such village, though its local history consisted only of a gruesome story of murder in a lonely house in bygone days.

To reach the country it was necessary to cross many waters, for the rivers divided, and often overflowed and flooded the low-lying meadows; so many and wide bridges were necessary. First there was the Home River, a sleepy stream wandering past the back-gardens of the outlying houses, fringed with weeping-willows and wild flowers, choked with bright-green weeds in places, and navigated in punts. Then came the business-like canal, with its tow-path and locks and barges, running very straight across country, with one-arched whitewashed bridges; and then the real river, twisting and bending among beds of reeds and rushes, tree-hung also, with no path along its banks. This was the county boundary for travellers on the high-road; but to those who crossed the fields the boundary ran by the Shire Ditch, another swift, gurgling stream, with low foot-bridges of its own. The courses of the various other streams and ditches were marked by rows of pollard willows or beds of rushes, and all the low, damp fields were very naturally known locally as the Water Meadows.

The three girls on their way to Waterside raced down the bank of the Home River, crossed the Shire Ditch, the meadows, and the high canal bridge, and followed the tow-path till another track across the fields led them directly to the village. Waterside, an old gabled house nearly buried in trees, stood on the outskirts of this first red-roofed village two miles from the town. A quiet lane under great swaying elms led to the village from the white, dusty high-road, but the field-track cut off a big corner, and when not flooded was much the pleasanter path.

Dorothy Ann paused as they crossed the great meadow. ‘The others will have to go on and out to the village to get to the front-gate. But there’s a little gate over here through the bushes; we’ll go in by that;’ and she led them to the shrubbery.

The house lay between the village and the river. The shrubbery-path led the girls beside the water, and Katharine and Priscilla exclaimed in delight at sight of the long, narrow island, covered with birch and willow trees, separated from the garden by a few yards of running water.

‘Can’t we get over there?’ cried Katharine. ‘Oh, there’s a boat! But it’s one of those square things. How do you row it, Dan?’

‘It’s a punt, silly. There’s an old man somewhere who works it. He gave me a lesson one day, but I’m not very brilliant at it yet.’

‘I don’t think we’ll trust our lives to you,’ Priscilla laughed. ‘Oh, what a lovely lawn!’

‘Yes; isn’t it jolly?’ and they paused to gaze at the great copper-beeches set here and there on the lawn.

Then Dorothy Ann, with a sudden, ‘There’s Aunt Ann!’ caught Katharine’s hand and ran with her to the house, and Priscilla followed with a touch of shyness.

It was the sight of some one shaking a duster out of a lower window which had affected Dorothy Ann so suddenly. She dragged Katharine to the window, scrambled up and over the sill, and dropped into the room.

‘Come on!’ and she gave her hand to Katharine and hauled her up.—‘Oh, Aunt Ann dear! how can you? Why will you do such things?’

Miss Nairn, a little, elderly lady with a white lace cap on her gray hair and a little apron pinned over her black dress, stood aghast and flustered by their sudden appearance. She had invited schoolgirls, but she had hardly expected them to come through the window in an avalanche. Priscilla did not follow the others, however, but paused doubtfully just outside.

‘Dorothy Ann, my dear!—Have you—have you hurt yourself? Oh, my child, I am sure you are hurt!’ as Katharine sat down suddenly on the floor and began to rub her knee.

‘Did you knock yourself, silly?’ Dorothy Ann asked severely.

Katharine laughed up at the anxious old lady. ‘She kicked me when she jumped up on to the window. Wasn’t it clumsy of her? I’ll have a lump like an egg to-morrow. Oh, it’s all right now, thank you!’ as Miss Nairn anxiously suggested remedies. ‘Oh, please don’t put butter on it! It’s so greasy. My knee’s really quite all right now. But fancy Dorothy Ann kicking out like that!—You’ve got a hoof like a horse, Dan.’

‘Sorry! I never meant to kick you, old girl.—I say, Priscilla, come in! I’m sure you can jump a low window like that. Don’t be shy!—Aunt Ann dear, this is Priscilla; you know all about her already. I expect you’ve guessed the other one’s Katharine. Now, dear, why are you dusting books on Saturday afternoon? Surely somebody else could do it? You ought to be lying down. And have you forgotten you’ve asked a party for this afternoon? They’re coming along now—dozens of them.’

‘The men only came to put up the shelves this morning, Dorothy Ann,’ Miss Nairn explained nervously. ‘So I thought—I thought I would just get the books put away instead of coming out into the garden. Your friends will not want to see me. You will tell them I am engaged, won’t you, my dear? They will quite understand if you explain that the house is not in order yet, I am sure.’

‘Now, Aunt Ann dear, you know that’s just an excuse!’ Dorothy Arm said severely. ‘The books will do any time between now and next Christmas. If you’ll let them wait till Monday, one of the maids will do them for you, if they’re too busy to-day. Won’t you take off your pinny, and come out and wait for the girls? You ought to speak to them and say you’re glad to see them.’

‘I thought you would welcome them for me, Dorothy Ann. I—I really could not meet strangers to-day,’ the little lady pleaded hurriedly. ‘I have not changed my dress’——

‘You didn’t change it on purpose! Now, confess, Aunt Ann dear, isn’t that true? Besides, you look lovely in that one!’

‘I—I do not feel up to meeting strangers, my dear.’ Aunt Ann grew more flustered with each eager, timid excuse. ‘I have been working all the morning, and’——

‘Don’t tease, Dorothy Ann!’ said Katharine sharply, from her seat on the floor. ‘If she really doesn’t want to, then, of course, she needn’t. It’s her house; why should she see a lot of silly, chattering kids if she’d rather stop indoors? It’s jolly decent of her to let us go in the garden. Just you leave her alone!’

Priscilla, too, had seen that the old lady was in earnest, and really shrank from the ordeal of facing a crowd. ‘You can meet them and say Miss Nairn is still hardly settled in the house, and is too busy to come out this afternoon, Dorothy Ann. They’ll quite understand.’

‘I’m sure they will understand,’ Aunt Ann said hurriedly. ‘You do think they will understand, my dear? You think they will forgive me? They will not think me rude?’

‘I’m quite sure they won’t,’ Priscilla assured her earnestly.

‘I’ll jolly well talk to them if they do!’ Katharine promised. ‘Now, Dan, you go and meet them, and talk pretty. You may do it nicely if you try very hard. I know what Priscilla’s going to do, and so am I. I can see it in her eye.’

‘I’m going to help Miss Nairn with these books,’ Priscilla said promptly.

‘Oh no, indeed, my dear! I could not think of such a thing. I could not permit it for a moment. You have come here to enjoy yourselves in the garden. If you will leave me, I will continue my work.’

‘Yes; but it will only take a few minutes if we help.’ Priscilla had already laid aside her coat. ‘You must arrange them in the shelves, of course, but we can dust them and bring them to you from the boxes. These are poets, all bound in leather. Where shall they go?’

‘I cannot have you working for me, my dear,’ the old lady protested.

Katharine entered into Priscilla’s intention thoroughly. Springing up, her knee forgotten, she seized a duster and attacked another packing-case. ‘You be the C.O., Miss Nairn, and we’ll be your subs. Just tell us where things are to go.’

‘But your—your leg, my dear child?’

‘Oh, I was only putting that on to tease Dorothy Ann! It isn’t at all bad, really—just a bump. I suppose if Leonora Tarring was here she’d say I said “joost a boomp”!’

‘You did rather,’ Priscilla laughed.

‘Well, you needn’t talk! You do it yourself!’

‘But what are C.O.’s and subs.?’ Miss Nairn asked anxiously.

Katharine laughed. ‘My sister’s married to a soldier. Commanding Officer and subalterns—young officers, you know. You tell us what to do. Here’s an awfully jolly set of Jane Austen. Where will you have them?’

‘Here. Thank you so very much! I thought the poets should go over on this side. I am so very much obliged to you, my dear!’

‘Now, Miss Nairn, please!’ pleaded Katharine. ‘You’ll spoil it all if you go on like that. We’re awfully pleased to do it;’ and they carried and dusted, while the old lady, almost overcome, gave timid directions.

The rest of the school, in the charge of Miss Tarring and Miss Graveson, walked demurely two by two till they reached the path by the river. Then they broke ranks and wandered as they pleased across the fields. Bernice and Melda had been walking together; while Leonora was with Phyllis, with whom she had not a point in common. At the first chance she slipped away and joined her sisters, and they talked earnestly as they walked a little apart from the others. They were all regretting Priscilla’s absence, for all three found her very useful. Not only Melda was making ‘lists,’ and the lists were growing.

As they crossed the fields, Melda, with a whoop of delight, added ‘skylark’ to her list of new birds, and explained to incredulous Van that in America larks were quite different; that they whistled, in fact, instead of singing. Leonora was the first to hear the cuckoo as they approached the dense trees round Waterside, and the rapt delight in her face, as she stood suddenly to listen, told the others that she had heard something, and they all stopped also. Bernice, while greatly pleased to make so many new feathered friends, missed several old ones, and mourned the absence of bobolinks as she crossed the meadows. She was amazed to find that Menie and Van did not know what a bobolink was like, and could hardly believe them when they said they had never heard of a chickadee.

‘Isn’t it awfully funny things should be so different!’ she said again and again.

The greatest surprise of all to the English girls had been when Leonora saw her first primrose. To them it was incredible that there could be a country where primroses were unknown; but the sight of even Bernice delightedly picking handfuls of primroses had convinced them.

‘We’re finding out things too!’ laughed Van.

One thing they found out at this time was less pleasing to them. The anxiety of the strangers to know the name of every wayside flower and weed, every tree and flowering shrub, was amusing and harmless so long as Priscilla was at hand to answer questions, but with Priscilla out of reach it became embarrassing. A dozen times between the school and Waterside one or other of the sisters turned to the seniors with a question about bird or tree, or held up some quite common flower for identification, and Van and Menie were appalled by the extent of their ignorance thus suddenly revealed to them.

‘Bernice! Melda! Do stop!’ Van cried at last. ‘Make a bunch and ask Priscilla about them all at once. You’re making me feel so small, I’m afraid I shall vanish altogether!’

‘I wouldn’t have believed I knew so little!’ Menie said in dismay. ‘I know all these flowers as well as anything, of course, but I really don’t know their proper names. You don’t want names like “butter and eggs,” and “milkmaids,” and “lady’s slipper,” and “shoes and stockings,” and “bread and cheese,” I suppose?’

‘They ‘re interesting, and real quaint sometimes,’ said Bernice, ‘but I like to know the proper names as well. I don’t think those others would count.’

‘Count? How do you mean?’ Menie asked curiously.

‘You are funny, you three! Are you having a competition? But you all tell one another each new one you find. How do you mean they wouldn’t count? Are you going in for a prize?’ Van asked, laughing.

‘Oh, we’re counting up how many new ones we can find, you know,’ Bernice said hastily; while Melda and Leonora gazed down at their handfuls of primroses with expressionless faces.

‘I say, Berny Tarring, you nearly gave us away that time!’ Melda remonstrated, as they crossed the fields together.

‘Yes, it was awfully silly. I didn’t think Van would be satisfied so easily.’

‘They don’t know all their own flowers and trees, do they?’ Leonora asked seriously. ‘I’ve been asking Phyllis things, but she got so mad that I had to stop.’

‘They don’t know anything!’ Melda said scornfully. ‘I’d have liked to see one of our crowd at home such a duffer!’

‘They haven’t had such a jolly reason for finding out things as we have,’ Bernice reminded them. ‘It shows how lucky we’ve been, and what a lot they’ve missed. Don’t tease Phyllis, Leo. If she doesn’t know, don’t worry her. Try Priscilla; you needn’t be shy with her. I’m sure she’d tell you anything. See how friendly she is with Dorothy Ann and your Yorkshire friend Katharine, if she is a senior! Or ask us, and we’ll ask her for you. Girls, hasn’t it struck you as awfully funny that we’ve heard no sparrows, with all these fields about? I’ve been listening for them, but I haven’t heard one, though there’s a whole wood over there;’ and she nodded towards the Waterside gardens.

‘That’s one of the things I asked Phyllis. She says sparrows don’t sing in England; they only chirp and twitter.’

‘Like our “English” sparrows? I’ve seen heaps of them,’ cried Melda. ‘They’re everywhere, and just as noisy as at home.’

‘She says those are all the sparrows they have.’

‘Oh, I say! No singing ones?’

‘Perhaps she doesn’t know,’ Bernice said hopefully. ‘Surely there must be song-sparrows in the meadows. We’ll ask Priscilla.’

The path across the wide meadows brought them to the village, and the sight of it filled the American girls with delight, much to the satisfaction of the rest of the school, who had been feeling rather small. There was one wide street, with inns draped in wisteria and creeper, and with quaint hanging signs, ancient wood-fronted cottages with uneven red roofs and aged chimney-stacks, covered with climbing roses and outdoor vines, a pond and a low bridge across the river, and a very old gray church, whose churchyard held moss-covered stones and enormous yew-trees, both many centuries old.

‘We always say it’s an absolutely perfect English village; just a picture village,’ said Mary.

‘It might be out of a book!’ and Bernice drew a long breath of delight and satisfaction. ‘It’s like what we read of in English tales! Where’s the vicarage? And where does the lord of the manor live? Which is the village school? Oh, aren’t those kiddies just cute?’ as a group of fair-haired children gazed at them, obviously awe-struck by the sight of such a crowd.

‘I guess Dorothy Ann’s little aunt is lady of the manor,’ said Melda. ‘Do these great gates lead to her house? My! Isn’t this just elegant, Berny?’

The great iron gates of Waterside were close to the church, and Dorothy Ann was waiting here to welcome them, and to explain that her aunt was not yet settled in her house, so begged them to excuse her for this afternoon. She gave the message loyally, without hinting at what she believed to be the truth—that it was a bad attack of shyness which had made the old lady insist upon being busy at this particular time. The girls were to go where they pleased in the gardens, Dorothy Ann added; but if they wished to cross the river to the island they would please find the gardener, who would punt them across. On hearing this Miss Graveson promptly established herself on the bank with a book, and kept an eye on the punt to prevent accidents.

The girls scattered in all directions, and wandered through the grounds, enjoying the beds of hyacinths and tulips in the garden proper, admiring the tennis and croquet lawns and bowling-green, delighted with a quaint little Dutch garden enclosed in high walls, where all the paths were tiled, all the beds rigidly formal, all the yew hedges clipped into peacocks and hens, where the little pond with the fountain held goldfish, and a sundial stood in the middle. The big round pond in the midst of the rose-garden, with its water-lily leaves, pleased them still better; but to most the best place of all was what Dorothy Ann called ‘the jungle,’ where the growth of two years’ neglect had not been cleared, and trees and bushes had grown into a tangle, with clumps and banks of wild daffodils where there was space for stretches of grass. The first little group who came on this patch of woodland threw off coats and hats in the long grass among the daffodils, and plunged into the shadowy depths to explore, and soon ‘the jungle’ was ringing with shouts and laughter, as even the senior’s forgot their dignity and gave themselves up to hide-and-seek and ‘touch wood,’ led by Van Evans and Melda Tarring. Others found the gardener, and were punted over to the island, which was also in a state of jungle, its edges fringed with willows and silver birch-trees, the grass within starred with primroses and faint touches of blue, promising wild hyacinths presently.

Bernice and Leonora crossed together in the punt, and set off hand-in-hand to make discoveries. As they reached the primrose carpet in the centre of the island, they stopped with one accord and looked at one another.

‘Some camping-ground!’ murmured Bernice. ‘Oh, what a perfect place for’——and then she stopped short.

‘For what?’ Menie asked, looking at her curiously. ‘For picnics?’

‘Yes, for picnics. Or for camping, you know. That’s what I was really thinking of. You could have such a jolly camp fire here.’

Leonora knelt to examine a delicate moss which had caught her beauty-loving eyes. ‘Look, Berny, how pretty! It’s a good thing Melda isn’t here,’ she said in a low tone. ‘You will give us away, Berny, sure, if you don’t take care!’

‘They don’t understand. And it is a perfect place for a camp fire—for a real Council Fire, in fact!’ Bernice murmured. ‘It’s all right, Leo! Nobody’s listening!’

CHAPTER VI.
BERNICE CLEANS THE SILVER.

When the shouts and laughter from the shrubbery began to be heard in the library, Miss Nairn grew visibly uneasy.

‘Now, my dears, you really must join your friends! I asked you here for pleasure, not for work. I positively insist—yes, indeed, you must go! I will leave the books just as they are, if you wish it, but I cannot permit you to spend the afternoon indoors working for me. I shall be distressed, really deeply distressed, if you do not go and join your companions.’

Dorothy Ann came in with a rush at that moment. ‘I say, you two, you must come out with me now! I’ve been counting on exploring the garden with you and showing you the jungle.—Aunt Ann dear’——

‘Yes, Dorothy Ann, that is what I say. They must go out with their friends.’

‘I say, aren’t they making a jolly row? What are they doing, yelling and screaming like that?’ and Katharine went to the window to look.

‘Melda Tarring and Van are playing touch in the jungle, that’s all. If you went upstairs, Aunt Ann dear, I believe you’d be able to see them out of your bedroom window.’

‘I should enjoy that. Thank you, Dorothy Ann. I would much like to see your friends.’

The old lady unpinned her apron and hurried away upstairs, and Dorothy Ann laughed as she took her friends each by the arm.

‘Poor Aunt Ann! She’s just pining to see the girls, but she’s too scared to go near them. She’ll glue her nose to the window as long as they’re in sight. I was glad to hear them yelling, for I knew she’d love it.’

‘Isn’t it funny of her!’ Katharine said reflectively.

‘I think it’s rather sad,’ said Priscilla.

‘Oh, I didn’t mean funny, of course! I meant queer.’

‘It isn’t really sad, Priscilla. She’s doing jolly well to-day; she’s made friends with you two, and that’s not bad for her. She’ll enjoy us all being here just awfully, and after a time or two I expect she’ll get over her funny feeling, and come out and watch us properly. Perhaps in time she may even speak to some of the girls! She’d be awfully happy if she could do that.’

Presently, with Aunt Ann’s timid face, watching wistfully from a window, in her mind, Dorothy Ann organised a game of rounders on the lawn near the house; and Katharine and Priscilla, having been conducted by her on a first rapid tour of inspection, wandered off together to find Bernice and Leonora, with whom they were growing very friendly. They came on them at last on the island, and while Leonora and Katharine gathered primroses, and Leonora confided her disappointment that there were no song-sparrows in the English fields, Bernice invited Priscilla to a quiet corner she had discovered among the silver birch-trees.

‘I want to know something, if you don’t mind telling me. If you mind, of course it doesn’t matter.’

‘You and Melda generally are wanting to know something,’ Priscilla laughed. ‘What is it? Anything I won’t want to tell?’

‘I asked Dorothy Ann and Katharine why you knew so much more about flowers than the others. I saw you were most friendly with them. Dorothy Ann would have told me all about it, I think; but Katharine stopped her, and said you’d rather tell me yourself. She just said you’d had a very lonely time once, and you’d learned the flowers then, for something to do. It sounded as if there might be a story behind. I wondered if you’d tell me. But if I oughtn’t to ask, don’t be wild with me. I’ll say no more about it.’

‘Oh, I’ll tell you, if you’d really like to know. I’ve had chances the others haven’t, in some ways. Of course, in school-work I’m a little behind; I couldn’t keep up in everything by myself. But I had a chance of learning a lot of other things. I often think I was very lucky. I had three years out of school, you know;’ and Priscilla told frankly of her father’s illness and their forced removal, of her mother’s post at the hospital, and her own life there as ‘the fever-girl,’ and described the moor and its flowers, and the dale and its meadows and river, and the reservoir-lake among the hills, till eager Bernice entered into it all and declared she could see them.

Then Priscilla told of the coming of Katharine and Dorothy Ann, and of the difference their presence had made, of her own increased loneliness in consequence, of their week together at Christmas, and of the discovery of the lost money and her father’s subsequent recovery.

‘Say, it’s just like a tale!’ Bernice cried, listening in rapt delight. ‘I am glad you found it! And I’m just awfully pleased your father’s all right now.’

‘He isn’t strong. I don’t suppose he ever will be. But when mother and I remember what he was like all that time, we’re so thankful that we don’t know how to say it.’

‘I guess you must be!’ Bernice said warmly. ‘I’d like to see those moors. Would they send me to that hospital if I got ill, do you suppose? It might be worth while having measles!’

Priscilla laughed. ‘Not from here, I’m afraid. It’s too far away. But you might go for a holiday sometime. Are your mother and father in England?’

‘Oh no! They had to go travelling on business. Mother wanted to go too, and she’d always said some day we should go to school in England; so when aunty decided to come home they said we’d best come too, and it was all fixed up in no time.’

‘Then what will you do in the holidays?’

‘Go somewhere with aunty. We want to see England. I’ll remember your moors when we get talking about it. And it was then you learned all the flowers?’

‘At first I hadn’t any friends, except Matron, and I was a bit lonely. The village children wouldn’t speak to me because I came from the hospital. I suppose their mothers told them not to. They seemed to think I’d got all the diseases, and would give them to anybody I spoke to. It was silly, of course, for I never went near the wards; but they couldn’t see that. So I couldn’t make friends, and mother was busy and worried about father, and I was very dull. Then I noticed the flowers, and then I found I didn’t know their names, so I began to ask about them. Then Matron lent me a big book with coloured plates, and after that I looked up every new one I found, and searched everywhere for more. We had such different sets, both of flowers and birds; those up on the moor were mostly quite different from those in the fields; and the river and the lake, and the marshes up at the head of it, gave us different ones again.’

‘I guess you know them, every one! We made bunches as we came along, to ask you when we saw you; but they’re most dead by now.’

‘These are cowslips. Surely you had them in America?’

‘Now I wanted to ask you about them! The girls said they were cowslips; they don’t know much, but they all seemed sure of that. Are they what you call cowslips in England?’

‘They are cowslips!’ Priscilla laughed. ‘What do you call them?’

‘Nothing. We don’t have them. But we have cowslips, and they aren’t a scrap like these.’

‘What are they like?’

Bernice described her ‘cowslips,’ and Priscilla listened carefully. ‘They sound more like marsh marigolds! You say they grow in swampy places? Our cowslips grow in the fields. It’s queer how your American people have taken our names and given them to other flowers!’

‘And birds. Yes, I guess that’s what did happen. They couldn’t find just the flowers they were used to in England, so they gave the old names to something else. Then your names must be the right ones, after all. Now tell me about your sparrows!’

Priscilla admitted the existence of hedge and tree sparrows, of which Phyllis had been ignorant; but she insisted that none of them had any song worth speaking of. Bernice, much disappointed, described the song-sparrow of the American meadows, and then began to ask questions about blackbirds, some of which, according to her ideas, ought to have had their wings splashed with red instead of being all black.

‘I saw wild clematis leaves in the hedges,’ she said, reverting to her bunch of drooping flowers. ‘The girls called them a pretty name I never heard before, something to do with joy.’

Priscilla laughed. ‘ “Traveller’s joy,” or “old man’s beard.” ’

‘They have pretty names for heaps of the flowers, but they don’t know what they ought to be called. They call this “milkmaids.” ’

‘It’s really lady’s-smock. And this is common avens; see the hairy brown seeds! I’ll tell you any you want to know on the way home. Are you keen to learn them for any reason, or just that you like them?’

‘Isn’t that good enough?’

‘Oh, quite! But I thought you all seemed extra keen. The other girls don’t trouble.’

‘You miss heaps if you don’t get busy at things,’ Bernice said solemnly. ‘There is a reason, though, if you want to know; but I’m afraid I can’t tell it you just yet.’

‘Oh, all right! I won’t tease,’ Priscilla said hastily.

‘It’s not my secret only, you see. When are we to go home?’

‘About half-past four. I wish Miss Nairn would come out and speak to the girls, but I’m afraid she won’t;’ and Priscilla described how they had found the old lady at work in her still unsettled house, and how shyness had taken possession of her at thought of facing her guests.

Bernice looked thoughtful. ‘Say, isn’t there something we could do to say “thank you” for the real good time we’ve had? Seems so ungrateful just to enjoy ourselves and then go off as if we didn’t care. Are those books finished? Couldn’t we do them for her?’

‘I think she’d want to choose their places herself. She was very particular about where they were to go.’

‘That’s so. She’ll enjoy getting settled. It wouldn’t do to spoil it for her. But isn’t there anything else we could do?’

‘There’s one thing,’ Priscilla said thoughtfully. ‘It would be champion; I’d love to help. There are two great packing-cases in the library, and two big empty cabinets with glass doors. She told us one of the cases was full of old china, and the other of silver ornaments that had belonged to her mother, and she wanted to arrange them in the cabinets; but the china has to be washed and the silver to be polished, and she thinks it will take a very long time, for she can’t trust either to the maids. I wondered if perhaps we could unpack some of them, and leave the things ready for her to put on the shelves.’

‘Hum! I don’t think I see myself washing Crown Derby, and Bristol, and Nankeen, and Spode, but’——

‘What are they?’

‘The kind of old china an old lady like that would have, and they’re pretty well priceless. I’ve seen them in museums. I’d be scared to touch them, or to see anybody else do it. But we might rub up the silver and leave that ready; it won’t want much if it’s been properly packed. We couldn’t hurt it unless we dropped it or scratched it, and we wouldn’t do either; we’re not infants. It wouldn’t make me shake like the china would, anyway. The silver’s our stunt, I guess! Let’s have a go at it! Shall we tell any of the others?’

‘Katharine would like to help. I don’t think we should ask Dorothy Ann,’ Priscilla said doubtfully. ‘For one thing, Miss Nairn’s her aunt; it’s nothing much for her to come here; it’s we who feel so awfully obliged. Besides, she’s doing something already; she’s making the girls play rounders where Miss Nairn can watch them. And I don’t, somehow, fancy Dorothy Ann polishing silver. She’s too—well, too much’——

‘Too much of a boy!’ Bernice laughed, understanding at once. ‘Say, let’s take Katharine and Leonora, and leave Melda with Dorothy Ann! They’ll be wild when they hear, but I guess we can stand it.’

‘We’ll want polish and rags and dusters and things.’

‘Oh, the maids will give us those. I’ll manage them!’

Miss Nairn’s maids were as much interested in the invaders of their solitude as their mistress, and they were all at the pantry windows, craning over one another’s shoulders to watch the game, when a girl’s voice, with a soft but decided drawl, said behind them, ‘Say, could some of you oblige me with some rags and things?’

They turned in confusion; but the tall girl with the fair hair and the fresh white middy blouse was neither shy nor embarrassed. ‘I want to polish up a bit of silver,’ she explained casually. ‘If you’d just show me what you use in this country, and give me rags and things, I’d be mighty grateful. Sorry to trouble you!’

Much mystified, they provided her with a tin of polish and a quantity of soft cloths. ‘I guess I’ll want a leather too, and maybe a brush,’ she suggested pleasantly, and they realised that she knew what she was about and was determined to make a good job of her work, whatever it was.

‘It’s not the first time she’s cleaned silver!’ the housemaid remarked when Bernice, after examining her materials critically, was satisfied, and went off with many thanks. ‘Knows what she’s about, she does!’

In the library the four were very busy for half-an-hour. Bernice unpacked the silver cups and vases, boxes and ornaments, and gave them a first careful dusting. Priscilla put on the polish, and Katharine and Leonora rubbed vigorously, then handed the pieces back to Bernice for final inspection. The case was empty and the table covered with shining articles before Miss Tarring’s whistle warned them it was time to go.

Bernice gave a sigh of satisfaction as they surveyed their handiwork. ‘Some stunt!’ she said pleasantly. ‘I’m glad you thought of it, Priscilla. I guess the old lady will feel top-hole when she sees it all ready and waiting to be put away. Guess we’d better tell the maids it’s all spread out; it looks so mighty tempting, if anybody should happen to be passing.’

She put her head in at the kitchen door. ‘Say! there’s a mite of silver on the table in the library. Guess somebody had better keep an eye on it till it’s locked up safely. Maybe you’d better tell Miss Nairn. We’ve got to run. Good-day!’

She nodded pleasantly, and followed the other three out to join the rest of the school on the lawn. Dorothy Ann was the last to come flying out, after a hasty farewell to her aunt.

‘My aunt Ann says she’s awfully obliged to you all for coming, and she hopes you’ll jolly well all come back as often as you like. As for letting only the infants come next week, she says that’s silly rot, and we’re all to come too; and she watched the rounders, and it was just ripping.’

‘Did she put it just that way, Dorothy Ann?’ Van asked mischievously; while Bernice and Melda Tarring called for three cheers for Miss Nairn.

‘Well, no. But that’s what it came to. And she really means it, so we must come again.’

‘We won’t say no. It’s jolly ripping of her!’

‘Oh, she’s had a good time too—in her own funny way!’

Miss Nairn watched them fall into rank and set out, and watched them still from her upper window as they streamed across the meadows in twos and threes. She could distinguish the girls in the loose white blouses, and she wondered much what the big and little ones had been doing in the library with her two new friends. When they had passed out of sight she turned back to her empty house and silent garden with a sigh.

CHAPTER VII.
TWO SILVER BRACELETS.

It was Katharine Mayne who first proclaimed the fact that the American girls had a secret. ‘Of course it would be Katharine,’ said Dorothy Ann. She made the announcement out in the dormitory during the hair-brushing period, but refused to produce her evidence.

‘I’ll tell Dorothy Ann to-morrow. I want to think about it some more first. But I’m sure it’s so. Oh, they didn’t tell me, of course!’ very scornfully, in answer to a question from Meg Macdonald. ‘Do you expect people with secrets to go about telling everybody and making them ask questions?’

‘Why don’t you ask them and make sure?’ asked Meg, who was as pretty, with her red hair and delicate skin, as Menie, but equally slow and matter-of-fact.

‘Ask them!’ There was a chorus of scorn. ‘As if they’d tell you anything!’ and Meg subsided.

‘It was something that happened this evening,’ said Katharine, brushing her tumbled yellow curls—‘that made, me really think it, I mean.’

‘My plait’s coming squint. I’m getting one side too tight, and it will be awful agony in bed. Start it for me, ducky;’ and Dorothy Ann presented her thick brown mane for Katharine’s attentions. ‘Thanks! I do hate one hair too tight. Won’t you tell me to-night?’

‘She wants to make up some reasons, now she’s said it,’ said Phyllis, jealous that this piece of news had not fallen to her.

‘Oh, I guess there’s something in it, if she says so! She does imagine things, but she’s generally right in the end.’

‘Of course I am!’ cried Katharine. ‘You’re a dear, Dan. I’ll tell you to-morrow before brek, and you’ll see if you don’t think I’m right.’

She was wakened very early by Dorothy Ann, who crept barefoot from her own cubicle next door, and sat on her bed and pulled her two yellow pigtails till she woke.

‘Gee up! These are my reins! Go on, gee-gee!’ and Dorothy Ann jumped up and down on the bed.

‘Baby! Does it want to play horses, then? Where’s its rattle? Or does it want its bottle?’ asked the exasperated Katharine. ‘What d’you mean by waking me in the middle of the night, you stupid?’

‘It’s six o’clock. You’ve only half-an-hour to tell me the secret. I’m coming into your bed, and you’re going to whisper.’

Dorothy Ann squirmed her way in, and Katharine lay close to the wall to make room for her.

‘It’s a jolly tight squeeze! My back’s all uncovered; can you spare any more blanket? You do take up a lot of room, Katharine!’

‘Well, after all, it is my bed!’ Katharine said indignantly. ‘I’ve a good mind to kick you out, Dan.’

‘You wouldn’t be so beastly mean, dear. Now tell me all about it, but don’t shout. The rest are still snoring.’

‘Lucky things!’ Katharine groaned. But they understood one another thoroughly, and knew just how much to believe of any grumbling or complaint. Katharine yielded to necessity and the pressure of circumstances and of Dorothy Ann’s elbows, and began her story.

‘Two things happened last night! It was when we were all sitting on the steps before supper. You and I and Melda Tarring and Leonora were all on the top step; then you went away, you know.’

‘To put my boots outside. I’d forgotten them, as usual. Well, what happened?’

‘They were doing crochet; they always are doing something, you know. They never slack as the rest of us do; they say they haven’t time and there’s so much to do. I asked why they were in such a hurry about the crochet, and wouldn’t it do any time, and they said they wanted to get it done. Melda was making narrow lace to go round a little collar, like the pretty one she wears on her afternoon blouse’——

‘Waist!’ Dorothy Ann interrupted, with a chuckle.

‘Yes, I forgot; her afternoon waist! Leonora was making a dinky little purse in gold thread; not for any one in particular, for she said I could have it if I liked. All she wanted was to get it done! They’re awfully queer sometimes.’

‘I wouldn’t fag at things as they do just to get them done. What do they do it for?’

‘And Bernice was sitting talking to Menie and Van and Mary, and knitting away at that pair of baby’s socks, turning the heel of the second one. I asked if she’d got any babies at home, and told her about my Jackie, and that he was nearly a year old’——

‘I remember the day he was born. Oh, think of Fountains!’

‘I sha’n’t get to the secret before brek if you keep on interrupting, Dan,’ Katharine said severely.

‘Sorry! Go on, old girl!’

‘Bernice said she hadn’t any babies, and I could have the socks for a birthday present for Jackie, if I liked. Now isn’t she funny? Fancy working like that for nobody!’

‘Of course she’s funny; they’re funny in lots of ways. But I don’t see any secret coming along.’

‘I asked Leonora if she’d make a purse for you too,’ Katharine went on; ‘and before she could say anything, Melda said, “I will! I’d like to!—That would count, wouldn’t it, Berny? That would make my third thing!” Bernice coughed in that funny way that means, “Do be careful what you’re saying, silly!” and Leonora looked up as if she wanted to say, “You idiot, Melda!” and Melda said, “Oh!” and looked awfully sold. And Van said, “Count? What do you mean? Is it a crochet competition this time? I do think you might let the rest of us in, and not have secrets!” And Menie said, “That’s what you said about the flowers—would the names ‘count’? What do you mean, Bernice?” Bernice just said, in a careless kind of way, “Oh, we’re counting up how many different things we make! We want to tell mother and other friends at home. They’ll like to know we’re being busy.” But Van looked as if she didn’t quite believe it, and I saw Melda wink at Leonora. Leo was working as if her life depended on it, and she didn’t dare look up. That’s the first thing.’

‘It is funny, of course! I don’t see why they work so hard at things. Is there any more?’

‘Bernice began talking about the history lesson they’d had in the morning, and how funny it was to learn English history instead of American. Melda thinks we’re awfully queer because we can’t say the names of all their presidents; but Leonora doesn’t know the kings of England, although she’s twelve. And just then I noticed something. Have you seen Melda’s bracelet?’

‘I know she wears one.’

‘It showed as she worked, and I asked her to let me look at it. Have you ever looked at it closely, Dan?’

‘No; I’ve been meaning to ask her to let me.’

‘She gave it to me, and Leonora put down her work and leaned on me to look at it too. “It’s worth a great deal,” she said.’

‘Oh, but it isn’t!’ Dorothy Ann said quickly. ‘It’s only silver.’

‘I know. I thought perhaps she meant in other ways, for it isn’t worth so very much money. I said, “It’s very pretty. Haven’t you got one too?” and Leonora said, “Not me. Berny has.” I asked if hers was the same as Melda’s, and Leo said, “Oh yes, of course; just the same.” I didn’t see why it was “of course” at all. I said, “Where did they get them?” and Melda said, “From the same girls who gave us the rings.” So then I asked why Leonora didn’t have one too, and she said she wasn’t old enough. I suppose I stared, for it seemed queer; and then I asked if it was given to Melda for anything special, and how old you had to be. Melda said, “You must be thirteen. Oh, it was just a keepsake, to remind me of things I used to do at home.” I asked what kind of things; but she wouldn’t tell me. So then I said, “Well, has Bernice got anything you haven’t got? You’ve a bracelet that Leonora mustn’t have, and she has a ring that Annabel can’t have. What has Bernice got especially, because she’s the eldest?” Melda looked kind of queer, I thought, as if I was asking too many questions. But she said, “She’s got a rather jolly pin. She wears it in her tie.” Then she poked her in the back and said, “Berny, give us the pin the girls at home gave you! Katharine wants to see it. She doesn’t see why you should have a pin as well as a bracelet and a ring! You are greedy, you know!” Bernice laughed and gave us the pin, and it is awfully jolly, with all kinds of queer marks on it. One looked like the sun, I thought, and another was a sort of tree; but I couldn’t get Melda to tell me what they were.’

‘What was on the bracelet?’ Dorothy Ann interrupted.

‘It was all dots and dashes, and at first I couldn’t make it out, and she wouldn’t tell me whether it meant anything or not. But suddenly I thought I made out a letter, a big H, and next to it an E; so I said, “Goodness me, does it make letters? What does it all spell?” And then Melda snatched—she really did snatch—it away, and said I’d looked at it long enough, and she wouldn’t let me have it again, and though I thought I could see HE when she wore it on her wrist, I couldn’t make out any of the rest. I don’t believe she’ll show it to us again, either. She won’t tell us another word about it. Some “girls at home” gave them all these things for “keepsakes,” and “to remind them of things they used to do,” and that’s all we’ll get out of them. Now I think’—— Katharine paused impressively.

‘Yes? Go on!’ and Dorothy Ann squirmed eagerly.

‘I may be imagining it, of course, but I think they belonged to some kind of club or society, with a lot of girls, and the rings were the badge; they’ve all got them, you see. I think they did all kinds of things, like making things and studying flowers. Those are all we’ve found out so far, but there may be more. And they’re still going on belonging to it here, although they’ve come so far away. Now what do you think?’

Dorothy Ann sat up in excitement, shaking back her tumbled plait and pushing loose brown hair out of her eyes. ‘Katharine, I do believe you’ve hit it! Some kind of secret society! But what about the bracelets? And Bernice’s pin?’

‘I thought those might be for something special, or perhaps for—for being kind of officers, like a sergeant’s stripes or a lieutenant’s stars, you know;’ and Katharine lay and looked up at her thoughtfully. ‘It’s quite easy to see you have to get the ring first and then the bracelet, and the pin is the highest of all.’

‘I want to know all about it!’ Dorothy Ann wailed. ‘Shall we ask them at breakfast? Shall I say, “I say, Melda, tell us all about your American secret society, and what’s the funny word on your bracelet”?’

‘You’d better not! Dan, you won’t do anything silly, will you? They’d have told us by now if they’d meant to tell us at all. We’ll have to find out. It will be no use asking.’

‘No; it will be more exciting to find out for ourselves, too. I will be jolly careful. But I do believe you’ve hit it, Katharine. You’re real smart, as Melda would say.’

‘I rather thought so myself!’ Katharine laughed, and threw up her arms to protect her face from the pillow with which Dorothy Ann threatened to stifle her. ‘Don’t say anything to Phyllis or the rest, Dan. Let’s keep it to ourselves just now.’

‘Rather not! I mean, rather! But we’ll find out more if we can. Crummy! I wish I’d an imagination!’ sighed Dorothy Ann.

‘We can’t all have it, you know! And you’ve got other things,’ Katharine said kindly. ‘I say, I’ve got a name for Leonora at last! She’s Leonora-How-Pretty;’ and her choice was instantly acclaimed as the right one, not only by Dorothy Ann, but by the others when they heard it.

Leonora’s appreciation of the old house and garden on her first arrival had been characteristic; she had a greater delight in the beautiful than any one the girls had ever known. The others all noticed a wonderful sunset, but it was Leonora who exclaimed at the beauty of white-piled clouds at midday; they all delighted in wild roses in the hedges or in hyacinth-starred meadows, but it was Leo who ‘raved,’ as the girls said, over what they looked upon as common weeds—delicately tinted enchanter’s nightshade, yellow cinquefoil, or rich purple willow-herb. Leonora showed them many pictures they had often looked upon but never really seen till her quick eyes came to their help—the low, blue haze of wood smoke hanging over Waterside village against a background of dark elms; the shades of green in the trees of Miss Nairn’s garden; the vivid green water-weeds washing gently in the current of the slow-moving river; the rich colouring of beetles and butterflies, moths and mosses.

‘She doesn’t miss much!’ Van would laugh when some very ordinary object became beautiful as seen by Leonora. ‘None of you three miss much; you’re always on the lookout for jolly things. But she sees most, I think.’

Leonora was passionately eager to be able to draw and paint, and this had made a bond between her and Katharine at once. She was not particularly gifted with her pencil, but was so eager to reproduce what she saw that she worked hard and could turn out very creditable little drawings. Her letters to her mother were always illustrated by tiny sketches, which, if not very life-like, still helped to convey her meaning. But it was her delight in all that was beautiful which had most strongly impressed her new companions.

‘Leonora-How-Pretty! That’s her just exactly, Katharine!’ and Dorothy Ann slipped away back to her own cubicle as the first gong rang.

CHAPTER VIII.
BLUE BIRDS AND C.F.G.

‘Aren’t you going to tell Dorothy Ann about the secret?’ demanded Meg Macdonald, after watching Katharine closely during breakfast.

‘I haven’t anything more to tell her,’ Katharine said demurely.

‘She’s found out there wasn’t anything to tell, after all. She was only making it up,’ Phyllis said triumphantly.

‘Pass the marm., please. I told Dorothy Ann all about it while you were all snoring this morning, and she quite agrees with me.’ The triumph was in Katharine’s tone now, and Phyllis’s face fell.

‘And are you going to ask’—— Meg blundered on, but stopped with a sharp squeal of pain at a kick from Dorothy Ann.

‘Ask your granny! Don’t be an idiot, if you can help it, Meg.’

‘Oh, I forgot they were here!’ and Meg made matters worse by looking guiltily at Melda and Leonora.

‘Well, of all the idiots!’ murmured Dorothy Ann.

To their great relief, Melda did not seem to be listening, and the unfortunate remark was not commented on. The Third took Meg outside and told her what they thought of her, and the American girls drifted together, as they so often did. In their dormitory the night before they had discussed the conversation concerning bracelets and pins, and had agreed that their secret would not be a secret much longer.

As they met after breakfast, Melda linked her arm in Bernice’s. ‘Dorothy Ann quite agrees with Katharine that there’s a secret, Berny, but they aren’t going to ask us. They say they’re going to ask their granny.’

Bernice laughed. ‘If it’s Dorothy Ann’s stunt to find out, she’ll get busy at it right away.’

‘Yes, she’s a hustler; so look out for questions. We’ll keep it up as long as we can.’

Melda herself was the next to give unconscious help to the investigators. It was Saturday, and she came down dressed for the afternoon visit to Waterside, wearing her coat and skirt and a very pretty new blouse, or ‘fancy waist,’ as she called it. It had caused the schoolgirls great delight and amusement to hear all the sisters refer to their blouses as their ‘waists,’ and Melda and Bernice, a little surprised, obligingly used the word on every possible occasion.

‘That’s a pretty blouse—waist, I mean!’ said Dorothy Ann.

‘Yes; I made it myself, cutting-out and all. I claimed an Honour on it, too,’ Melda remarked casually.

‘Honours! Did you have examinations in dressmaking and needlework?’

‘Imelda Tarring!’ said Bernice, in a tone of solemn reproach.

Melda started, looked at her, and reddened in sudden realisation of what she had said. Then she laughed, and went on in the same casual tone, ‘Oh yes! Exams. in everything! Berny had Honours for laundry and cookery—so had I, for that matter. Don’t you think that blue frock of hers is good enough for Honours? She made that herself too.’

‘Did you get Honours for knowing flowers and birds and doing crochet?’ demanded the amateur detective.

Melda shot a quick look at her. ‘Sure thing! Honours for everything. If you worked hard enough you were covered with them.’

‘Covered? You couldn’t wear Honours?’

‘I’ve got no hanky. Do run up and get one for me, Melda!’ Bernice interrupted hastily.

‘I’ll do it!’ Leonora said eagerly, and she and Melda ran upstairs together, both bubbling over with laughter.

In their dormitory it was not Bernice’s handkerchief-box to which they went first. From her drawer Melda took a long string of big coloured beads, and mimicked Dorothy Ann’s astonished voice, ‘ “Covered? You couldn’t wear Honours?” ’

Leonora giggled. ‘Oh, couldn’t you? They don’t know much, do they?’

‘They’re getting hot very quickly, though. I was an idiot, wasn’t I? We must have that meeting quickly; and then, if we decide to tell them, we can do it, and they’ll be satisfied.’

‘I wonder they haven’t tried Annabel,’ said Leonora, as Melda put the Honour beads out of sight, and they went downstairs again.

‘I bet they won’t get much out of Annabel. They’ll try her soon, I guess.’

The idea had indeed occurred to Dorothy Ann. She suggested it to Katharine, who vetoed it as mean.

‘She’s only an infant. It isn’t fair, Dan.’

Dorothy Ann had her own opinion as to Annabel’s ‘infancy,’ however. ‘She can jolly well look after herself. She’s only been here ten days, and she’s easily boss of the First already. Jeanie and Gwen will do any mortal thing she wishes. I shall tackle her when I get the chance. I’ll catch her alone in the garden this afternoon.’

She kept watch for Annabel, but did not manage to find her apart from her satellites even in the Waterside gardens. The three were always together, and it was easy to see which was the leading spirit.

‘Shall we see Miss Nairn to-day?’ Priscilla asked, as they walked along the tow-path.

Dorothy Ann laughed disgustedly. ‘No! I wrote to her during the week, saying I hoped she’d come out and talk to some of my special friends next time. I’m glad she knows you and Katharine, but I want her to see Bernice and Melda and the rest. But this morning I had a note from her, saying she had a bad headache and would be lying down all afternoon; so I must ask you to excuse her again.’

‘But did you tell Miss Chinchen? For we oughtn’t to go if she’s poorly. I’m afraid we make rather a noise, and it isn’t fair.’

‘Some row, as Melda would say!’ Dorothy Ann laughed. ‘She said most particularly that I wasn’t to tell anybody, as she wanted us to go as usual, and that the little ones were to go too; she can’t bear to think of any one being left out. And she put in a special message, asking us to play “that game” again on the lawn, so that she can watch us from her window. I guess we’ll have French cricket this time; it’s better fun than rounders.’

‘But if she has a headache’—— Priscilla began doubtfully.

‘My dear silly! don’t be as dense as Menie! Oh, I know you don’t like to hint she might be telling a very small fib; but I don’t mind! Aunts can make excuses like any one else. She’s shy, that’s all. I’d like to go up and simply make her come down. It would be good for her.’

‘No; it would be unkind. I’m sorry she feels so—so’——

‘Scared? It’s just her way. She’ll get over it in time. I suppose we must just do what she wants, and play games where she can see. She’ll be happiest that way.’

‘That’s all very well,’ said Katharine. ‘But couldn’t we do something more, to say “thank you”? Like cleaning that silver last week?’

‘It was jolly mean of you not to let me into that!’ grumbled Dorothy Ann, who had heard all about it, of course. ‘I don’t see what we could do this time.’

‘I shall ask Berny. She and Priscilla thought of the silver.’

They had not been many minutes at Waterside, and were still picking up sides for French cricket on the lawn, when Dorothy Ann came out of the house, a letter in her hand. ‘I think this is for you, Bernice.’

It was addressed ‘To the girl who cleaned the silver,’ and Bernice laughed, and called Priscilla, Katharine, and Leonora to share in it. It was a prettily worded note of thanks, with quaintly turned, old-fashioned expressions of grateful acknowledgment of the kind thought which had prompted them to spend part of their holiday in work on her behalf.

‘I guess that’s about the sweetest little letter I’ve had in my life!’ and Bernice put it away very carefully. ‘I’m going to send it to mother away in the States, and tell her all about your poor little mouse of an aunt, Dorothy Ann!’

‘It’s just a ducky letter,’ Katharine agreed. ‘Can’t we do something to-day too, Berny?’

‘Sure we must!’ And Bernice thought it over while she played tennis with Priscilla, Van, and Menie on the court beyond the lawn. They always played together now, and the two seniors no longer felt it strange that Priscilla should be so constantly in their company, and so much more one of them than she had seemed last term. They did not realise how the change had come about; but Priscilla knew very well, and the warmth of her secret feeling for Bernice was only second to her friendship with Katharine and Dorothy Ann. Nothing could displace that, for it was bound up with thoughts of home and memories of that summer on the moors.

‘I guess I’ve got the right idea for to-day,’ said Bernice, drawing Katharine aside. ‘You tell the rest. Let’s all go to the jungle and gather primroses, as many as ever we can, and put them in jars and vases and things, and leave them all on the big table for her. Say, don’t you think she’d be right-down pleased?’

‘I’m sure she would! I’ll tell the others;’ and Katharine took up the idea with enthusiasm.

They gathered every primrose they could find in the shrubbery or on the island, and the dining-room was yellow with them before they left. Bernice begged dishes and bowls from the maids, after they had raided the glass-cupboard and taken every vase they could find, and still there were flowers left.

‘We’ll have to use jam-jars,’ said Katharine.

‘No; I’ll show you a prettier plan;’ and at Melda’s suggestion they strewed primroses on each step of the staircase, and along the upper landing and lower hall, so that a flowery path led from Miss Nairn’s bedroom door to the flower-filled dining-room.

‘I guess she’ll feel like a little bride!’ said Bernice. ‘She’ll come out and walk on all those flowers right to the door here, and then she’ll open it and she’ll see yellow everywhere, just like sunshine. Think she’ll be pleased, Dorothy Ann?’

‘Sure thing!’ laughed Dorothy Ann.

‘Now you’re mocking me!’ Bernice said reproachfully.

‘No, ’tisn’t you; it’s Melda. She says “sure thing” about everything. I’m quite sure Aunt Ann will be pleased, Berny. But she won’t walk on them, you know. She’ll pick them all up, and it will take her a fearful time. She’d feel as if she was hurting them if she trod on them. I know her funny ways!’

‘I’ll think it’s real nice of her, if she feels that way,’ Bernice said warmly.

This time Aunt Ann’s note of thanks was sent by post to Dorothy Ann, to be handed round the school. It expressed her delight and astonishment at sight of such a quantity of flowers, and her appreciation of the trouble taken and the thoughtfulness shown in gathering them. But it never hinted at the regret with which Aunt Ann realised that the starry beauty of her wild garden was gone for this spring. Her favourite walk for the last fortnight had been through the shrubbery and along the lawn past the island, that she might enjoy the primroses scattered in the grass, and she much preferred them there, and not crowded into dishes or strewn on the floor. But that the girls never knew.

‘There will soon be other flowers, and the children meant it kindly;’ and she sat down, much touched, to write her note of thanks.

Dorothy Ann caught Annabel on her way in from the garden early in the evening. ‘I say, Annabel Tarring, stop half-a-sec.! I want to talk to you.’

Annabel had been warned by Melda, and understood perfectly. To her nine years Dorothy Ann’s fourteen ought to have been awe-inspiring; but she did not run away, or show any sign of wishing her sisters had been there to back her up.

‘What d’you want, Dolly Ann? I’m in a hurry;’ and she paused at the top of the stone steps leading up to the kindergarten-room.

‘Well, you have cheek! My name’s Dorothy Ann, miss, and you’re to remember it. I don’t talk to people who can’t call me by my proper name.’

‘Oh, then, you won’t want to talk to me! All right! Good-bye!’

‘Stop a minute, you silly kid! I told you I wanted to talk to you!’

‘Do be quick about it, then, Dolly Ann;’ and Annabel sat down on the top step and planted her elbows on her knees and her chin between her hands.

Dorothy Ann thought it prudent to get to business. ‘I want to know why’——

‘That’s like Melda!’

‘Why you haven’t a silver ring as all the others have.’

‘Because I didn’t belong.’ Annabel said frankly.

Belong! This was confirmation of Katharine’s theory. Dorothy Ann’s eyes snapped. ‘Belong to what?’

‘I wasn’t a Girl. I was only a Blue Bird. They don’t have rings.’

‘A Blue Bird?’

‘You’re a Blue Bird till you’re twelve,’ Annabel explained solemnly. Then she sprang up. ‘I’ve got to go; they’re waiting for me!’

‘Wait just a minute, Annabel! If you were a Blue Bird, what were Leonora and Melda and Bernice? What were they called?’

Annabel turned in the doorway, her little round face and dark eyes alight with mischief. ‘C.—F.—G.!’ she said deliberately, and turned and fled; and though Dorothy Ann pursued her, she made good her escape.

CHAPTER I.
ON THE TRACK OF A SECRET.

‘Where’s Bernice?’ asked Van Evans, as the crowd gathered as usual round the garden steps.

‘Where’s Leonora?’ Katharine demanded, looking round. ‘She was here a minute ago.’

‘Where’s Melda?’ Dorothy Ann joined in the chorus. ‘I haven’t seen her since tea.’

‘She practised for an hour, I know,’ said Meg Macdonald.

‘And I saw Bernice playing tennis with Mary and Priscilla. But she seems to have disappeared now.’

‘They’ve all disappeared!’ Dorothy Ann murmured to Katharine. ‘What do you suppose they’re up to? Secret?’

‘What was it Annabel said to you?’

‘That they were all waiting for her. Where, do you suppose?’

‘Can’t imagine. But don’t say anything to Van. Let’s keep it to ourselves.’

‘Rather! We don’t want Van sticking her nose in.’

Menie, busy at some dainty fancy-work, said casually, ‘I think they’ve all gone to bed.’

‘To bed, Menie Macdonald? Without any supper?’

‘Why, it’s hardly bed-time for the infants yet!’

‘As I came from the music-room Chinny’s door was open, and I heard somebody saying good-night to her, and I think it was Bernice,’ Menie remarked. ‘Then I heard Chinny say, “Good-night, Miss Tarring. I hope you will enjoy your meeting;” and when I looked back from the top of the stairs Bernice and Miss Tarring came out. They ran away up to their dormitory together, and they haven’t been seen since. It’s rather queer.’

‘Perhaps they’ve gone out to a meeting in the town.’

‘Nobody saw them go,’ Menie said doubtfully.

‘Queer! Why didn’t she tell us before?’ Dorothy Ann fumed, in an undertone. ‘I say, Katharine, come round the garden with me!’

She held out her hand to her friend, and Katharine drew it through her arm, and they strolled away together. As they went they heard Van say curiously. ‘Could they be having some kind of meeting among themselves? I wonder what she meant! We’ll ask Bernice to-morrow, if she doesn’t appear at supper, Menie. We can’t have secret meetings going on.’

‘To-morrow!’ said Dorothy Ann. ‘I’m going to find out to-night! Oh, couldn’t you shake Menie sometimes? Fancy knowing that all the time, and never saying a word! And not because she didn’t want to. Just because she didn’t see that it could possibly matter! I’ve always said I hadn’t much imagination; but, thank goodness, I’ve more than Menie and Meg, anyway!’

‘They don’t know as much as we do, of course. But how can we find out, Dan? Suppose Bernice and the rest are having a secret meeting of the queer thing Annabel says they “belong” to, what can we do?’

‘Miss Tarring’s in it too. Isn’t that awfully queer?’ Dorothy Ann’s indifferent stroll changed to a run as soon as they had turned the corner. She dragged Katharine with her till they stood where they could see the window of the little dormitory.

‘They’re having the meeting in there. Yes, I thought so; they’ve drawn all the blinds and curtains. They would, of course, if it was to be a secret.’

‘But the light isn’t switched on inside! There’s a chink left open at this end window, and there’s no electric light turned on. How weird!’

‘Gracious! Are they having their meeting in the dark?’

‘It will be jolly dark. Those curtains are awfully thick and heavy. But they haven’t a single light on,’ Katharine insisted.

‘This is getting curiouser and curiouser, as “Alice” would say! We must get up to that window; ‘twon’t be difficult.’

‘Oh, but do you think we’d better?’ Katharine hesitated, for they could not reach even the wall below the window without entering the forbidden kitchen-garden. They were standing by its fence, and Dorothy Ann, taking a short run, vaulted the low gate and held out her hand.

‘Come on! I’m a good little girl, and keep the rules most times, but in times like these they don’t matter a scrap.’

‘You only keep them until you want to break them,’ Katharine laughed. ‘I wasn’t thinking of the rules. I meant, wouldn’t it be rather mean to try to find out their secret?’

‘You said yourself we’d try to find out!’

‘Yes; but asking questions and listening to things they said themselves seemed quite fair. Peeping in at windows that are supposed to be covered is different. It’s like doing it on the sly.’

‘I don’t care! They shouldn’t have secrets, and especially secret meetings. They must know we’d find out if we could. If they can’t draw their curtains properly it’s their lookout. I’m going to look in at that window; if you won’t come I’ll have to go alone. Or I’ll get Phyllis.’

‘Don’t be a donkey!’ Katharine’s scruples were not proof against such an awful suggestion. ‘I’ll come, but I do feel rather mean, Dan!’

‘We can tell them afterwards that we did it. It will be a joke to score off Melda. She’d do it like a shot if she was us.’

‘Oh, I know she would. We’ll have to tell them, though. How are you going to get up?’

Katharine could see for herself that it would be easy enough, however; certainly it would present no difficulties to Dorothy Ann. By way of an upturned barrel they scrambled on to the low roof of a tool-shed built against the house, and thence by means of some convenient branches of ivy and a useful pipe they reached the jutting-out roof of the pantry, congratulating themselves that they had changed their afternoon costumes for their green sailor gym. suits, as these were ‘so jolly handy for climbing.’ Tiptoeing along the roof, they reached the end window, which was partly uncovered, and, Katharine kneeling and Dorothy Ann peering over her shoulder, they peeped through the crack.

At first they could see little, for the room was in darkness. Just below the window a little table was covered with a white cloth and spread with dainties for supper—home-made lemonade, cakes and buns, apples and chocolate biscuits. They looked longingly at one another, and Katharine murmured, ‘Miss Tarring didn’t go to Waterside this afternoon. Now we know why—she was out shopping. I say, aren’t they going to have a tuck-in? No wonder they didn’t want any supper—bread and butter! Ugh!’

‘Mean things! Fancy them having a regular stodge like this, and never telling anybody! I’d like to belong to this society! I say, be careful!’

Dorothy Ann had just discovered Annabel sitting crouched on a little bed close to the supper-table, her hands clasped round her knees. She was not aware of them, however, and seemed equally indifferent to the good things so close to her.

‘I wouldn’t let the kiddy sit so near the cakes if I was them!’ Dorothy Ann murmured.

Katharine smothered a laugh, but was too much excited to comment on this terrible sentence. ‘Don’t talk, Dan! Things are going to happen. Look at Annabel’s face!’

Annabel was certainly tense with interest and expectation. It was evident to the eavesdroppers that they had arrived only just in time. Dorothy Ann’s hand felt for and gripped Katharine’s, and they watched the curious proceedings within in breathless excitement.

The little dormitory was a big room, though smaller than the other long corridors, which were divided into cubicles. It was very dark, but they could see that the beds had been moved back against the walls, and that the middle of the floor was clear. All beyond was dark, but they could see the cleared space dimly.

From the shadowy end of the room came a tall figure carrying a long white taper like a wand. Dorothy Ann and Katharine gave one joint gasp of amazement.

‘It’s Miss Tarring! I didn’t know her!’ murmured Katharine.

‘I say! doesn’t she look ripping? Why, I didn’t even know she was pretty.’

‘Oh, she’s always pretty, just like Melda and Leo,’ Katharine conceded, in an amazed whisper. ‘But to-night she’s lovely. What a gorgeous dress!’

‘What is she supposed to be? I say, fancy them dressing up!’

‘A Red Indian chieftainess, I should think. Fancy them never telling us a word about it!’

Miss Tarring looked taller than ever to-night. Her black hair was plaited in two long ropes, which hung over her shoulders nearly to her knees, and across her forehead she wore a curious band woven of gaily coloured beads. Her dress was a long, straight gown of khaki-yellow material, with brown leather fringe round the hem and on the arms; her lower arms and neck were bare. On her feet were moccasins of soft brown leather, with designs in beadwork upon them. Round her neck and hanging on her breast were chains of coloured beads, which swayed and jingled as she walked. On her dress were curious designs, flowers and circles, which looked as if they must have meanings.

She came slowly forward into the cleared space, and stood there holding the taper and waiting.

CHAPTER II.
THE SECRET MEETING.

Quite forgetting the dread possibility that some one might come along through the garden and see them, Katharine and Dorothy Ann crouched outside the window and watched, holding their breath.

From the far end of the room came the sound of low singing, a curious monotonous chant, of which they could not catch the words. Towards the light came a little procession—Bernice leading the way, Leonora last. They were all dressed in khaki-yellow, with gowns and head-dresses similar in pattern to Miss Tarring’s, though the designs on them were different in each case; Melda’s band and gown had obvious borders of stars. If she and Leonora had looked like Red Indians on their first introduction to the school, in white blouses and with hair tied back, they looked very much more like them now, with their black hair in two long plaits hanging among the beads on their breasts. Bernice’s plaits were yellow, and she did not look like an Indian princess at all; but she was very picturesque and very dignified as she led them towards her aunt.

As each girl reached the cleared space she made a curious gesture with her hands, and Miss Tarring repeated the greeting, crossing the fingers of the right hand over those of the left, then raising her right hand slowly till the fingers were upright. Then all sat down on the floor in a wide circle, and Miss Tarring sat down with them. At another time Dorothy Ann would have laughed at the thought of a mistress sitting on the floor; but to-night they had forgotten that she was one of their mistresses. What she was—chieftainess—high priestess of some mystic rite—they were not yet sure.

In a low, mysterious voice she said, ‘Daughters of the Camp Fire, we meet to-night without our sisters. They are in the land of Camp Fires across the sea. Yet, though we are but few, we can be faithful to our vows, and work for Wohelo.—Catalina, our Wood-Gatherer, will you bring the candles?’

To Katharine and Dorothy Ann it was all mysterious and incredible. They agreed afterwards that they had felt as if they were living in a dream. Who was Catalina? What did Wohelo mean? What were the candles for?

To their amazement, Leonora rose, with no sign of surprise at being addressed as Catalina, and disappeared into the darkness. She returned with a tray, on which stood three tall white candles in brass candlesticks. These she placed on the floor in a triangle in the middle of the circle.

Miss Tarring rose, lit her taper, and handed it to Leonora. ‘Catalina, will you light the Light of Work?’

With deeply absorbed little face, Leonora stepped into the circle and knelt on one knee. Clearly, but in a hushed voice, she said, ‘I light the Light of Work, for Wohelo means Work.’ She lit the candle carefully, then rose, and, still holding the taper, continued, ‘We glorify work, because through work we are free. We work to win, to conquer, to be masters. We work for the joy of the working, and because we are free. Wohelo means Work.’ Then she handed the taper back to her aunt, and slipped into her place in the circle again.

Miss Tarring held the taper to Melda. ‘Estrella, will you light the Light of Health?’

Kneeling, her face equally absorbed, Melda said, ‘I light the Light of Health, for Wohelo means Health.’ Lighting the candle and standing, she continued, ‘We hold on to health, because through health we serve and are happy. In caring for the health and beauty of our persons, we are caring for the very shrine of the Great Spirit. Wohelo means Health.’

‘Rosemary, will you light the Light of Love?’

Bernice looked very much in earnest as she came forward to kneel and say, ‘I light the Light of Love, for Wohelo means Love.’ Then, standing by the three lighted candles, she went on, ‘We love Love, for Love is life, and light, and joy, and sweetness. And Love is comradeship, and motherhood, and fatherhood, and all dear kinship. Love is the joy of service so deep that self is forgotten. Wohelo means Love.’

As she returned to her place the other two rose, and all, standing in a circle, sang once more the chant to which they had come forward, in which the breathless watchers could now catch the words, ‘Wohelo’—‘Work’—‘Health’—‘Love.’

Then they all squatted on the floor again, and Miss Tarring called the roll: ‘Rosemary! Estrella! Catalina!’

‘Kolah!’ was the answer of each girl.

Dorothy Ann murmured, ‘Golly! if they’re going to talk gibberish it will be jolly hard lines on us! What’s Kolah?’

‘Will Estrella now read us the Count of our last meeting, and of what we, as Camp Fire Girls, have done since then?’

‘We haven’t done much, I’m afraid, Iris,’ said Melda, producing a notebook. ‘We’ve been so busy travelling and getting settled.’

Her aunt nodded. ‘But we must have minutes. Let us hear yours, Estrella.’

‘But why does she call her Iris?’ murmured Dorothy Ann. ‘Her name’s Alice.’

‘It’s her special, just as Melda’s is Estrella.’

‘Oh, I see! Isn’t it rummy? And she didn’t call her “Aunt Iris”!’

‘She’s not her aunt to-night. She’s something else; I’m not quite sure what.’

Melda’s minutes were short. ‘ “The last Council Fire which we were able to attend in America was held at the house of Sadie Robinson on 10th April” ’——

Katharine nudged Dorothy Ann in delight. ‘Sadie’s turned up at last!’

‘Good old Sadie! I knew she would.’

‘ “The meeting took the form of a farewell supper to Iris, Rosemary, Estrella, and Catalina, who were leaving shortly for England; the Blue Bird Annabel Tarring was also invited to be present.” ’ From the corner where Annabel crouched, a silent, critical witness, came a deep sigh of satisfaction that she had been mentioned by name in the minutes. ‘ “It was a very good supper,” ’ Melda continued, and Leonora laughed. ‘ “Afterwards speeches were called for, and the health of the travellers was drunk in lemonade or cocoa. Iris, the Guardian of the Fire, replied in a ripping speech, wishing all success to the Camp and a jolly time under Ataensie, who had consented to be the new Guardian. Rosemary also made a jolly speech, and Estrella said a few silly words. The meeting then” ’——

‘No, no, I protest!’ Bernice cried, laughing indignantly. ‘I appeal to the Guardian! May I move an amendment, Iris?’

‘That is too bad, Estrella! It was a very good little speech,’ laughed Miss Tarring.

‘Oh, well, if you think so, I’m sure I’ll be very glad to alter it. But I know I felt awfully silly.’

‘So did I, if it comes to that,’ said Bernice.

Page 174.

Leonora stepped into the circle and knelt on one knee.

‘Oh, yours was ripping. I felt an awful idiot.—“The meeting closed with the singing of ‘Auld Lang Syne,’ the departing members promising to go on keeping the Law of the Fire and working for Honours, so that they might be real Camp Fire Girls, wherever they were. An informal business meeting was also held by Iris, Rosemary, Estrella, and Catalina on board the liner Chester on their way to England. It was not a Council Fire, but just a little private meeting to decide what they were going to do in England. It was decided to continue as a Camp Fire, and Iris was begged to go on being Guardian and to arrange things, which she very kindly agreed to do. It was also decided to keep the Camp Fire a secret from the girls at the English school, if possible. The Guardian promised to give Honour beads as they were won, if she could find suitable ones in England. Some work for Honours was done by all members during the voyage, and it was found that England, having all kinds of new species of birds and flowers and trees, gave unexpected chances for winning Honours in Nature Lore.” ’

Melda looked up, flushed with the ordeal of reading her own minutes. ‘Will that do, Iris?’

‘Splendidly. It is a very good Count. I think you should make a copy and send it to Sadie, and they can read it at their next Council Fire.’

‘Oh, that would be ripping! I’ll write to her to-morrow.’

‘Rosemary, will you write the Count of to-night’s meeting?’

‘Yes, Guardian; but—shall we be having another meeting?’

‘We must discuss that presently. You had better keep the minutes, anyway.’

Bernice nodded, and sat pencil and paper in hand; and Miss Tarring signed Melda’s record. ‘If we decide to carry on, we must have these copied into our new minute-book.’ Then she rose in her place. ‘Now I, as Guardian of the Fire, have the pleasant duty of handing you the Honour beads you have won.’ From the table behind her she took some strings of big coloured beads, like those the girls were already wearing. ‘I brought a few of our real Honour beads with me; I was prepared for claims in Nature Lore and Hand Craft.’

‘That’s ripping, Guardian! That was awfully jolly of you!’ and they waited eagerly.

‘To Rosemary I have pleasure in awarding Honours as follows—three in Hand Craft for making a shirt-waist, for “saving nine stitches once a week for three months,” and for making three knitted articles. Can you show us the waist and some of your knitting, Rosemary?’

Bernice produced a cotton blouse, a pair of baby’s socks, and a knitted hood. ‘You’ve all seen the waist before. I gave my knitted jacket to that baby on the boat, Iris.’

‘It was very nicely made. Then I have to give you an Honour in Home Craft, for knowing three kinds of baby-cries and what they mean; that, I think, you learned from the baby on the boat.’

Bernice laughed. ‘And how to stop them all three! Look for the pin—put him on your knee and clap him—give him his bottle! That baby was a godsend to me, sure!’

‘I know his mother was very much obliged to you for the way you nursed him.’

‘She didn’t know I was studying him for Honours! She was awfully sick, poor thing; but the baby was a dear, and I just loved him.’

‘Then you receive two Honours for Nature Lore. One is for identifying fifteen new wild flowers. Describe ragged robin, cowslip, and hop trefoil, Rosemary!’

Bernice answered promptly and satisfactorily, and the Guardian continued, ‘The other is for knowing the songs of wild birds. You have, of course, won these Honours already in America; but you have made good use of your opportunities in this country. Describe the song of the thrush and the blackbird!’

‘I had a job to find them out, though, aunty. These English girls don’t study their birds and flowers worth a cent. If they knew what a Camp Fire was, they’d have had to work at some of these stunts, as we have.’

‘That makes three Hand Craft, one Home Craft, and two Nature Honours for you. Can you claim any more?’

‘I had no sign of any sort of a cold in March or April.’

‘I had forgotten that;’ and Miss Tarring added a red bead to the string. ‘These will make a handsome addition to your chain.’

She did not present them, however, but turned to Melda. ‘Estrella, you have qualified for the same two Nature Honours, and so has Catalina. I know you have worked together, but I see no objection to that; it is the very essence of our Law that you should help one another. Besides those, I have to give you Hand Craft Honours for trimming a hat’—Melda produced the hat and balanced it on her knee—‘and for making three crochet articles.’ Melda showed a lace-trimmed collar, a purse, and a dainty little bag. ‘They are much to your credit, for we know Hand Craft Honours do not come easily to you. Can’t you claim the mending Honour too?’

Melda laughed ruefully. ‘I’ve another two weeks to do yet. I forgot it one week at the beginning.’

‘That’s a pity, but you will value it the more when it comes. Then you too have kept free from cold for two months, so that gives you one in Health Craft. You have also won an Honour for the children’s entertainment you organised so successfully in the saloon on board our liner; it was much enjoyed, and meant a good deal of work and worry;’ and the Guardian added a flame-coloured bead to the string. ‘Don’t you get one in Patriotism too? I heard you telling Indian legends to some children on the voyage. Were they new ones on which you had not claimed before?’

‘Yes, please, Iris; and there were six of them.’

‘You shall tell them to me some day, but there will not be time to-night. That is seven new Honours for you, and seven for Rosemary. I congratulate you! Now we come to Catalina. Here are two blue beads for Nature Study, and a green one for crochet.’ Leonora produced a mat, a piece of lace, and a baby’s hood in soft wool. ‘I’m afraid you had a cold in March, Catalina?’

Leonora dimpled. ‘Yes, Guardian; it was horrid. I’d had my Honours all through the winter.’

‘But I think you won your first swimming Honour before we left America? Didn’t you swim your hundred yards?’

‘Oh yes! I’d forgotten that. And I can swim in four different ways.’

Miss Tarring added two red beads. ‘And what about your five hundred lines of poetry?’

‘Yes; Hiawatha. I did work hard for that one.’

‘That makes six for you. You have all worked well, girls, and I am glad to give you your new beads. Shall I say my “piece,” or is that enough?’

‘Oh, do it all, please! We’re having a real meeting;’ and the girls rose hurriedly to their feet.

The Guardian laughed, and standing with the three strings in her hands, recited some lines with great earnestness. ‘By authority vested in me as Guardian of the Fire,’ she ended, ‘I award you these symbols of attainment.’

She handed them the beads, and all three sat down and were busy for a few minutes stringing them with the others on the leather thongs about their necks.

‘I wanted those green ones for my pattern,’ Bernice exulted.

‘I was waiting for that red one; I’d got nine. Please, Guardian, may I have a Big Honour for Health?’ asked Melda.

‘I’ve ten too, but I’m not a Fire-Maker. I’ll have to wait,’ mourned Leonora.

‘I forgot Big Honours.’ Bernice was counting rapidly. ‘May I have one for Home Craft, please? And for Nature? Have you any, aunty—I mean, Guardian? I beg your pardon!’ as the others laughed. ‘Oh, how jolly of you! Thanks awfully!’

‘I thought there were some Big Honours looming ahead;’ and Miss Tarring handed them larger beads in the colours of the various crafts. ‘Now, suppose we really get to business!’

They hastily slung the beads round their necks, and formed the circle round the candles again.

‘It is time for the Council Fire.’ Miss Tarring resumed her formal tone. ‘We have one important matter to discuss to-night. Before we come to it, has any one any other business to propose to the meeting?’

‘Yes, please!’ Bernice and Melda spoke together, both very eager.

‘We will hear Rosemary first, then.’

‘Part of mine’s what Estrella is going to say, so I’ll leave that for her. But this is the other. Couldn’t we send a message from our Council Fire to the girls at home?’

‘Well thought of, Rosemary! You are living up to your name.’ Bernice laughed. ‘Before we separate, we will write greetings from our Camp Fire to theirs, and all shall sign it. Now, Estrella!—Daughters of the Fire, hear what our sister will bring before the Council!’

Melda made her proposal eagerly. ‘Don’t you think you could give Catalina her bracelet, and make her a Fire-Maker, Guardian? She’ll be thirteen next week, and we may not have another meeting for ages. She has qualified, and it seems hard lines she should have to wait. She needn’t wear the bracelet until her birthday.’

Leonora had looked up in delighted surprise; obviously the suggestion had been kept secret from her. ‘Oh, how jolly of you, Melda!—But would it be fair, aunty?’

‘I think so. Yes, I think it is a very good idea, if all the members of the Camp Fire agree?’ Bernice and Melda laughed and nodded. ‘Very well!—Then stand, Catalina! You can say the Desire?’

‘Oh yes!’ Leonora’s dark little face was radiant.

‘Can’t she just! She says it every night in bed!’

‘Camp Fire Daughters, Catalina is to take the rank of Fire-Maker to-night. She will be thirteen next week; she has been a member for close on a year; she has won twenty and more Honours. To qualify for her rank she has helped to prepare the meals for our Camp Fire; has slept with open windows, and denied herself candy and other luxuries; has kept written accounts for one month; has darned a pair of stockings, mended a knitted garment, and done the necessary hemming. She can tie a square knot correctly; she knows what to do in certain emergencies, and how to apply certain bandages; she can repeat twenty-five lines of poetry, and has studied the career of a notable woman. Who was your noted woman, Catalina?’

‘Mary Bird, who went out to the lepers in India. She worked for India, not for our own country; but you said that didn’t matter, Guardian.’

‘Any one who works for the world enriches her own country. What would you do in a case of clothing on fire?’

‘Throw the person down and roll her in rugs or something thick.’

‘And in a case of fainting?’

‘Make people keep away and not crowd round; push the patient’s head down, not lay her out flat; give her plenty of air, and loosen her clothes, and she’d soon come round. Of course, I’d put a coat over her in case she caught cold, and I’d give her water if I had any.’

‘Now, Catalina, will you repeat the Fire-Maker’s Desire?’

Looking very serious, Leonora stood erect and repeated her lines with great earnestness:

Miss Tarring held the bracelet in her hand. As Leonora finished she held out her arm, and as the bracelet was clasped in place on her wrist the Guardian said:

But don’t wear it till your birthday, Catalina!’

‘I won’t, aunty! Thank you just awfully, and I will try to be good enough!’ and Leonora sat down, looking radiant, and played with her bracelet for the rest of the evening.

‘We are indeed a distinguished Camp Fire!’ said Miss Tarring. ‘No member below the rank of Fire-Maker! What we lack in numbers we certainly make up in quality!’

The girls laughed. The light of the candles on the floor showed their faces dimly, and flickered and danced on their glittering beads and bracelets, flashing back from Rosemary’s pin, and a similar smaller one on the Guardian’s breast.

‘Now, Daughters of the Fire, we really must discuss the great question for which to-night’s Council has been called, or we shall have no time for supper.’

‘Oh, don’t!’ murmured Melda, and Leonora laughed.

Outside the window two small figures crouched in breathless interest. They had seen so much that was new and bewildering, and there were so many questions they wanted to ask. They had forgotten everything—the time, their companions, the supper-gong—everything but the curious ceremony in the dimly lighted room. What would the Indian maidens do now? What was the great question they had met to discuss?

CHAPTER III.
THE COUNCIL FIRE.

‘Daughters of the Fire!’ said the Guardian, ‘let me hear your thoughts on this matter. Can we keep our Camp Fire a secret? Or shall we make it known to our friends here, and invite new members to join our circle? Or shall we break up our Fire and scatter its ashes, and meet no more?’

‘No, Iris, not that! Oh no, please!’ the answer came in chorus.

‘But we can’t keep it to ourselves much longer,’ Melda added. ‘Dorothy Ann’s on to it already. She’ll soon know all about it.’

‘I want to ask Katharine to join,’ said Leonora.

‘And Priscilla’s just the kind. It would bring her more into things if she belonged to a Camp Fire, and she could claim heaps of Nature Honours right away. Couldn’t we tell them, and let those who wished come in?’

‘But suppose we got too many? You mustn’t have more than twenty in a Fire,’ Melda argued.

‘Oh, then, we could have two or three, and have Grand Councils when we’d all meet.’

‘What about Guardians?’

‘I should think Miss Bingham would make a jolly good one, if Iris took her in hand and explained it all to her. She’s sporty, and keen on out-of-doors stunts.’

‘She played a ripping game of rounders with us this afternoon,’ Melda said reflectively. ‘She can run like anything. Yes; she isn’t half bad. I think she’d do.’

Miss Tarring listened to this discussion of her colleague with a serious face, but did not offer any reproof. She was not a schoolmistress to-night, or an aunt, as Katharine had surmised. She tactfully stopped the discussion by joining in it herself, however.

‘There are certain difficulties in the way of making our Camp Fire public, but I think we can surmount them. I believe a good number of our friends here would wish to join our circle; that is the first point. It will probably mean two or three circles.’

‘You could run one, and Miss Bingham another. If they got keen on it, it would help to make up for the cricket-field they’re always grousing about. It would give them something to do, anyway.’

‘Now, here’s my point,’ said the Guardian weightily. ‘If we form two or more Fires, you must be prepared to divide yourselves among them. Oh, you couldn’t possibly all belong to one! That would never do!’ as they cried out in dismay. ‘Your part would be to help them all to get going. I knew you wouldn’t like the idea, but surely you must see I am right?’

‘I see it,’ Bernice said dolefully; ‘but I don’t like it!’

‘It’s real mean of you to put such a horrid idea into our heads!’ Melda expostulated. ‘If Berny sees it, she’ll feel she’s got to do it, and that will smash up our Fire!’

‘But isn’t it what you vowed to do when you became a Torch-Bearer, Rosemary?’

Bernice nodded sadly, and quoted the Torch-Bearer’s Desire:

Oh, I say! it is a nuisance, all the same.’

‘You are all Fire-Makers. You have been Wood-Gatherers, getting together the materials for your fires. Now you have to use them for the good of other people. Fire-Makers should be willing to make fires.’

They looked at one another dismally, and the Guardian laughed at their gloomy faces. ‘Suppose we leave that point, and think it over. Now I have another. I think we might very well form a new Fire in the school; but my feeling is that we should be wise to do it privately, not joining the American society, and be quite unofficial.’

‘Oh, but why? Wouldn’t it be better to belong?’ said Melda.

‘It wouldn’t be quite the real thing, would it?’ Bernice asked doubtfully.

‘No; it would be an imitation. But it would leave us free to make new rules and plans as we found it necessary. We should be independent. If an English branch should ever be formed, suited to English needs, we could join it, of course. The Camp Fire Girls of America are organised for American girls. Their ideals and ideas are excellent for all girls, and I would like to see girls everywhere working for Wohelo. But it does not follow that their arrangements are the best for other countries. We here in a large school should be in a very different position from our American Fire, where we met at one another’s houses, went camping in summer, gave supper-parties, and went for hikes, and so on.’

They nodded; that was obvious.

‘But it ought to be possible to work a Fire here,’ said Bernice.

‘Quite possible—with a little adaptation. But I want to be free to adapt—leave out—add, where necessary.’

‘If we didn’t belong to the real thing, I don’t suppose they’d give us beads and rings and gowns, or a Charter?’

‘Oh, I say, aunty! hadn’t we better try to belong?’ cried Melda.

‘Most of those things we could provide for ourselves; in other forms, of course. For instance’—their aunt took a box from the floor beside her, and shook out into her lap a shower of beads—‘I have made inquiries in London, and find we can get these. They are smaller than ours, and less ornamental, but they would answer the purpose.’

‘They’d look real dainty on a string! Can you get all colours?’

‘Not flame-colour, nor red-white-and-blue. We could use pure white for Patriotism, and I thought these pretty pink ones might do for Home Craft.’

‘They’re dinky little things. But we’d keep what we’ve got?’

‘Of course; but when you qualified for new ones you would receive these.’

‘Would it make much difference not belonging and having a Charter? It would be a good scheme to make our own rules.’

‘You wouldn’t alter the Law?’ Bernice asked anxiously.

‘No, nor the ranks; and I would use the ritual verses as we have done to-night. They could not be improved upon. I should try to keep the spirit of the Camp Fire just as it is.’

‘If it’s only in costumes and beads and outside things, I don’t mind so much. I was afraid you meant to change the whole thing. But would the real Camp Fires mind? Would they object to us copying them?’

‘They ought to be glad, if they really care about Wohelo!’ Melda cried. ‘If we can get English girls to work in the ways that are good for American girls by copying their ideas, they ought to be jolly glad, and proud too! That’s what I think.’

‘I agree with Melda. I can’t see that any one would wish to object,’ said their aunt. ‘We should be working for the same aims, with Work, Health, and Love as our ideals. Though we differed slightly in organisation, and therefore desired to run ours as an unofficial Camp Fire, we should be sisters in spirit to the American societies. I cannot think that they would object.’

‘It would be jolly unsisterly if they did!’ Melda murmured.

‘I have several ideas I would like to see put into practice. I would have each girl take a motto to fit her ceremonial name, and when the roll was called I would have her respond with that, instead of merely saying “Friend.” I would give an All-Round Honour to any one who won three beads of each colour, and use a special gilt bead for the purpose. And I’d give special honours for length of membership and regular attendance.’

‘I like those ideas,’ said Bernice. ‘What would my motto be? “Rosemary—that’s for remembrance.” Would that be enough?’

‘I’ll give you a better one—Shakespeare, too:

Isn’t that about your idea?’

‘Oh, I like that! That’s it exactly!’

‘Give me a motto, too, please, Iris!’

‘Estrella—a star. What about Emerson’s “Hitch your wagon to a star”?’

‘Jolly fine!’ Melda nodded. ‘And Catalina?’

‘I’m not sure about Catalina yet. Now, do you know it’s eight o’clock? What about supper?’

‘Eight o’clock? Is it really? I say, doesn’t time just jump along when you’re talking?’

‘It always goes like mad at ceremonial meetings,’ Bernice agreed. ‘We’ll think over all your weird ideas, aunty!’

They sprang up, and in the movement and bustle of extinguishing the candles, bringing forward the supper-table, switching on the lights, which dazzled them all for a moment, and trying to quiet Annabel, who had been an absorbed spectator, but was full of excitement and questions as soon as business was over, a sudden scuffle outside the window passed unnoticed.

‘Eight o’clock!’ Dorothy Ann came to herself with a jerk, and pinched Katharine to bring her back to the world of stern realities. ‘I say, they’ll all be at supper! Do wake up, Katharine! It’s awfully serious!’

Katharine rubbed her eyes, and looked about her in a dazed way. It was queer to see the daylight and the garden all just as they had been an hour ago. She had forgotten everything as she gazed spell-bound into the shadowy room and watched Iris and Rosemary, Estrella and Catalina, sitting on the floor round the flickering candles.

But Dorothy Ann gave her no time for dreaming. She dragged her at break-neck speed down to the roof of the tool-shed, and so to the ground, over the forbidden gate, and away through the garden.

‘Now don’t say anything to anybody. We aren’t supposed to have seen all that, you know. It must still be a secret. We’d get into an awful row if they knew we’d been watching. Just say we were in the garden and didn’t hear the gong. If that isn’t enough’——

‘It won’t be enough!’ jerked Katharine, thoroughly awake now to the plight in which they had placed themselves. ‘You hear that gong all over the garden.’

‘Yes; we’ll have to confess we went over the gate into the kitchen-garden.’ Dorothy Ann pulled a wry face. ‘Conduct marks all round—two each, at least! I’ll say it was my fault, but it won’t make any difference.’

‘You silly! If you say that I’ll—I’ll tell where we were, and give the whole thing away! It was worth two conduct marks, Dan!’

‘Oh, it was jolly well worth it! Wasn’t it all weird? I say, do be careful not to talk about it before the others!’

‘Rather not! I feel as if it had all been a dream. I suppose it did happen? We did see Miss Tarring sitting on the floor beside a candle, with her hair down and bare arms, and fringe and beads?’

Dorothy Ann chuckled. ‘I shall think of it in French dictée on Monday! Iris! Wasn’t it all weird?’

‘And Catalina, and Estrella, and Rosemary! I feel as if I’d dreamt it all.’

‘It’s not a dream that we’re hideously late for supper! Come on, let’s get it over!’

It was rather an ordeal to enter the big dining-room nearly half-an-hour late. Katharine hung back at the door. ‘Let’s wait. We’re so late that we may as well be a little later. They’ll all stare so.’

‘I don’t care!’ cried Dorothy Ann. ‘Let them stare! I’m not going to hang about outside for anybody! It would look as if we were scared! I say, old girl, just remember how much we know, and they don’t!’

Katharine laughed, and followed her sturdily. Dorothy Ann led the way in. ‘Shall we go and apologise, or have some supper first and wait till we’re sent for?’

‘Oh, let’s do that! Chinny might not have noticed. We’re not so awfully important. She may not have missed us.’

‘Don’t you think it! She’d see our empty places.’

They had unfortunately to go half-way up the room before reaching their table, and both were conscious—Katharine very acutely—of the curious stares which greeted them on every hand, and the amused eyes of the seniors. Dorothy Ann held her head up and marched defiantly to her place, and Katharine stifled an undignified desire to scuttle along behind her, and showed no outward sign of discomfort. As they reached their seats they became conscious of Miss Chinchen’s eyes resting coldly upon them, however; so Dorothy Ann thought it best to ‘say something soothing,’ as she explained afterwards.

‘We’re awfully sorry, Miss Chinchen. We were at the end of the garden talking, and we never heard the gong. We really didn’t mean to be late.’

‘I will speak to you both after supper,’ was the chilly response.

They slipped into their places—Katharine subdued, Dorothy Ann hurt and indignant.

‘When one lady apologises to another, the other ought to say, “Don’t mention it, my dear,” or something else pleasant and friendly. The Chinaman’s just a pig!’

Katharine smothered a laugh which would not have been soothing to Miss Chinchen at the moment. ‘You don’t want much, Dan—oh no! Did you really expect her to be satisfied just because you said you were sorry?’

‘She ought to be. She is a pig!’

‘What have you two been doing?’ Phyllis asked indignantly. ‘We’ve almost finished! You’ll have to eat jolly quick if you want any supper.’

‘Don’t make us talk, then. I told you—talking in the garden. Some of you duffers might have come to look for us, I do think!’

‘I’m jolly glad they didn’t!’ Katharine murmured, attacking her bread-and-butter.

‘Which garden?’ Phyllis demanded incredulously. ‘You’d have heard the gong if you’d been where you ought to have been.’

‘Ah!’ Dorothy Ann winked mysteriously over her glass of milk. ‘Little girls shouldn’t ask questions. Perhaps Katharine and I have secrets too. Perhaps we were doing important business and holding a secret meeting.’

‘Bosh!’ said Phyllis.

Page 253.

‘I’ve got him!’ she panted triumphantly.

‘Dan, don’t! I shall splutter if you make me laugh,’ Katharine implored.

‘I wonder,’ began Meg Macdonald, in her slow, matter-of-fact way, ‘whether the American girls are having some kind of a meeting. They’ve all gone to bed very early.’

Dorothy Ann gave her a sharp look, then dropped her eyes quickly. It was only Meg wondering; there was nothing behind. If she herself had got so far as this, she could not have been content until she had investigated the matter; but Meg would think no more about it. There was always the danger that her words would set other and quicker wits to work, however.

‘Miss Tarring’s gone too,’ Phyllis observed brilliantly. ‘They couldn’t have a meeting with her, surely!’

‘Not with a mistress! No fear!’ said Dorothy Ann solemnly; and Katharine choked over her milk at the picture which rose instantly in her mind of Iris, the Guardian of the Fire. ‘Oh, I guess they’ve all gone to bed with headaches!’ Dorothy Ann added.

‘Funny if they all had headaches the same night!’

‘It isn’t at all likely,’ Meg added seriously.

‘Of course not, silly. But if Miss Tarring had a headache and wanted to go to bed, it would be no use her going unless the girls went too. They’d only wake her up when they did go.’

‘It will be hard lines on Melda and the rest if she often has headaches,’ said Clare.

‘It must be horrid to sleep with a mistress,’ Meg added.

‘Ghastly! And when she’s your aunt into the bargain!’

‘ ’Tis hard lines on them. They can’t expect to have any fun,’ said Dorothy Ann; and Katharine had another vision of the little dormitory as she had last seen it, with the lights on, and the four fringed and beaded Indian princesses gathered round the supper-table.

She grew thoughtful as she hurriedly made sure of a sufficient supply of bread and butter and milk. A new idea had possessed her, and continued to weigh heavily upon her. It troubled her far more than the interview with Miss Chinchen which followed supper, or the conduct marks and punishment lesson to be done on Monday afternoon. Miss Chinchen questioned severely, and Dorothy Ann answered; Miss Chinchen lectured, and Dorothy Ann presumably listened. Katharine certainly did not, having more serious thoughts of her own to attend to. Their explanation, that they had not heard the gong, had to be followed, as they had foreseen, by the confession that they had been in the kitchen-garden. Fortunately Miss Chinchen did not insist on being told the exact spot; she knew there was no fruit ripe yet, and supposed they had merely gone there to hide from their companions for a time. However, in view of the approaching strawberry season, stern measures were necessary. She spoke to them severely, and they went off to bed, both apparently subdued and repentant. Katharine was very silent, Dorothy Ann inclined to be resentful.

‘She jawed us like mad,’ she said briefly, in answer to Phyllis’s kind inquiries. ‘She seemed to think we might have been after the lettuces. Oh, we got marks, of course, and beastly Shakespeare. Who cares?’

‘You do. And so does Kath. She won’t get her merit prize this term.’

‘That’s a fag.—I say, Katharine, old girl, I’m sorry. It doesn’t matter to me, of course, for I never get a merit; but it’s the only thing you ever do get.’

Katharine laughed. ‘Well, if I am a dunce, I didn’t expect you to be the one to rub it in, Dan.’

‘I didn’t mean to. I’m awfully sorry, for it was me made you go.’

‘There’s one prize you won’t get, anyway, Dorothy Ann.’

‘English grammar? Oh, well, I’m not worrying!’

‘Katharine’s worrying about those conduct marks,’ said Clare. ‘She hadn’t said a word till you said that about the prize.’

‘I’m not. I’d forgotten the prize. I was thinking about something else.—Prize and everything else included, Dan, it was worth it,’ murmured Katharine, as she brushed her hair over her face.

‘Rather! I’m going to dream of beads and candles!’

They were standing apart from the others as they brushed their hair.

Dorothy Ann continued in a low voice, ‘What a lot we can understand now that was a puzzle before! All that about the rings and bracelets—and why they were so keen on finding out things—and what they were doing the crochet for! It was all to get beads!’

‘I’d like to work for beads, too! And why they all looked so funny when we spoke about camp fires. They must have wanted to roar with laughing.’

‘Yes. But there’s heaps more I want to know. What is a Blue Bird, and why is Annabel one?’

‘And why do they have names? And what do the designs on their rings and dresses mean? Did you see Melda’s stars? That’s her name, of course. But I couldn’t make out the others. Miss Tarring and Bernice seemed to have flowers on their dresses, and those funny bands round their heads.’

‘Well, Miss Tarring would have irises, I suppose! What was that queer word they used so often? But they’re going to tell us all about it.’

‘Yes; they said so.’ Katharine, instead of brightening at the prospect, became silent and downcast again, and presently slipped into her cubicle and into bed, with a brief good-night and no explanation of her troubled face.

CHAPTER IV.
KATHARINE’S TROUBLESOME CONSCIENCE.

Dorothy Ann was awakened early on Sunday morning by some one climbing into her bed. ‘Here—I say!’ she began in drowsy protest.

‘It’s only me—Katharine. You wakened me yesterday. Shove up and make room for me, Dan.’

‘All right! Come on!’ Dorothy Ann put her arm round her and dragged her in. ‘Are you tucked in at the back? Well, then, what do you want? What were you so blue about last night? Was it the conduct marks? You said it wasn’t.’

‘No; it’s something else. You won’t like it; but I’ve thought about it, and I’m going to stick to it, Dan, so please don’t say more than you feel you’ve got to.’

‘I say, what’s up? Is it so awfully serious?’

‘I don’t want you to be mad with me. I’ve been feeling awfully mean all night, and I’ve just been waiting till I could come and tell you. I didn’t want to wake you too early. Dan, we hadn’t any business to watch that meeting. In a way, I’m awfully glad we did, for I’m glad to have seen one and know just how they do it. But we hadn’t any right. It was sneaking. They meant it to be private, and they didn’t know any one was watching. I feel downright mean whenever I think of us peeping through the window.’

‘Don’t think about it, then. You should never think about nasty things. It’s an awfully bad plan.’

‘You should when you’ve done them,’ Katharine said dolefully. ‘I can’t get rid of things as you can, Dan. I’m sure I wish I could; it’s awfully convenient. Things worry me afterwards; this does, anyway. So I’m—now don’t be wild! I can’t help it!—I’m going to tell Miss Chinchen. I won’t say you were there, of course. She can think I met you in the garden afterwards.’

‘Goodness gracious! are you really?’ Dorothy Ann’s arm tightened round her. ‘I hadn’t thought of it myself. I say, Katharine dear, do you think you must? Nobody knows we were there. We’ll get into such a jolly old row if you do, and it would be so jolly easy to say nothing about it!’

‘It will be jolly difficult to go and tell her. But I’m going!’

‘Oh, well!’ Dorothy Ann had heard that tone before, and knew that protest was useless. ‘Then I’ll come too, and back you up, of course. You silly goat, did you think I’d funk and let you go alone?’ as Katharine squeezed her tightly in a sudden hug. ‘We’ll beard the lion in her den together, of course. Besides, it was all my idea; I’m going to have the credit of it.’

‘I thought you’d be mad,’ Katharine confessed, acute relief in her tone. ‘Oh, I say, Dan, I am sorry! I do apologise most humbly all over the place!’

‘So you jolly well ought to,’ Dorothy Ann said severely. ‘What about always understanding one another, as you said to Priscilla? And then it’s you—you who’s supposed to understand everybody and everything because you’ve got an imagination and all that—it’s you who goes and makes a silly of yourself like that about your own sister Dan! Katharine Mayne, I’m disappointed in you; honestly, I am!’

Katharine laughed shakily. ‘I imagined too much this time, for I really did think you’d be wild. I didn’t quite think you’d really let me go to Chinny alone; no, Dan, honest, I knew you wouldn’t do that,’ as she was shaken gently but firmly. ‘But I was afraid you’d feel I was making you go, and I thought you’d be mad and try to stop me. I didn’t dare to hope you’d be so nice about it.’

‘Nice! I am mad! I’m as mad as I can be. I don’t want to go a scrap. You are making me go; there’s no mistake about that! I’d never have thought of it myself. But I know it’s no good trying to stop you, so I sha’n’t waste time on it. And I’m not a funker.’

‘We couldn’t keep it dark, you know. We’d get to feel worse all the time.’

‘You would, I suppose. My conscience isn’t as jumpy as yours. I can put it to sleep quite nicely when I try. I wonder what she’ll say!’

‘I say, Dan, let me do as I said, and tell her I met you in the garden afterwards! There’s no reason for you to go if you don’t feel you need to.’

Dorothy Ann laughed grimly. ‘She isn’t as green as all that, my dear! D’you suppose she won’t know whose idea it was? I guess she knows you and me by this time. She’ll know who wanted to do the confessing, too. D’you suppose she knows about their meeting?’

‘Didn’t Menie hear her say she hoped they’d enjoy their meeting?’

‘So she did. Then we sha’n’t need to do much explaining, except about our own part.’

‘That’s all!’ Katharine laughed ruefully.

‘She’ll tell Miss Tarring, of course, and she’ll tell the girls. I wonder if they’ll be mad!’

‘Leonora won’t, and I don’t think Bernice will. I’m not so sure of Melda.’

‘Melda’ll understand; she’d have loved to do it herself. I say, Katharine, don’t let’s go to her first thing! She’s always waxy in the morning. It won’t hurt to wait an hour or two.’

‘I’d rather get it over;’ but Katharine yielded to her friend’s wish, and they went down to breakfast without seeking Miss Chinchen.

Melda and Leonora were already there, being chaffed by the rest on their long night, and asked if they had not been hungry without any supper, and if they liked going to bed at half-past six.

‘Sometimes!’ Melda said airily. ‘Depends altogether how I’m feeling. I like a real long sleep now and then.’

‘Well, you had it last night!’

‘I guess we did,’ Melda agreed composedly; while Leonora laughed.

‘Is your aunt’s headache better? She looks all right to-day.’

‘Headache? Who said she had a headache?’

‘Wasn’t that why you all had to go so early, so that she could go to sleep and you wouldn’t disturb her? Dorothy Ann said it must be that.’

‘Oh—er—yes, of course! That was real smart of Dorothy Ann! Some headache! Aunty has them now and then!—So you and Katharine got yourselves into a hole last night, Dolly Ann?’

‘Have they been telling you? The Chinaman was awfully mad, just because we were a few minutes late. Conduct marks simply flew all over the place; the air was thick with them. She was really wild; I don’t want to go near her for a day or two.’

Melda laughed. ‘What were you doing in the garden?’

‘Oh, talking! But, you see, we happened to get over the locked gate, quite without thinking, of course, and’——

‘Oh yes! tell us another, Dorothy Ann!’

‘And that’s why the fur flew, and the thunder rolled, and conduct marks came down like hailstones.’

Dorothy Ann was watching them while she chattered. It was queer, more than queer, to see them there as if nothing had happened, as if they had not been Indian maidens last night. Bernice at the seniors’ table and Miss Tarring among the mistresses looked just as they always did. Long plaits and beaded head-bands, fringed gowns and chains of Honours—had they all been a dream? She had not, of course, expected the girls to appear in their curious garb, but yet it was a shock to see them sitting there in white blouses and Sunday skirts, with their hair tied back with big ribbon bows, all laughing and talking as if there were no secrets in the world. She began to wonder, as Katharine had done, if it had all been a dream, and if, after all, there was no difficult confession to make! She was strongly tempted to address them as Estrella and Catalina before the others and see the effect, but managed to restrain herself.

Not till church was over did a reasonable opportunity occur for seeking Miss Chinchen, and then Dorothy Ann urged that there would not be time before dinner. Katharine was very uneasy, and anxious to get the ordeal over; but realising that she was the one who insisted on it, she gave way so far as to allow Dorothy Ann to choose what she considered the best time for their confession.

‘But don’t put it off too long, Dan, or I’ll have to go without you. It’s getting worse all the time, you know.’

‘We can’t go now and spoil her Sunday afternoon nap! I’m quite sure she has one every Sunday. Nobody sees her till tea-time, and then she looks so awfully sleepy. It would be mean to disturb her, Katharine! We must be—er—thoughtful for other people, you know!’

Katharine laughed ruefully. ‘I’m being thoughtful for myself. I feel mean whenever I look at Bernice and the rest; and as for talking to Leonora, I don’t know what to say! I know what I want to say, but that’s different.’

‘Yes; I’m aching to ask Melda all about it. I wonder if she’ll be wild, or if she’ll laugh!’

‘Leonora isn’t wearing her bracelet.’

‘I asked her when her birthday was, and she laughed, and said it was next Thursday. And I asked Melda why she was so busy after breakfast, and she said she was writing to a girl in America—that’s Sadie, you know—to send those minutes.’

‘I suppose Bernice has gone to copy hers out now. I heard her say she had some writing to do, and she’s gone off into a corner with Priscilla.’

‘D’you think she’ll tell her what she’s doing?’

‘I shouldn’t think so. It’s only that she doesn’t like to see Priscilla sitting all alone. She always drags her into things when she can.’

All afternoon Katharine was uneasy and restless, finding it difficult to settle to her weekly home letter or anything else. The task before them did not weigh so heavily on Dorothy Ann, and she scribbled away cheerfully, describing their afternoon at Waterside for the benefit of her mother and brothers. Yet it was Katharine, in spite of, or because of, her more nervous temperament, who said decisively as soon as tea was over, ‘Now, Dan, I’m going to do it; I can’t wait another minute.’

‘Oh, all right!’ Dorothy Ann knew both that tone and the look on her face. ‘I’m going to do the talking, though. I always do; and, besides, I proposed it. I’m not going to have you pretending you thought of it!’ She took Katharine by the arm, and they marched off after Miss Chinchen, who had just gone to her study.

The headmistress looked at them severely, the incident of the evening before by no means forgotten. ‘What do you want, Dorothy and Katharine?’

‘It’s about last night, please, Miss Chinchen.’

‘Last night? What more have you to tell me, Dorothy?’ Miss Chinchen knew in a moment that there was a further confession to come; Katharine’s face announced that. And, as Dorothy had foreseen, she knew whom to ask; there was no doubt which was the leading spirit if the direction were a forbidden one.

‘We didn’t tell you all that we’d been doing,’ Katharine faltered, anxious not to leave it all to Dorothy Ann.

‘No? I am not surprised. Let me hear the rest, then.’ Miss Chinchen played with her fountain-pen, and looked at them steadily. She had no intention of making their difficult position any easier.

They looked at one another. Suddenly Dorothy Ann, too, realised the difficulty of explaining just what they had done. Put into plain words under Miss Chinchen’s cold stare it would sound so very ugly!

Katharine took the plunge in desperation. ‘We—we were up on the pantry roof,’ she said hurriedly.

If Miss Chinchen was surprised, she showed no sign of it, but only raised her eyebrows in chilly disapproval. ‘On the pantry roof? That was extremely unladylike and unbecoming behaviour, Katharine.’

‘Yes, Miss Chinchen.’ Katharine’s further confession froze on her lips.

‘We were looking in at the window of Miss Tarring’s dormitory.’ Dorothy Ann was determined to get it over. ‘We knew they were having a meeting, and we wanted to see. We watched all they did till they got to the supper. Then we remembered we were late, so we had to run.’

Miss Chinchen raised her eyebrows again. ‘Eavesdropping! And did it not occur to you that such conduct was extremely underhand and deceitful, Dorothy?’

‘It did to Katharine. She said we oughtn’t to watch.’

‘But I did it, all the same,’ Katharine said hurriedly, anxious to be honest.

‘And do you think it is worse to be dishonest deliberately, or to be so blind to what is right and proper conduct that you do not realise how badly you are behaving?’

‘That, I should think,’ Dorothy Ann said promptly.

‘Oh, the other’s just as bad!’ Katharine said quickly. ‘It’s dreadful to know, and then go and do it!’

‘But I guess it’s more awful not to know!’

‘No, because when you did find out you might not do it again. My way, you’re hopeless.’

‘But you told me this time, so I did know; and yet I did it all the same!’ Dorothy Ann said triumphantly. ‘So you see I’m still hopelesser than you. You can’t make out you’re as bad as me, Katharine; so you needn’t try. And it was you who said we must come and own up. I didn’t mean to, and I never would have.’

Miss Chinchen had turned away hastily, and was trying her nib on a sheet of paper. Now she interrupted the discussion by saying severely, ‘I hope you both realise that you have acted in a very deceitful and underhand manner. There is no need to decide which has been the worse of the two. I am sorry Katharine is so weak that she follows Dorothy in spite of her own conscience; and I am grieved that you, Dorothy, should lead her into what she knew, and you ought to have known, was wrong. I am glad, of course, that you have had the courage to come and tell me the truth; I am relieved that you did not let Katharine come alone, Dorothy.’ She had no doubt as to who had led the way in this also. ‘You will, of course, apologise to Miss Tarring and the girls, and tell them what you have done. Surely you feel for yourselves that it is necessary?’ as their faces fell at the prospect of another confession.

‘I—suppose so,’ Katharine admitted reluctantly. ‘It’s them it matters most to, of course.’

‘Suppose you say, “It matters most to them.”—And it is usual, Dorothy, to say, “as bad as I;” not, “as bad as me.” Now go and ask the first girl you meet to request Miss Tarring kindly to come to me here, and to bring her three elder nieces with her. Then return here yourself.’

Dorothy Ann caught Violet, and gave her the message. ‘And buck up—do! It’s me and Katharine again, and we want to get it over. No, I can’t tell you; it’s their business, not ours. I must go and stand by Katharine. If the Chinaman jaws her long enough she’ll cry, and I ought to get my share. It was all me, anyway.’

Miss Chinchen had not yet reduced Katharine to tears; but she was speaking to her very seriously on the danger of allowing herself to be led too easily by her companions, and Katharine was looking extremely sober over the picture held up to her of her probable future if she did not develop a will of her own, when Dorothy Ann returned for her share of the lecture. Miss Chinchen pointed out to her the heinousness of their offence, using ugly words like ‘spying,’ ‘listening at keyholes,’ ‘eavesdropping,’ till Dorothy Ann was boiling over with indignation and almost ready to answer back; fortunately not quite, however.

‘As for your punishment, I shall consult Miss Tarring and Bernice,’ Miss Chinchen concluded severely, as the door opened.

‘I’m not worried, then. Berny’ll let us down easy,’ Dorothy Ann murmured in Katharine’s ear.

Miss Tarring, Bernice, and Leonora all looked in deepest surprise at the culprits as they entered, and Katharine’s eyes fell shamefacedly, while Dorothy Ann reddened and looked the picture of guilt. Miss Chinchen’s words had taken effect, and they both felt very small, and found this confession even more difficult than the first. Melda looked as much astonished as the rest, but there was amusement and excitement in her dancing black eyes as well. She did not know what was coming, but she was enjoying the situation.

‘Dorothy and Katharine have something to say to you, Miss Tarring,’ said Miss Chinchen coldly.—‘Now, girls!’

Leonora darted forward to Katharine’s side. ‘Kathie, don’t look so bad! We don’t care a scrap, whatever it is.—Do we, Melda?’

‘Can’t say till I’ve heard.’ Melda’s eyes snapped, and she spoke coolly.

‘I’m quite certain you’d have done it yourself if you’d known some one else had a secret!’ Dorothy Ann flashed out at her. ‘You wouldn’t have sat down and waited to be told all about it!’

Leonora stared, and Miss Tarring raised her brows in a way worthy of Miss Chinchen herself. Bernice and Melda began to laugh, and spoke together. ‘Say, hadn’t you better tell us?’

‘We were looking in at the window. We watched your meeting last night. Are you awfully wild with us? We wanted to know so dreadfully badly.’ Dorothy Ann and Katharine both spoke together.

‘We know it was mean, and we’re sorry now we did it.’ Katharine really believed she was sorry at the moment.

‘But it was awfully interesting! Won’t you tell us all about it? There are heaps of things we don’t understand!’

Melda and Bernice had laughed out at the first confession, and now they laughed again. ‘You bet there are!’ said Melda. ‘It was some meeting, wasn’t it?’

Bernice looked at her aunt.

Leonora, with wide eyes, pulled Katharine’s arm. ‘You were watching the meeting? Did you see me get my bracelet? I’m a Fire-Maker now! Isn’t it ripping?’

‘You aren’t really, till Thursday,’ Melda reminded her.

Miss Tarring looked at Miss Chinchen. ‘We had decided to take the school into our confidence, and invite new members; but I would have preferred to tell them about it myself. Now, I suppose, the mischief is done’——

‘Oh no, they haven’t told anybody!’ Melda said quickly. ‘The rest don’t know anything; I’m sure of that!’

‘We didn’t tell anybody a word about it,’ Dorothy Ann said anxiously. ‘Oh, we wouldn’t have done that! We knew it was a secret. It was awfully tempting, though. I’d have loved to tell everybody.’

‘I guess you would!’ Melda said emphatically, her eyes dancing at the thought of the whole school gathered round Dorothy Ann to listen to a description of their costumes, appearance, and proceedings. ‘You won’t do it, though. That’s aunty’s stunt!’

Miss Tarring was looking relieved. ‘I am glad you have not told the rest of the girls, Dorothy Ann. You will leave that to me, please. Then I do not think there is much harm done;’ and she turned to Miss Chinchen. ‘I have no doubt they realise now that their conduct was dishonourable. I am sure they would not repeat it.’

‘Oh, we never will! We’re awfully sorry, Miss Tarring.’

‘Perhaps you will say what punishment you think they have deserved,’ Miss Chinchen suggested.

‘Punishment? Oh, bother it, nothing at all!’ Melda spoke up warmly. ‘I guess it was pretty beastly having to confess, and I think it was jolly decent of them to do it. We’d never have known if they’d kept quiet. Let them off, won’t you, Miss Chinchen?’

‘We don’t want anything done to them,’ Bernice added; ‘and I guess aunty doesn’t. They’ve got marks already for last night, haven’t they? Isn’t that plenty?’

‘If they will promise to say nothing of what they saw to any of the other girls’——Miss Tarring began.

Dorothy Ann and Katharine promised fervently. ‘We wouldn’t have done it, anyway. That would be mean!’

‘Oh, you see that would be mean, do you? I am surprised!’ But Miss Tarring’s laugh took the sting out of the sarcasm.

‘Don’t rub it in!’ Dorothy Ann pleaded. ‘I know you’re awfully jolly, or you couldn’t possibly do all that Guardian business! And you’ve never compared Katharine with her relations, though you’ve been here ten days. She loves you for it.’

‘Compared Katharine with her relations?’

‘People always do, you know, because she’s not as clever as the rest of her family, nor as pretty as they were, nor anything.’

‘You are a pig, Dan!’

‘It’s only what you say yourself!’

‘Perhaps, if Miss Chinchen will excuse us, we might finish comparing Katharine with her relations out in the garden,’ Miss Tarring suggested.

‘I am not sure that I ought to let the matter drop so easily. But perhaps, if Miss Tarring is willing to forgive you, I need say no more, girls. I consider you are escaping more lightly than you deserve. You have grieved me deeply by your underhand behaviour.’

‘Underhand grandmother!’ murmured Melda, as soon as they were safely outside. She was careful that her aunt should not hear her, however. ‘Had she been going on at you like that before we came in? What rot! I’d have done just the same myself, as you said. I knew you wouldn’t wait to be told.’

She took Dorothy Ann by the arm. ‘Berny and Leonora, you bring Katharine along, and they shall ask all the questions they want! I guess we’d better tell them all about it now!’

CHAPTER V.
THE LAW OF THE FIRE.

‘Now tell us what you want to know!’ Melda demanded, as they reached the door to the garden.

‘Guess you’d best wait till we’ve found some corner where we won’t be interrupted, Melda,’ Bernice suggested. ‘It’s not a mite of use beginning on it here.’

‘We’ll go over there where you and Priscilla were sitting this afternoon, then;’ and Melda set off with Dorothy Ann.

Miss Tarring detained Katharine for a moment to inquire further into the matter of her relations, and laughed when she heard about the ‘grievance.’ ‘I’ll remember not to make any comparisons! Why should you want to be like Winifred or Joan or Margaret, after all? We all have to be ourselves, not somebody else.’

‘I don’t. But people all expect me to be like them. I can’t help it if I’m not. I’m the end of the family, and the brains and everything were running done by the time they got to me.’

Miss Tarring laughed again. ‘I won’t expect you to be anybody but yourself. And I think you have your own share of some things without troubling about Joan’s or Winifred’s. Are you quite sure you haven’t made up your mind about brains, for instance, and decided that it is no use trying to do well? That would be a very easy excuse to make. Are you sure you have always made the most of the brains you happen to possess?’

Katharine gave her a quick, conscience-stricken look. ‘I—perhaps I haven’t! It’s so jolly easy to make up your mind you’re a dunce! I never thought of that before!’

‘Brains grow with use, you know. And perhaps you have other gifts which your sisters had not. No one is born without something to help her through life. Now go and ask Leonora to tell you all about Camp Fires. I think you and Dorothy Ann should join. You would enjoy it.’

Miss Tarring did not add, ‘And it would be good for you, and keep you out of mischief,’ but returned to the library, where she had been writing letters with Miss Graveson.

‘I’ve just been hearing about Katharine Mayne’s grievance,’ she laughed, as she sat down. ‘It seems she has been expecting me to compare her unfavourably with her elder sisters.’

‘Oh, of course, you knew those elder sisters! Yes, she would expect it; it’s a very sore point with her.’

‘She could do well enough if she would only exert herself. She has made up her mind she isn’t a genius, and therefore nothing matters, and so she is quite content to be half-way down the class. I’ve just been telling her so.’

‘Good business!—Are there any girls about?’ and Miss Graveson looked up from the depths of an arm-chair. ‘I’m jolly glad to hear it!’

‘And as for looks, the silly child has nothing to complain of, though I wouldn’t tell her so for anything. She’s the image of Winifred at that age; I quite jumped when I saw her first. She can’t expect to be a finished specimen at fourteen. The enthusiastic way Dorothy Nairn assures her she isn’t a patch on her sisters takes my fancy. I quite agreed with Katharine when she told Dorothy Ann she was a pig.’

‘Oh, Dorothy Nairn’s a boy! Looks mean nothing to her—at present! She doesn’t intend to be unkind; she doesn’t care what she looks like herself, and doesn’t suppose Katharine does either. Wait two or three years, and we’ll see a change. They’ll be worrying about their complexions presently.’

Miss Tarring looked sceptical. ‘It will take more than three years with Dorothy Ann. She’ll still be a boy at seventeen, and she won’t put her hair up till she’s nineteen or twenty, if she can help it. As for long dresses, I hope they’ll be out of fashion before her time comes. Perhaps we shall have a spell of very short skirts; that would suit her exactly.’

An eager group had gathered in the garden, in a quiet corner under a beech-tree. Bernice sat with her unfinished minutes in her lap, ready to help with the explanations when ‘Melda gets tangled,’ as she put it.

‘Now, what shall we tell you first?’ Melda demanded. ‘There must be quite two or three things you want to know.’

‘Billions! Tell us—oh, all about it!’

‘Some stunt! The Camp Fire Girls of America,’ Melda began, in the tone of a lecturer addressing a public meeting, ‘is—are—is—an organisation which does for girls what the Boy Scout movement does for their brothers. There are Camp Fires in many large cities’——

‘Like our Guides?’ Dorothy Ann asked eagerly. ‘I’ve always wanted to be one, but Chinny won’t start a company.’

‘You have to promise to work, and come to meetings, and keep the Law.’ Melda’s tone became suddenly more conversational. Her oration had proved too much of a strain. ‘Ceremonial meetings are held once a month; we needn’t describe them. You’ve seen one; it was a very little one, of course, but we did everything properly. Weekly meetings are sometimes for work, and sometimes you go hiking, or’——

‘Whatever’s that?’

‘Oh, walking! Long walks and picnics to different places.’

‘And what is the Law?’ Katharine asked eagerly. ‘You spoke about it last night. Is it difficult to keep?’

The Camp Fire Girls looked at one another—all three suddenly serious. ‘Depends how much you put into it,’ said Bernice. ‘It may mean nothing, or it may come into everything. Depends on yourself.’

‘Tell us!’ Katharine begged.

Melda and Leonora looked at Bernice. She clasped her hands round her knees, and recited seven short sentences, her eyes fixed on the trees across the garden.

‘Seek Beauty—Give Service—Pursue Knowledge—Be Trustworthy—Hold on to Health—Glorify Work—Be Happy. That’s all, but there’s a heap in it, once you begin to do it.’

‘Pursue Knowledge! I suppose that’s why you’re always wanting to know!’ Dorothy Ann challenged Melda.

Katharine looked thoughtful, remembering how she had named Bernice ‘I’ll-do-that!’ ‘That’s “Give Service,” I suppose,’ she thought, but did not say it aloud. ‘And “Seek Beauty” is Leonora, of course; though they all do it, and all the other things as well.’

‘I like the Law; there’s a lot in it. But tell us more, won’t you?’ Dorothy Ann’s many questions craved satisfaction. ‘Why do you all have names? What do they mean? Estrella! Catalina! Rosemary!’ She pointed at them in turn, and they laughed. ‘They’re all pretty, Bernice’s especially; but why did you choose them? Do you have to have them? Would we?’

‘Everybody has a ceremonial name, and a symbol. The symbol’s like your crest or coat-of-arms—totem is the Indian word. There are lots of Indian ideas behind it all—the Camp Fire itself, and the dress and the beads, you know. Most girls choose Indian names. You always get Minnehaha, and Minnetoska, and Wenonah, and names like that. But when we were choosing ours, and most of the other girls had Indian names, aunty suggested that we should take English ones for a change; they always called us “English girls!” Melda’s always been rather proud of looking so Spanish’—Melda laughed—‘and she said she and Leonora would take Spanish names; I thought I’d have an Old English one.’

‘As for what they mean, you have to try to show that by your symbol,’ Melda explained. ‘Mine’s very easy. Estrella means a star, so I have stars on my dress and band and shoes, for my totem;’ and she hastily sketched a pointed star on the back of Bernice’s notes.

Dorothy Ann and Katharine leaned closer to watch, deeply interested. ‘Go on! What do the others mean?’

‘Rosemary for Remembrance—you ought to know Hamlet,’ Melda said reproachfully. ‘Her symbol is a bunch of forget-me-nots. Catalina is Spanish for Kathleen; didn’t you guess that?’

Dorothy Ann shook her head. This talk of meanings and symbols was new to her, but very fascinating. ‘What does Kathleen mean? I haven’t the glimmer of a notion. Do all names mean something?’

‘Is it the same as Katharine? But how can you draw it?’

‘No, it’s not the same as Katharine; they’re quite different. Aunty suggested it, and she says it means “Light in dark places,” and particularly on dark waters; but she says it’s such a very ancient name that she’s not absolutely certain about it.’

‘How ever can you draw that?’ Katharine looked at Leonora. ‘Its meaning is as pretty as it is; but how can you turn it into a symbol?’

Leonora dimpled, and reached for the notebook. With two sloping lines and a curve at the top, and several very obvious rays of light flashing out on each side, she drew an outline picture and presented it for their approval.

‘A lighthouse! What a ripping idea!’

‘I have rays of light flashing out across my dress and round my band; didn’t you see them? If we have mottoes, as aunty said last night, mine’s going to be the one on the Eddystone Lighthouse—“To give light and to save life.” I like it. Of course, I don’t expect ever to save life, really; but then, Melda doesn’t expect ever to get up to the stars. But it’s a jolly idea. Aunty says it matters a lot what kind of ideas you have.’

‘I like them all! I want to begin choosing mine at once!’ Dorothy Ann said exuberantly.

‘Your name has a meaning already.’

‘Oh, but I’d want a different one! And you couldn’t draw mine. Doesn’t Annabel have one too?’

‘Not till she joins the Camp Fire. She’s only a Blue Bird till she’s twelve.’

‘That’s what she told me. Why is she a Blue Bird? What are they?’

‘The little sisters who aren’t old enough to belong to the circle and promise to keep the Law. You don’t want to promise till you can understand what you’re doing. But a Camp Fire can have a nest of Blue Birds attached—that’s what it’s called. The Blue Bird is the symbol for happiness, you know.’

‘I know. I went to see the play one Christmas.’

‘I didn’t know. Well, it suits Annabel. She’s an awfully jolly little kid.’

‘Now tell us about your Fire-Makers, and all that! What was Leonora until last night?’

‘A Wood-Gatherer. That’s why she had to fetch the candles. If it had been a real camp fire—it is at outdoor meetings, of course—she’d have had to gather the sticks. You can be a Wood-Gatherer when you’ve belonged two months; you have to be thirteen and have done a lot of things before you can be a Fire-Maker.’

‘And when you’re fifteen you can be a Torch-Bearer, if you’re chosen by the Guardian, and if she thinks you’ll be a good one to help her. Berny’s one.’

‘You can think over the names for yourselves, and see if you understand them. There’s a good deal of meaning behind them all,’ Bernice said soberly.

‘And what’s that funny word you said so often last night? It came into the thing you sang, too.’

The three looked at one another. Then Leonora began to laugh. The other two spoke together.

‘Bernice Rosemary!’

‘Melda Estrella Tarring! Have we talked hard all this time and never said Wohelo? Well, I am bothered!—Why, Dorothy Ann, Wohelo’s it—the whole thing! WO—Work, HE—Health, LO—Love—Wohelo! The three things you have to promise to remember and work for. You must work hard, and be as healthy and strong as you can. But it mustn’t be all for yourself; it must be for the sake of other people. The things you learn or are able to do are to be used to help other folks. You heard the candle verses?’

‘I liked them, but I can’t remember them.’

‘You’ll have to learn them, if we start a fire here.’

‘Are there any more jolly recitations to learn? We heard what Leonora had to say about being a Fire-Maker.’

‘That was the Fire-Maker’s Desire. There’s the Wood-Gatherer’s Desire too;’ and Melda recited a couple of verses:

‘Oh, I like that! They have awfully jolly words!’ Katharine said eagerly.

‘You’ll understand these better now;’ and Melda took off her Wood-Gatherer’s ring. ‘Those three circles are Work, Health, and Love. The middle thing is a faggot, with the seven points of the Law.’

‘Yes, I see! How awfully neat!’

‘And the bracelet says “Wohelo,” in Indian printing.’

‘We wondered what it spelt. Yes, I can read it now. What does your aunt’s name mean?’

‘Iris? It’s Greek for a rainbow—the symbol of hope. It’s her job always to look on the bright side of things; she does it, too! Her totem is a half-circle, for a rainbow, over an iris flower.’

‘I saw the rainbows on her dress, but I didn’t know what they meant. She looks awfully pretty with her hair down,’ Katharine observed. ‘It made you all look quite different.’

‘I wish we’d known you were watching!’ Melda laughed.

‘I’m glad we didn’t. It would have been more difficult to do it properly,’ Bernice said promptly.

‘I’m glad too,’ Leonora agreed. ‘I’d have been nervous.’

‘Tell us more about the beads!’ Dorothy Ann begged. ‘What heaps you two have! You must have worked awfully hard!’

‘We’ve belonged for three years. You can do a lot in three years.’

‘You got green beads for making things, and blue ones for knowing flowers. I’d have thought green would be for Nature. What’s yellow?’

‘Business.’

‘Oh, what’s business?’

‘Earning money; saving; being punctual; being treasurer and keeping accounts—not borrowing money or clothes’——

‘Dorothy Ann’s always borrowing brooches and pins and collars and things from me,’ said Katharine. ‘She doesn’t even ask now when she wants them. She won’t get yellow beads!’

‘You’re always being late for class and walk! Neither will you!’

‘There’s a camping section, with brown Honours. That won’t be much use here; we can’t go putting up tents, and building tree-houses, and packing horses, and sleeping out’——

‘Wish we could! I’d just love it!’ sighed Dorothy Ann.

‘But think of the beetles!’ said Katharine.

‘Home Craft includes a lot—cookery, and laundry, and housework’——

‘Polishing silver?’

Bernice laughed. ‘Sure thing! And washing up, and taking care of babies, and giving concerts and writing plays, and making beds, and keeping your bureau drawers tidy, and knowing symptoms of diseases, and singing in a choir, and knowing so many lines of poetry, and’——

‘And making up a menu for a girl who’s too fat!’ added Melda. ‘That’s Phyllis!’

‘Goodness me, what a jumble!—oh, bother!’ as the gong summoned them to the house.

‘Time for church. I shall think about beads all the sermon!’ cried Dorothy Ann.

‘I’m going to walk with Priscilla,’ said Katharine. ‘She’s been sitting all alone over there thinking about the moors. She always does when she’s lonely. You can see it all over her face.’

‘No, say, I’ll do that!’ Bernice rose and closed her notebook. ‘I want to hear more about those moors. She’s making me real keen on them, the way she talks. I’m going to see them one day.’

‘Then I’ll have Leonora, and she shall tell me what she had to do to be a Fire-Maker.’

Dorothy Ann insisted on having Melda’s company, and the fact that these two couples were deeply absorbed in conversation, which was dropped instantly if any one approached, did not remain long unnoticed. As they went in to supper Phyllis and Clare reproachfully accused Melda and Leonora of sharing their secrets with Katharine and Dorothy Ann, and keeping them from every one else; and Dorothy Ann’s assurance that they would know all about it soon, though meant to be soothing, proved the reverse. However, their indignation brought them no satisfaction, and they had to be content to wait. Even in the dormitory at night Katharine and Dorothy Ann had nothing to tell, but much to say to one another. It was very irritating to the rest, who expressed themselves freely on the point; but the culprits kept their own counsel, and the others had to wait.

Then next morning an announcement after breakfast cleared the air. Miss Tarring wished to speak to any of the girls who cared to come to the kindergarten-room immediately after tea.

‘Now you’ll know all about it!’ Dorothy Ann assured the others soothingly.

CHAPTER VI.
FORMING A FIRE.

The girls streamed out into the garden, discussing Miss Tarring’s speech in much excitement. Standing by a little table, while they sat on the low tables and baby forms, she had described American Camp Fires, their rules and ideas, their ways and customs, their meetings, ranks, and costumes, and their system of Honours, just as Melda and the others had explained them to Katharine and Dorothy Ann. Everybody knew all about these things now, and Miss Tarring’s offer to form a Fire in the school had evoked much excitement and some criticism.

Everybody discussed the new idea, and begged for a sight of the Indian dresses and beads, the head-bands, and the soft beaded moccasins which completed the costume. But the wish to join a Fire, though widespread, was not so universal as Bernice and Melda had expected. To their amusement and relief, and to the indignation of Dorothy Ann, a certain number of the girls decided deliberately that it would be ‘too much fag,’ that too much in the way of new energies would be expected of them, and that they had quite enough to do already. Others, such as Meg Macdonald, were cautious, and declared they would wait and see how it worked. Perhaps they would join at the beginning of the winter term; they would see if it really meant much extra work. For both these classes Melda and Dorothy Ann had only the deepest scorn. Katharine and Leonora laughed at them, and pointed out what a fine start this would give to those who had the ‘gumption’ to join at once and get to work.

‘We’ll have whole strings of beads by the time you’ve made up your minds,’ said Katharine. ‘I’m going to get heaps in the holidays—for walking, and cycling, and perhaps climbing, and—oh, lots of things!’

‘How will Miss Tarring know you’ve really done them?’ Meg asked dubiously.

‘The Law says, “Be Trustworthy!” ’ Dorothy Ann flashed out at her. ‘If she won’t trust us after we’ve promised that, it will be funny.’

‘She’ll take your word for it, of course; and you can get your mother to write you out certificates for each thing, if you like,’ said Bernice.

The juniors were not eligible for membership, though they were all eager to be Blue Birds. As it was impossible to have such a number, Miss Tarring proposed that the Blue Bird ‘nest’ should not be formed for the present; if several senior Fires were formed later, each might have some little ones attached.

The seniors, Van and Menie and others, were either leaving at Midsummer and felt it not worth while to join, or were working so hard for Matric. and the summer music exams, that they could not think of it till these were over. The exam. candidates, like the cautious members of the Middle School, postponed their decision till the autumn; so it was chiefly from among the members of the Third, Fourth, and Fifth Forms that the first Camp Fire drew its recruits.

Dorothy Ann and Katharine were the first to go to Miss Tarring and give in their names, but Phyllis, Clare, Violet, and Irene were not far behind them. Priscilla hesitated for many reasons; she was working very hard to make up for the years she had lost, and if left to herself would not have joined at the moment. She had her usual diffident feeling of doubt as to whether she was really wanted; whether she would not be an ‘extra’ and ‘in the way.’ But Bernice, Katharine, and Dorothy Ann all made it a personal matter that she should join, and insisted that her presence was necessary to their complete enjoyment; so Priscilla yielded, with a warm feeling of pleasure that they really did want her.

After much discussion, about twenty girls finally gave in their names, and Miss Tarring decided to stretch a point and take them all in for the present, on the understanding that if more wished to join after the holidays, some of the original members should be willing to form a new circle and take them in.

‘But you won’t split up me and Katharine, will you?’ Dorothy Ann asked anxiously. ‘You talk about “Camp Fire Sisters,” and we’re sisters already. There’s not a girl in the school could ever be half as much my sister as Katharine is. You wouldn’t ask us to split ourselves up, would you, Miss Tarring?’

‘What a very unfortunate way to put it! No, I won’t ask you and Katharine to split yourselves up, Dorothy Ann. I know you would only pine away for one another.’

‘She’s ripping, you know,’ Dorothy Ann remarked to Melda. ‘There’s not one other mistress takes the trouble to call me Dorothy Ann. After all, it is my name!’

The fears of the sceptics appeared well founded at first, for the members of the new Camp Fire were kept very busy out of school-hours for a time. Sitting in a wide circle on the grass round Miss Tarring in some corner of the garden, they scribbled busily while she dictated the rules, list of subjects in which they might qualify for Honours, verses used in the ceremonial meetings, and the requirements demanded of them before each rank could be won. She had gone over the American manual very carefully in consultation with Miss Chinchen, and then with Bernice and Melda, and they had made a much simplified list, leaving out many items only suited to the powers and surroundings of girls in America, and adding some which in the special circumstances seemed advisable. ‘Keep a good resolution daily for two months,’ as a Business Honour, was received with groans and laughter; there were others relating to conduct marks and detention which seemed to the girls very pointed indeed.

‘Still, they’re all things we ought to be doing, anyway,’ Katharine remarked. ‘We may as well get something for them.’

Bernice, Melda, and Leonora had to work like the rest, for it was necessary that they should have the new list too. They had not, however, to make costumes; so, with characteristic eagerness to ‘Give Service,’ they lent a hand to any one who asked, and gave valuable help in cutting out and making up the ceremonial gowns. To Bernice the sewing-machine was as familiar as the piano, and she ran up seams in the sewing-room for everybody. Melda’s speciality was embroidery, and she was adviser-in-chief on the subject of designs and stitches. Leonora did not claim any particular gift, but gave odd little bits of help on every side.

‘It’s jolly decent of you all,’ Dorothy Ann said warmly. ‘You might be working for yourselves and winning more Honours all this time.’

‘We’ve plenty. You must do things when you see them needed,’ Bernice argued.

Miss Tarring bought yards of dull yellow linen material and soft brown fringe, on the understanding that each girl should make up and pay for the materials of her own gown, either at once or in instalments out of her weekly allowance.

‘You must be independent, you know. We can’t give things away to you. Miss Chinchen and I are willing to give you your Honour beads as you win them, but your gowns you ought to pay for.’

‘Rather! It’s jolly good of you to fag so much over it,’ said Katharine. ‘I think you’re just awfully decent about it.’

Miss Tarring shook her head at her solemnly. ‘Katharine, my dear girl, you are really very inconsiderate. Did it never strike you in that light?’ as Katharine looked up in dismay. ‘How can I pass over such terrible slang as you and Dorothy Ann use continually? I am bound by my duty to Miss Chinchen to point out that your expressions are most unladylike. And yet, as your Guardian, I most strongly dislike having to find fault all the time. Couldn’t you realise my point of view, and spare me the embarrassment of having to decide between my inclination and my duty?’

Katharine laughed, and then looked serious. ‘I’m awfully sorry, Miss Tarring. I never thought of it that way before.’

‘Couldn’t you try to remember, for my sake?’ the Guardian pleaded, in mock earnestness.

‘I will try,’ Katharine promised; but her efforts were not noticeably successful. ‘When you’ve got a sister who’s got heaps of brothers, and has caught all their ways of talking, it’s difficult not to catch it too, even if you haven’t any brothers of your own,’ was her rather involved excuse.

Miss Tarring had suggested that the list of Honours should be kept private, and not discussed throughout the school. The Daughters of the Camp Fire fully agreed; but it was not long before a Record Book with full details was left lying about, and found and read by the outsiders.

There was some scoffing among the uninitiated, and Van said mockingly, ‘You are going to be a lot of perfect saints if you live up to all that!’

‘If they’re saints, of course they’ll be perfect,’ Menie pointed out, in her slow way.

‘I say, sha’n’t we expect a lot!’ teased Van. ‘What good little girls we shall have in the Third and Fourth now!’

‘We’ll take good care not to be too perfect. We’ve got to live with the rest of you, you see. It wouldn’t do,’ Dorothy Ann retorted. ‘We’ll try to keep down to your level, if we can. But it will be a long drop.’

‘Not so very long for you, Dolly Ann! In fact, it may even be a step up,’ Van laughed.

The choosing of ceremonial names was a difficult task. The girls did not know the meanings of names, and had no experience in the use of symbols; and even Katharine’s imagination was not equal to the task at first. They had help in two directions, however. Melda and Bernice described the names in use among their former friends, and suggested a glossary to Hiawatha, if Indian meanings were wanted; and Miss Tarring lent a book of English names, with their meanings, to any one who asked for it.

‘Don’t all take Indian names,’ she implored. ‘Some of them are very long and hard to say, and, after all, you aren’t and can’t be Indians. It’s different in America. The girls there ought to learn about the people of their own country, their history, songs, legends, and customs, and to help them if they can. In England you must be English, and study the folklore, songs and dances, and history of your own country; and you should use Old English names. You will find some in my book which are pretty and have fine meanings.’

The idea appealed to the girls, and the list was well studied. There was much discussion, but each finally chose her name according to her own wish and not the freely given advice of her friends, much to Miss Tarring’s satisfaction. She had urged them to independent thought and decision, and to take time for consideration. There was no need to be in a hurry in choosing their names, she reminded them. These, the gowns, and the Record Books, as well as the winning of ten Honours, were required before the rank of Wood-Gatherer could be conferred, at the end of two months’ membership, but were not necessary for the first meeting. It was impossible, with ordinary school-work to be done properly, to do everything at once. If these requirements could be fulfilled and their rank won by the end of the term, when the Camp Fire would have been in existence for about two months, they would do well.

In choosing symbols the girls were at first inclined to literalism, and could not understand how it was possible to ‘draw’ certain names, or represent them by any kind of design. Miss Tarring and her nieces put the girls right on this point, however.

‘It’s the idea behind that you want to draw, not the thing itself,’ Melda explained. ‘Look at Leonora’s lighthouse. Catalina doesn’t mean a lighthouse, but yet it’s a jolly good symbol. Sometimes you can draw the real word, as aunty and I do, but you don’t need to.’

Most girls, before deciding finally on their name, went to the Guardian privately to ask if their choice ‘would do.’ Miss Tarring helped and encouraged, suggested or improved symbols, and often, in proposing suitable quotations, gave a deeper meaning to the name than its owner had perceived.

Mary Manners, the eldest of a large family, found Wenonah given as meaning ‘The eldest daughter.’ ‘I like that,’ she said to Miss Tarring, ‘because I am; but I could never draw it. What ought I to do?’

‘We had a Wenonah in America. Shall I tell you what she did?’

‘Oh yes, please!’

‘She argued that an eldest daughter, almost more than any one else, has to be thoughtful; so her symbol was a pansy—“For thoughts.” ’

‘I like that, but I’m afraid I’m not good enough. Does that matter?’

‘No, for the name stands for your ideal. It means rather that you will try to be thoughtful.’

‘Oh, I see! I will, then; and thank you awfully, Miss Tarring.’

Priscilla sought the Guardian alone one evening. ‘Miss Tarring, I thought I’d like Heather for my name. It is a name sometimes, isn’t it? It would remind me of the moors. My home’s among them, you know, and there’s nothing I like so well as heather on the moors. I could have a spray of heather for my symbol; but what would it mean exactly?’

‘Do you know the legend of the heather?’

Priscilla’s face lit up. ‘How it got its flowers, because it was willing to cover the mountains and waste places that were forgotten by all the other flowers and trees? Do you think it should mean, “Thinking of other people”?’

‘People forgotten by every one else—seeking out the forgotten ones, and bringing joy and beauty to them. It’s a beautiful ideal.’

‘But a tremendously big one! I like it, and I’ll try to be big enough for it,’ Priscilla said, and went away satisfied.

Much to the amusement of her friends, Phyllis chose the Indian word Mnanka, meaning ‘I weave,’ for her name, with a spider as her symbol to stand for industry. There was much jeering among the rest of the Third, and she was more often called ‘Spider’ than anything else. Irene Smith, adapting the meaning of her own name, became Olive, and took the symbol of peace, a dove with an olive-leaf. Her sister Violet, not having much originality, copied her method, took a violet, meaning modesty, for her symbol, and, turning her name into Greek, became Ianthe. Others were Ivy, meaning fidelity, and Daisy, standing for innocence; while Clare, the most musical girl in the Lower School, adopted a harp as crest, and became Pamela, since Miss Tarring’s book gave this as meaning tuneful or ‘all melody.’

Dorothy Ann insisted on taking an Indian name, and begged Katharine to do the same. ‘I’m going to be Minnehaha. We haven’t got one, and Melda says there always is one. I know it’s not original, but I like it, and I’m going to have it. But I don’t see how I’m going to draw laughing water!’

She sought Miss Tarring, who laughed. ‘What do you intend Minnehaha to mean?’

‘I haven’t the faintest notion. I only know I like it. Does that matter?’

‘We must give it a meaning, of course. Surely it would stand for cheerfulness? A gloomy Minnehaha would be terrible! Your motto must be, “Smile, smile, smile! It’s well worth while!” Do you know that verse?’

‘ “Miles of smiles”? Oh yes that will do rippingly! But I can’t draw that, Miss Tarring!’

‘What makes water laugh? Think of a stream dancing along; why would you call it “laughing water”?’

‘Oh, because it bubbles and jumps about, I suppose,’ Dorothy Ann said vaguely.

‘No, that’s not it,’ Katharine said quickly, for, of course, they had gone together to settle the matter. ‘It’s because the sun shines on it, Miss Tarring.’

‘Exactly! Draw the sun with rays blazing out all round, Dorothy Ann.’

‘I say, thank you awfully! That’s ripping. Nobody else has the sun.’

‘What about you, Katharine?’ Miss Tarring was very curious to know her choice.

‘I want her to be Indian too, but she won’t,’ sighed Dorothy Ann.

Katharine flushed; it was not easy to express just what she meant. ‘I want my name to be Mavis, Miss Tarring. That means a thrush, and I could draw one easily. I do love the way a great fat thrush sits on the highest point he can find, and just shouts for joy till he nearly bursts, and everybody has to listen. Seems to me that’s an awfully jolly idea—being so frightfully happy about everything that you have to let everybody know it. I can’t say quite what I mean; but don’t you understand?’

‘I understand, and I like your choice. And I think I can put it into a motto for you. How about this?

Or this one?

Do those express your idea?’

‘Just awfully well. I’m tremendously obliged, Miss Tarring. That’s just what I want.’

‘Do you know all the poetry that ever was written? Or do you make up these ducky little verses, Miss Tarring?’

‘Quotation books, my dear girl! You should keep one, and put down any lines that strike you. You see how useful they can be!’

‘Rather!’ and Minnehaha and Mavis went off, their minds much relieved.

All this preliminary work took time, since only spare moments and the evening hour could be devoted to Camp Fire business. If ordinary school-work had suffered, Miss Chinchen would have been heard from very quickly. As the long summer evenings came, she granted an extra half-hour after supper to all over twelve years old, and this privilege was well used. Sitting up and down the garden steps, and grouped around on stools or rugs on the gravel, or gathered on the lawn under the trees, the Camp Fire Girls sewed at their ceremonial gowns, embroidered symbols and designs, decorated them with fringe and beadwork, or made head-bands to match, under the direction of Bernice and Melda. If they were alone, with no outsiders in the group, there was much talk of the different Honours for which each hoped to qualify, and much eager anticipation of their first meeting.

Miss Tarring produced a small wooden loom, a neat little contrivance which could be held in one hand, and showed the girls how to use it. They found this new occupation very fascinating, and some one was always at work on a beaded head-band. Katharine’s was woven for her by Leonora, much to her disappointment. She longed to use the dainty loom herself; but Miss Tarring feared it would tire her eyes, and refused to lend it to her. So Leonora, who worked quickly and skilfully, wove Mavis’s band in the suit yellows and browns of the thrush’s breast, with silver notes of music and twin girls dancing hand-in-hand, and the effect was delicate and artistic, though not so effective as some of the others. Minnehaha used a golden sun, black rocks, and gold and silver lines of sparkling water, on a background of flashing white beads to represent sunlight. Heather’s design, illustrating her name-story, was of mountains and rocks in the purples and amethysts of the heather, on a bright-green background. Mnanka represented herself as a ‘creepy’ white spider with long curly legs, wearing a web of rose-coloured threads for the groundwork of her band, and placed along it symbols of her friends and family. Olive used a bird bearing a leaf, and pictures of peaceful Indian home-life—the camp fire, the tents, and the pipe of peace. Pamela’s harp, song-notes, and little bells of music were all of gold. The designing of these caused much discussion and laughter; but the girls were very proud of them when they were done, and very anxious to wear them with their gowns. Mere embroidered bands could never have satisfied them as did these bands of beadwork, which would flash and twinkle in the firelight.

Often Miss Tarring joined them, and it was proof of her fitness for her post as Guardian that she was always welcomed with delight, and no conversation was ever dropped because she had come. She knew them all thoroughly after a few of these informal work-meetings, and was quite aware of their eagerness to start in earnest. To their delight, she announced a first ‘meeting and Council Fire,’ as she put it, to be held on the island at Waterside just a fortnight after the secret meeting in the dormitory.

‘We have a great deal of business to do. There’s no need to wait till your books and dresses are ready. We’ll have an open-air meeting without ceremonial costumes, and get some of the business cleared off. Then we’ll have another in about a month, when your gowns are ready.’

‘But you and the other three will wear yours?’ Katharine pleaded. ‘Oh, please, Miss Tarring! It will make it so much more real!’

‘You could change in the house. Aunty would be awfully pleased. She wants you to use it any way you like. She told me so,’ Dorothy Ann added.

Miss Tarring looked dubious. ‘If the girls care to wear theirs it would add to the reality of the meeting; but I hardly think I’——

‘Oh, do! Oh, please do! Please!’

She laughed. ‘Oh, very well! If it means so much as all that to you, I’ll do it. We may as well be in earnest. But you must all be very much in earnest, too, you know. If Bernice and Melda and Leonora and I take the trouble to carry all our things so far, and change our dresses just to please you, you must all do your share to make the meeting a success. One silly giggler can spoil a ceremonial meeting.’

The Camp Fire with one accord fixed its eyes on Irene Smith.

‘We’ve got one!’ said Katharine.

‘She’d better!’ said Dorothy Ann.

CHAPTER VII.
THE CEREMONIAL MEETING.

It was their third visit to Waterside, for the Saturday before had been wet. As they set out, Bernice, laden with a big basket, turned to Dorothy Ann. ‘What’s your little aunt’s excuse to-day, Minnehaha?’

‘She has a friend stopping with her, so fears she must devote all her time to her,’ Dorothy Ann said primly, obviously quoting a letter. ‘Isn’t she a dear silly fraud? She’s asked an old friend on purpose, just to give her a decent excuse. She’s ashamed to look me in the face and tell me, so she had to write instead. So we’d better not go into the house to-day. But if you three and Miss Tarring care to use the morning-room to change in, she wants you to do it. They won’t be in there, and it has a jolly handy window into the garden.’

‘No; I guess we’ll change on the island, and not go running about the garden in our gowns. There are heaps of dinky little dressing-rooms among the bushes, and the ground’s quite dry.’

‘What have you got in the basket, Berny? Candles? Things for the meeting?’

‘Wait and see!’

‘I believe it’s full of beads,’ said Priscilla. ‘Melda says Bernice has heaps.’

Hardly that many, though! I should be weighed down if I wore a marketing-basket full of beads. No; it’s something else.—Well, Minnehaha, if your little aunt has a visitor I guess we mustn’t worry her to-day; but, I tell you I don’t like it, and I’m going to do something soon. We all want to see her badly!’

‘I don’t like it either; but I don’t see what we can do without worrying her, and that would be awfully mean,’ said Priscilla.

‘We’ll have a try, anyway;’ and Bernice nodded resolutely.

For this one afternoon the island was given up to Miss Tarring, and she posted Dorothy Ann by the landing-stage, to be sure that only authorised persons were ferried across. As there was only one punt, and as it was in the gardener’s charge, they were, therefore, safe from interruption. Dorothy Ann saluted each party of new arrivals with the hand-sign of Fire taught her by Melda, and the greeting, ‘Kolah!—Pass, friend!’ and when all had landed, informed the old boatman that no one else must come, and that he must keep guard over the punt till they called him to take them across again. Then she joined the others in the clearing in the middle of the island.

The bushes round about were heavy with hawthorn at its sweetest, and below were dotted patches of wild hyacinths and yellow pimpernel; under the trees the grass was blue with hyacinths, but there was a wide, clear space in the middle where only grass and daisies grew. The ring of trees and bushes was thick all round the edge of the islet, and the curious girls who wandered from the lawns and shrubbery to the water’s edge and looked across could see nothing of what was going on.

Squatting in the long grass, the new members waited eagerly. Presently down a path from the thickets at the end came Miss Tarring, as she had come out of the shadows of the dormitory, and a murmur of admiration ran round. Like Dorothy Ann, they had hardly realised that she was beautiful. ‘Awfully jolly’ and ‘Jolly pretty’ would have been their usual description of her; but in her Indian robe, with graceful swaying fringe about her ankles and arms, hanging ropes of beads, and the beaded head-dress above her thick black plaits of hair, she was more than pretty, and every girl present, with the instinct of hero-worship and romance strong in her, vowed instant allegiance, and felt, a new loyalty and a new glow of pride in her as their leader.

She stood waiting beneath a big tree, while Bernice led her sisters forward to the low chant, ‘Wohelo for aye!’

‘Pity Berny hasn’t black hair!’ murmured one fascinated spectator.

‘Oh, I think her yellow’s pretty! It makes a change, too. The other three are all so awfully alike. Melda’s the very image of Miss Tarring.’

When the three girls had seated themselves in a circle on the grass, Miss Tarring joined them, and Clare whispered, ‘I say, how does she do it so prettily? I should roll over!’

‘You’ll have to practise in the dorm. at night. Perhaps she does! She gets down awfully nicely.’

‘She’s always graceful,’ Priscilla murmured, watching Miss Tarring with fascinated eyes.

‘Daughters of the Camp Fire, some maidens have come who desire to sit by our fire and help to tend it. Shall we make them welcome?’

They all rose to their feet, and she turned to the girls waiting among the trees. ‘Is it your desire to become Camp Fire Girls, and to follow the Law of the Fire?’

‘Oh yes, please, Miss—er—Guardian! We want to awfully.’ Dorothy Ann spoke for the rest.

‘Then let each maiden speak for herself, and repeat the Law of the Fire.’

Once more Dorothy Ann took the lead. She had been told what to say, and she stepped forward and spoke up clearly: ‘The Law of the Camp Fire is to Seek Beauty, Give Service, Pursue Knowledge, Be Trustworthy, Hold on to Health, Glorify Work, Be Happy. This Law of the Fire I will strive to follow.’

‘As Guardian of the Fire, I welcome you as a member of our circle. If you truly desire to keep the Law, sign your name thereto in the Record Book.’

Melda was taking the Count of the meeting, scribbling notes on a sheet of paper. Bernice had brought pen and ink and a big, strongly bound book, on the first page of which Dorothy Ann found the Law inscribed. She signed her full name and the date, then sat down beside Melda; and the ceremony was repeated for each new member, till all had recited and signed the Law.

‘This is some circle!’ Melda whispered when the ring was complete.

‘Wish our gowns were ready! I do feel an undressed object without any beads on!’

‘Can’t have everything all at once. Now we’re going to light the fire;’ and Melda put down her pencil.

‘Not candles?’

‘Not out here; they’d be silly. No; the Council Fire.’

‘Catalina, our Wood-Gatherer till a few days since, will you bring the wood for our fire?’ said Miss Tarring.

Leonora had a pile of sticks ready, and had only to fetch them. When she had laid them down at the Guardian’s feet, she stood and repeated the recitation with which she had lit the first candle—‘I light the Light of Work.’ Melda, as senior Fire-Maker, was called upon to lay the fire, repeating over the sticks when they were laid in order the second verse—‘I light the Light of Health.’ ‘Rosemary, our Torch-Bearer,’ then went forward, took a lighted taper from her aunt and lit the fire, repeating the ‘Love’ verse. There was a moment’s suspense; then the flame leapt up bravely, and, led by Melda, the girls all sprang to their feet and gave a hearty cheer.

‘Now we can get to business!’ said Miss Tarring when they were all seated around the blazing fire. ‘Estrella, you must feed our fire when necessary. Catalina will gather more wood when you want it. Now, Daughters of the Camp Fire, how many of you have chosen your ceremonial names? Ten? Well done! Are your minds quite made up? If not, better wait a while.’

She had talked with them privately, and knew they had decided definitely and would not wish to change. ‘You shall take your names, then, and henceforth around our Council Fire they will be yours, and your old ones will be forgotten.’

She looked round at the ten. ‘Marjory, you are the eldest of our new members. Write your old name on a slip of paper. Now come and burn it in our fire, and tell us your new name and your symbol, and why you have chosen them.’

There was a ripple of laughter as Marjory went forward, knelt, and thrust her twisted paper into the flames. Hurriedly and rather nervously she said. ‘I, Marjory Janet Ferguson, hereby give notice that I take Ruth to be my Camp Fire name, because Ruth means friendly and loving, and—and I think that’s a jolly thing for any girl to try to be! My symbol will be two clasped hands, and my motto, “The only way to have a friend is to be one.” I will try to earn my name by being friendly and nice to people, though I’m afraid I haven’t always been like that in the past;’ and then, scarlet with embarrassment, she fled back to her place, and slipped out of sight behind Katharine.

Priscilla, as she burnt her old name, told briefly the legend of the heather and the waste places, her face very sober. She told it so well and earnestly that there was a murmur of applause, and then she too slipped hurriedly out of sight. Dorothy Ann, Katharine, Phyllis, Clare, Irene and Violet, and Mary Manners followed, with brief explanations of their new names. Then the Count of the last meeting was read, and at the Guardian’s suggestion it was decided to send a description of this first meeting to America, with greetings to the friends there, to be signed by all.

‘Sign your old names this time. They will interest the girls over there,’ she said.

Honours were then awarded to those entitled to receive them. Rosemary had kept what she called a ‘lunch-counter’ for birds on her window-sill, and, to her great delight, had seen there sparrows, robins, a blackbird, several starlings, a chaffinch, and a pair of tits who came for a coco-nut hung beside the window. For this she received a Nature Honour, but was required first to tell the meeting what food was taken by each kind of bird. She divided them correctly into eaters of crumbs, and eaters of scraps of meat, and ‘eaters of everything they could see,’ as she said. She also received a Business Honour for not having borrowed money or anything to wear for two months. Estrella had completed her three months of ‘saving nine stitches once a week,’ and Catalina claimed a Health Honour for diving at the baths.

This was followed by a pleasant interlude, when Rosemary opened her big basket and showed it full of little cakes. She went round the circle distributing them, and explained that she had made them herself that morning, but that no one need be frightened, as they were quite safe. ‘Miss Chinchen let me go in the kitchen for an hour, when she heard it was for the meeting. We can’t have piles of refreshments out here, but we thought we could have a few cakes. Are they all right? But I know they are, for Leonora tasted one, and she’s frightfully critical.’

‘Ripping! Thanks awfully! We wondered where you’d disappeared to.’

While they munched contentedly the Guardian rose and addressed them. ‘Daughters of the Fire, when our ceremonies are over, it is time to meet in Council round our Camp Fire. At this our first circle there are some words I must speak to you. Do you all know why we have chosen to meet around a fire? What does fire mean to you? It is the symbol of life—of civilisation—of home—of energy and enthusiasm—of the Inner Spirit. I hope you will think these things over for yourselves, till you realise how great a matter it is to meet around a fire and to promise to tend it. In time of temptation to lower ideals, the thought of your fire should keep you pure; in time of weakness it should make you strong; in time of slackness it should give you new life and energy. And Wohelo, our password, should remind you to strive for Work, Health, and Love. Now I must speak of the future. When all have taken their ceremonial names, we will call the roll as soon as our fire is lighted, and each will respond with her verse or motto. These and your gowns and head-bands should be ready for our next meeting, in a month or so. In the meantime we will meet as we have been doing to work at the dresses, and Miss Chinchen has promised that we shall have one Saturday for a picnic; while the rest of the school comes here as usual.’

‘May we clap?’ whispered Dorothy Ann to Melda, and they led an outburst of applause.

‘With regard to your work for Honours, you should choose the ten which will come most easily to you, and make sure of them first. Then, when you have qualified as Wood-Gatherers, you can go on to more difficult tasks. Our chances of work in Home Craft are more limited than in the case of girls living at home; but Miss Chinchen, who is anxious to give us every help, has offered to allow Camp Fire Girls the use of the kitchen premises on Thursday evenings when the maids are out, on condition that they leave everything tidy when they have finished, and lay the tables and bring in the supper, so that all the maids may go at once. Those are small conditions. There is one other which is very necessary. I have heard of maidens who did not know how to boil an egg; if there should be any such in our circle’—there was a subdued giggle from Minnehaha, while Mavis looked conscious and laughed—‘it would scarcely be possible to turn them loose in the kitchen. Rosemary or Estrella or I must be present if any maidens wish to cook, wash, or iron. We have all had experience, and you will find you will save time and trouble if one of us is there to answer questions.’

‘Say, Guardian, I’ll do that!’ There was an eager light in Melda’s face. ‘I’d love to, and I can cook! I guess that’s my stunt—an hour a week for three months!’ and she nodded resolutely.

Bernice laughed. ‘You aren’t going to do that for nothing, Melda Tarring! I know what you mean to get out of it!’

‘Sure thing! I may as well qualify, anyway.’

‘Estrella wishes to be chosen as Torch-Bearer,’ the Guardian explained, for the benefit of the new members. ‘For that she must lead a group of at least three girls once a week for three months.—Very well, Estrella; but remember it matters how you lead them!’

‘Oh, we won’t get larking, aunty! I’ll be awfully strict.’

‘Are you going to taste all the things we make, Miss Tarring?’ Katharine inquired.

‘I’m sorry for your digestion when you taste mine!’ laughed Dorothy Ann.

‘My digestion’s hardened by this time. I shall certainly not give Honours for anything I’m afraid to taste. Girls, it is the very essence of our fire-circle that we should help one another. A girl who has a gift must use it for the good of all. I fancy Heather will be able to give us valuable help in Nature Study?’

Dorothy Ann poked Priscilla, who looked up, startled by this first use of her new name. ‘I’ll be awfully pleased to, Guardian. I’ll do anything I can.’

‘She can cook, too. She’ll get whole strings of beads for Home Craft,’ said Katharine.

‘Now I want volunteers. We from America have studied and enjoyed the songs and dances of the Indians; now we want to learn those of our own country. Can any one help us to learn country-dances?’

‘Katharine and I could,’ Dorothy Ann said eagerly. ‘We were awfully keen on them at dancing-class last winter. Will Miss Chinchen let us have the kinder?’

‘I can arrange that. We shall be glad of your help, Minnehaha and Mavis.’

‘Oh, I forgot! I am sorry! We haven’t got used to our names yet;’ and Dorothy Ann reddened in confusion.

Priscilla laughed. ‘You needn’t have poked me!’

‘Pamela could play for us,’ Mavis suggested. ‘She can play anything.’

‘We’ve a book of Old English legends,’ Olive and Ianthe spoke together. ‘Perhaps we could read them aloud while we’re making our dresses. There’s an Honour for knowing them, isn’t there?’

‘To be sure. That is a good idea. Oh, we won’t have reading all the time!’ as some faces fell. ‘I know you like time for discussion of weighty matters and argument on points of national importance!’ at which description of the chatter and gossip which usually accompanied their needlework the girls laughed. ‘But we might very well read a story occasionally. Now we really must break up our meeting, or the others will be going home without us. It will take some time to ferry you all across. Rosemary and Estrella, will you extinguish our fire?’

The camp fire had been burning low for some time, and Miss Tarring had restrained Melda when she wished to feed it. Now they scattered the embers and tramped out the smouldering flames, leaving only charred sticks, which Catalina gathered into a neat heap and dropped into the river. The Indian princess and her maidens disappeared among the bushes to change their dresses and arrange their hair, and the new members went down to meet the ferry, and sat on the bank while a few were punted across at a time.

CHAPTER VIII.
WORKING FOR HONOURS.

‘Dan, did you notice how those Indian dresses seemed to fit in with the trees and the grass and flowers, and everything?’ Katharine asked, as they waited for the ferry. ‘I thought perhaps Miss Tarring and the girls would look silly and dressed up, wearing them out of doors; but they didn’t, at least not to me. They just looked the right thing. Wasn’t it queer?’

‘I just thought they all looked as jolly as they did in the dorm. that night.’

‘I know what Katharine means, and I felt it too,’ said Priscilla. ‘The costumes didn’t look unsuitable.—Katharine, don’t you think it must be because that’s where they were designed for and worn first? Indians would camp out in the woods, wouldn’t they? Those dresses really belong more out among the trees than in a house, even by candle-light.’

‘I hadn’t thought of that. Yes, I suppose that’s it. Then we needn’t feel silly when we wear them outside;’ and Katharine was satisfied.

‘I don’t mean to feel silly! I’m just longing to wear mine!’ Dorothy Ann declared.

‘I’m real worried about that poor little aunt of yours, Minnehaha,’ said Bernice, as she joined them on the bank. ‘Three times we have come here, and we’ve never seen her yet. You say she likes us to come, and watches us from the windows; but I think it’s downright sad. She’s been mighty good to us, and we’d like to please her. Won’t she come out and make friends?’

‘Not to-day, I’m afraid, because she’s got somebody with her, you know.’

‘Well, I’ve got an idea, and aunty thinks it’s quite a good one. Before we go, let’s all line up in front of the windows and sing her something. Some of those ripping Old English songs we learn in singing-class would do. I guess she’d be mighty pleased, and her friend could listen too.’

‘D’you think she’d like to hear us squalling?’ Dorothy Ann asked doubtfully.

‘Speak for yourself, Minnehaha!’ Melda retorted. ‘I don’t intend to squall at any old lady!’

‘Well, shrieking, then! Do you imagine our singing’s pretty? Yours may be, but I’m sure mine isn’t.’

‘Any singing sounds prettier out in the garden.’ Leonora’s dark eyes danced mischievously. ‘Even yours might be quite nice out here under the trees, Dorothy Ann.’

‘Oh, we all know you and Melda and Berny can sing! I’m thinking of the rest of us—me and Katharine, for instance. How she had the cheek to call herself a thrush I don’t know.’

‘Dan, you pig!’ cried Mavis indignantly.

‘I think you three had better sing a trio, and leave the rest of us out,’ the pessimist went on.

‘What about Van Evans? You know she can lead soprano anywhere, and without any accompaniment.’

‘And Clare—I mean Pamela—can lead alto,’ Katharine added. ‘You and I may not be brilliant, Dan, but we’ve plenty who aren’t so bad. I think it would sound ripping. Don’t be a wet blanket and blight all Berny’s jolly idea! That’s not being Minnehaha!’

Dorothy Ann laughed. ‘Oh, all right! I don’t say Aunt Ann will like it, though. And we only know silly old school songs.’

Miss Graveson had accompanied them to-day as well as Miss Tarring, and the idea of an open-air practice took her fancy immensely. She had been teaching them folk-songs, in which all the American girls had taken keen delight, and these were very suitable for their purpose. Standing three-deep in a wide semicircle on the lawn before the house, the girls sang ‘Sweet England,’ ‘The Seeds of Love,’ ‘Blow away the Morning Dew,’ and ‘Sweet Nightingale’—all country songs, which seemed part of the trees and grass and flower-scented breeze. Van and Clare were good leaders, and kept true to their note; and Bernice, Melda, and Leonora were valuable assistants. Led by these five, the rest had no excuse for failure, and the singing was very sweet. The maids and gardeners appeared at the corners of the house or among the bushes, and several girls were sure they had seen figures behind the curtains of the drawing-room.

‘D’you suppose Miss Nairn would be able to hear the words?’ Katharine asked, as they walked home across the Water Meadows. ‘Because there are those last verses of “Sweet England”—“I’ve an aunt who is grey, and she loves me amain,” and “I’d kiss her old cheeks, and I’d nurse her in pain.” We wouldn’t want her to we meant anything by it.’

Bernice laughed. ‘Sure she won’t! She wouldn’t catch all the words, Mavis.’

The Thursday evening following the first Council Fire, and several Thursday evenings after that were times of high frolic and much strenuous work in the big kitchens and sculleries at the back of the house. Evening study-hour was put half-an-hour earlier to give more time between it and supper. As soon as it was over the Camp Fire Girls took possession of the back premises, while the rest of the school scattered in the garden or sat on the steps.

Melda, crochet in hand, sat on a front table swinging her legs, and kept an eye on everybody who wished to cook.

Bernice came also, but promised not to interfere. ‘Everybody can’t cook at once. I’m going to make some of them do cleaning and ironing, and see they do it properly and use the right things. I saw somebody washing a flannel waist this morning; it should be ready for ironing. Who was it?’

Violet owned to being the possessor of the ‘flannel waist,’ but admitted that she knew nothing whatever about ironing.

Bernice found a pile of handkerchiefs waiting to be done, and set her to work on these by way of practice. ‘You can do the waist after. Now, who’s going to clean knives, brasses, boots, and silver? If you learn how to do them this week, aunty’ll come and watch next time, and see if you’re good enough for Honours.’

The girls, wearing chemistry overalls, all wanted to cook, of course, but that was obviously impossible. Melda picked out those who knew something about it already. ‘Priscilla, they say you can cook. You’d better get your Honours, and then some one else can have a go.—Dorothy Ann and Katharine, would you like to boil an egg?’

‘Pig! I’d like to cook eggs in four different ways, though,’ said Dorothy Ann.

‘I guess we’d better pay for the eggs and flour we use; that’s only fair. All right! You two can make an omelet and scramble some eggs for the mistresses’ supper. They won’t mind, if we make them a present of the eggs. Now who’s going to make two kinds of cakes, scones, or biscuits?’

There were several candidates for this post; but Phyllis and Clare were presently set to work, and Melda, crocheting busily, recited recipes and made them write them down. ‘You’ve got to know them by heart. You won’t always have me here to play cook-book. Weigh out your materials, and then write them all down from memory.’

‘Half-a-pound of flour, two ounces of sugar, two ounces of butter. How much baking-powder was it, Phyllis?’

‘Oh, about two ounces, I guess. It’s all ounces,’ said Phyllis vaguely.

‘No; some was teaspoons. What was this?’

Melda was frowning at them. They looked at one another blankly.

‘I shall put down two ounces,’ Clare said desperately.

Melda groaned. ‘Stop, you awful greenies! It’s only a pinch, just to make them light, you sillies!’

Feeling rather crushed, they completed the recipe under her directions, but cheered up when they came to the mixing of their materials.

Priscilla had elected to make bread, much to the awe of the other amateurs. She knew what she was about, however, and made her preparations methodically, handling the kitchen-range in a way that came of long practice. Having obtained a promise from Melda that this should be her ‘stunt’ for the evening, she had provided herself with yeast on her last shopping walk, having been warned by Katharine that it would probably be necessary to do so.

‘I’m quite sure the Chinaman doesn’t ever have bread made at home. We never get any of it, anyway. There won’t be any yeast in the house, Priscilla.’

‘What’s it for?’ Dorothy Ann had asked vaguely.

Katharine, being north-country, not quite so ignorant. ‘Hardly anybody makes their own bread here,’ she said.

‘I never knew a house without yeast before!’ said Priscilla, and thanked her for the advice, which proved to have been necessary.

Priscilla’s bread was so successful that it was eaten by the girls of her own table a few days later, and proclaimed, in tones of great surprise, much nicer than ‘shop stuff.’

‘Well, of course!’ said Katharine scornfully.

‘It’s not really worth an Honour,’ said Priscilla when informed that she had qualified for a Home Craft bead. ‘I’ve done it so often at home. There’s nothing in it.’

While she was making use of the oven, anyway, she mixed and baked some Yorkshire tea-cakes and a batch of buns, and qualified for Honours in these also. To the amusement of Bernice and Melda, she did not understand the gas-oven in spite of her skill, and preferred to use the coal-fire, to which she was accustomed. ‘We hadn’t gas at the hospital. We were miles from everywhere, you know. We made our own electric light, but we didn’t cook by it, and of course there was no gas laid on.’

With her knowledge of trees, flowers, and birds, and a carefully written paper on the symptoms of infectious diseases and the methods of taking temperatures, and of various fever-conditions, and an evening’s hard work in which she satisfied Bernice of her powers in cleaning the various articles required, she had soon qualified for her first ten Honours, and was on the way to several others—notably for so many hours of tennis in a month.

‘I’d soon walk my forty miles in ten days if it was holidays,’ she laughed. ‘I could do it in two days on the moors. But there’s no chance here.’

She could not claim the swimming Honours which came more easily to her companions. Several could swim a hundred yards, show two standard dives, and swim in four ways, and Miss Tarring was invited to come and see them do it at the baths on Wednesday afternoons. An attempt to win Honours in Nature Lore revealed to most members of the Camp Fire their appalling lack of definite knowledge. They knew flowers by sight, but were more than doubtful of their real names. Dorothy Ann called bird’s-foot trefoil ‘lady’s slipper,’ and shepherd’s-purse ‘pickpocket;’ Katharine blushed with shame when she could not name a plane-tree and had to be shown the flowers on a sycamore.

‘And I showed them to you this time last year in our dale!’ Priscilla said reproachfully. ‘One of the things that makes me ill with home-sickness is a sycamore, and another’s an ash. We have such beauties in the dale.’

‘I know. But you showed us such heaps. I got all muddled.’

When the limes flowered, and the girls took their daily walks under canopies of creamy, sweet-scented tassels, Dorothy Ann horrified Melda by declaring she had never noticed them before, and asking if they did it every year.

‘I sure think it’s time you belonged to a Camp Fire, Minnehaha!’ Melda jeered. ‘I guess you’ve been going about with your eyes tight shut.’

‘I’m afraid I’m worse,’ Katharine said mournfully, ‘for I’ve noticed them, but I never troubled to ask what they were. That’s worse than not noticing.’

‘Oh no, it’s not! If you never see you can never ask, and then you can’t ever find out. But if you see you may ask sometime. It’s so jolly silly not to notice things!’

‘But it’s so jolly lazy not to trouble about them! If you don’t see you can’t ask, and so it’s not your fault. But if you see things you don’t understand, you ought to try to find out about them. I think I’m the worst.’

‘Do stop that, you two! I’ve heard you at it before. You’re both bad enough.—Will you know a lime next time, Katharine?’

‘Yes, and a sycamore! And a plane-tree has little balls, like spangles on a Christmas-tree.’

‘And a spotty trunk, like measles,’ Dorothy Ann added. ‘We know something, after all!’

The country walks at which they had scoffed were much more interesting now that they had an object, and that every one was on the lookout for new trees and birds. Before long the girls discovered that the country lanes were full of chaffinches, and the hedges of ‘traveller’s joy’ and bryony; while the ‘jungle’ and island at Waterside, and the banks of the canal and rivers and the marshy ground of the Water Meadows, gave new sets of specimens, and enlarged their lists. Priscilla was seldom at fault, and was grateful for the Matron’s help in former days.

Honours in Hand Craft took longer to win. It was not possible to crochet three articles in a week or to knit a pair of stockings in a fortnight. Most of the girls were at work on undergarments in the needlework class, however, and these had to be very excellently done to satisfy Miss Chinchen. Miss Tarring promised that these should count as one of the two garments necessary to give an Honour, and the making of the ceremonial gowns qualified those who did them without help for another. Some began to make blouses in their spare time; others to trim hats, which had to be very well done if they were to be worn without ridicule from the critical outsiders and almost as critical Camp Fire maidens themselves.

Clare called Katharine into her cubicle one evening, and diffidently showed a white straw hat. ‘D’you think I could wear that? I never did one before. Is it all right?’

‘It’s awfully pretty. How did you make those dinky little bows? Has Melda seen it?’

‘No. I didn’t like to show her. I thought I’d show it to you first.’ Clare had felt that Melda might be critical, but she knew she could trust Katharine to be encouraging.

‘I’ll call her. I’m sure she’ll say it’s good enough. You must wear it to-morrow.’

Melda came readily. ‘Some hat!’ she said, and agreed that it was very pretty on the bed, and just as pretty on Clare’s head. Then she held out her hand for it. ‘Have you put in a head-lining?’ she demanded sternly.

Clare gave it to her nervously. ‘Is that all the stuff there usually is inside? I didn’t know how. Does that matter?’

‘What’s the good of it, anyhow?’ Katharine asked. ‘Nobody can see it when you’ve got it on.’

‘That’s where the work comes in. I’ll show you how to fix it. It ought to be done first, you silly kid!’

‘I didn’t think it would matter,’ Clare said, much crestfallen.

‘Must be done properly. Now you stitch that carefully; don’t squash all the bows! When it’s done you take it to aunty. I guess she’ll say it’s good enough.’

Several members of the Camp Fire who had been in the school for a year or more were able to claim Patriotism Honours quickly by their knowledge of Old English songs and dances. Priscilla and the American girls had to learn these, but found them easy with Clare at the piano, and Dorothy Ann and Katharine, Violet and Irene, eager to lead them through a country-dance or make up the necessary six for a morris ‘side.’ Marjory, the eldest of the new members and ‘Ruth’ by her ceremonial name, won an Honour for a well-written paper on the lives of Livingstone, Moffat, Morrison, Carey, and Mackay of Uganda.

‘I’ve always been keen on missionaries,’ she acknowledged, as she handed in her papers, ‘and especially in Africa. The great lakes and mountains and forests and deserts, and those English people away in the middle of them all alone and working so hard, always fascinate me. Well, I mean Scots, of course! Those African ones all were, weren’t they? Some day I want to do the women—Mary Moffat and Anna Hinderer, and Irene Petrie in India, and Dr Susie Rijnhart, and Mary Bird. Leonora was telling me about her.’

‘That should be most interesting.’ Miss Tarring glanced through the papers. ‘We must have one of these read aloud at our next Council Fire. I will choose out the one I think most suitable. Oh yes, we must have one!’ as Marjory cried out in protest. ‘You need not read it yourself if you would rather not, but we must certainly all enjoy it.’

‘I’m afraid there won’t be much enjoyment in it. But I’d rather write things than knit or sew, any day.’

‘But you must attempt everything, or you will never get your All-Round Honour, Ruth; and I assure you our All-Round beads are going to be the biggest and prettiest of all.’

Ruth laughed ruefully. ‘I’d like to have one, but I shall have to work hard for it, I’m afraid.’

‘Everybody’s working hard. The outsiders are quite impressed,’ Miss Tarring laughed.

CHAPTER I.
TROUBLE AT WATERSIDE.

The next visit to Waterside was made without any of the seniors. It was the day on which an inter-school tennis tournament was an annual feature. Van, Menie, Bernice, and Priscilla were chosen to play for Miss Chinchen’s, and their form-mates had the privilege of going to watch the contest. So the Fifth and Sixth formed their escort, in the charge of Miss Tarring; and Marjorie Ferguson and Melda were the eldest in the Waterside party. Katharine was kept at home by Miss Chinchen as she had a slight cold, and from these facts came many results.

Before they set out Miss Chinchen addressed them severely. ‘I understand that on previous Saturdays some of you have entered Miss Nairn’s house—with good intentions, no doubt; but it was taking a liberty, nevertheless. You are strictly forbidden to do so to-day, on any pretext. I have a note from Miss Nairn, saying that she is away for a few days, but very kindly desiring that you shall go to the garden as usual. I am sure you will all appreciate the extreme kindness of this, and respect her wishes and mine as regards the house. Miss Nairn has many treasures, collected during long years, and is naturally anxious to run no risks concerning them.’

‘Pig!’ said Dorothy Ann, as they set out ‘Does she think we want to go in and smash things? We’re not bulls in china shops. I don’t believe Aunt Ann ever said that about not going into the house! The Chinaman’s just made it up.’

‘Where has your little aunt gone to, Minnehaha?’

‘Don’t know. Hadn’t heard she was going.’

‘Perhaps it’s just another excuse, and she’s going to be up in her room watching us all the time,’ Phyllis suggested. ‘She’s made some excuse each week.’

‘ ’Tisn’t, then. She wouldn’t write fibs to Chinny. If she says she’s going away, she is going away.’

‘Dolly Ann’s touchy,’ Phyllis laughed. ‘Be careful, all of you! That’s what comes of being away from your twin.’

‘I wanted to stop with her, but the Chinaman wouldn’t hear of it. She is a frightful bully!’ Dorothy Ann said wrathfully.

‘Katharine will be all right,’ Leonora said comfortingly. ‘She was going to finish her gown. We’ll be home to tea, you know.’

Somewhat comforted, Dorothy Ann turned to Miss Bingham. ‘Aunt Ann said I might have a book from the library. It wouldn’t matter if I went in to get it, would it?’

‘You should have asked Miss Chinchen’s permission, Dorothy. I cannot alter her instructions. If you go, some of the others will wish to follow you. The book had better wait till next week.’

Dorothy Ann walked on in much disgust, angrily kicking pebbles out of her way. ‘I’m sure aunty wouldn’t mind! It’s simply silly! Binky’s a pig too!’

‘Why were you so keen on the book?’

‘It was a flower-book, with pictures. Katharine and I were going to look some up. Oh, of course, it will do next week, but I want it now!’

Her disappointment had put her in a bad humour, and every one seemed unreasonable except herself. At the moment the book of wild flowers seemed the most desirable thing in the world, and she was sorely tempted to disregard Miss Bingham and go and fetch it. She hovered round the library windows, hesitating, but not actually entering the house.

Of the American girls, Melda was the most lively and difficult to control, though Annabel ran her close. Bernice and Leonora were of a very different type, as Katharine had seen from the first. Bernice was nevertheless the leading spirit, and she was generally able to sway Melda, and to a certain extent to subdue her. But with Bernice away, Melda was bound to lead, not only her sisters, but a large section of the school, and not always in the direction of law and order.

‘Say!’ and she called Phyllis, Irene, Violet, and Clare into a corner. ‘I guess it’s up to us to do something to please Dorothy Ann’s little aunt to-day. It’s Berny’s stunt when she’s here; but it will look like we’ve no brains among us if we can’t think of anything without her. It’ll look awfully ungrateful, too—as if we hadn’t had a good time to-day.’

‘We might gather flowers again.’ Clare said doubtfully. ‘We mustn’t go in, but we could leave them on the steps. Would she like wild roses? They die awfully quickly.’

‘I’ve got an idea!’ and Melda whispered energetically.

‘But we’d have to go into the house to do that!’ Phyllis objected.

‘Pouf! We sha’n’t do a mite of harm. We’ll only be in there five minutes. Come on to the jungle!’

Though somewhat doubtful, they did not refuse; people seldom did refuse to follow Melda. Gathering wild roses and long trails of clematis covered with creamy stars, they entered the house by the morning-room window, and crept to the library, found pens and paper, and wrote a letter of thanks. As each wrote a line in turn, the result was a jumble of upright, sloping, large and small handwriting. This document was laid in the middle of the big table, and the ‘traveller’s joy’ arranged round it in twisted wreaths, decorated with starry pink roses. The effect was very dainty, and called attention at once to the sheet of paper in the middle.

Melda surveyed her handiwork with satisfaction. ‘I guess she’ll be pleased! That looks real cute!’

‘Won’t it all be dead before she comes home?’

‘A bit, maybe; but she’ll know what it looked like, and she’ll see we tried to do something pretty. When we get back home, we’ll tell the Chinaman we just came in to leave a letter. She can’t say much about that; ’twouldn’t be sensible!’

The others doubted whether Miss Chinchen would take this reasonable view of their disobedience, but they could not draw back now. As they turned to go a scream from the closed drawing-room made them start, and stop, and stare at one another. Then Melda, with a hasty, ‘That’s our Annabel, sure!’ ran across the hall.

As she entered the big room, the others at her heels, there was a crash, a rush, and a cry of triumph. Annabel stood clasping in her arms Miss Nairn’s great green cockatoo, which usually lived on a perch in the greenhouse opening off the drawing-room; at her feet lay a big jar of cloisonnée ware, brushed off a cabinet by the bird’s wing.

‘I’ve got him!’ she panted triumphantly. ‘Help me hold him, Melda! He kicks just awful!’

‘Annabel! What do you mean by being here?’

‘What d’you mean yourself?’ Annabel retorted. ‘I wanted to see this silly green bird.’

‘And you let him in here, you little duffer! Just look what you’ve done!’

‘I didn’t do it!’ Annabel protested. ‘I nev’ touched the silly ole thing. He knocked it down!’

‘She’s jolly well done it now!’ Melda groaned. ‘We haven’t done any damage; but she has! Let’s put the beast back safely, anyway.’

Between them they got the great bird safely back into the conservatory. Then Melda sent Annabel out to join Jeanie and Gwen, and turned to her friends. ‘We can’t give the kid away. After all, it was an accident; she never meant any harm. She’d no business to be here, of course; but then neither had we. But some one’s got to pay for that vase, I reckon. Look here! It was all my idea we came. I’ll own up to Chinny, and say the vase got smashed by accident, and you others needn’t fag to say anything about it. Annabel’s nothing to do with you, anyway. I’m not scared of the Chinaman!’

They looked at one another. The offer was tempting, but they did not take advantage of it, though matters were much more serious than they had been a few minutes before.

‘Oh, we can’t do that! It would be awfully mean!’ Phyllis exclaimed.

‘Jolly rotten!’ Clare agreed. ‘But it’s decent of you to think of it, Melda.’

‘Oh, we’ll play the game! She can’t eat us. We’d be absolute rotters if we funked. But it will be pretty awful. That vase was a good one, I’m sure.’

‘Yes; I’ve seen ’em in museums. They’re Chinese, and awfully precious,’ Melda said gloomily. ‘Say, I guess you’d better leave it to me!’ she urged.

‘Suppose we argue about it outside, anyway!’ Irene suggested.

Still wrangling as to how many should confess, but all convinced that any who did not do so would be ‘absolute rotters,’ they were crossing the hall, when all stopped with an exclamation at the same moment. Some one in a pink knitted coat had slipped into the dining-room out of sight.

‘Dorothy Ann!’ They looked at one another.

‘There’s no other pink coat in the school. What’s she been up to, I wonder?’ Clare whispered.

Melda chuckled. ‘There’s several of us on the job to-day! Wonder if she’s smashed anything! We’ll be in good company when we go to the Chinaman; there’ll be quite a pack of us!’

‘Sha’n’t we speak to her?’

‘No; we don’t know what she’s up to. Come on, let’s get out!’

‘Of course, it doesn’t really matter for Dorothy Ann,’ Violet ventured, as they reached the garden safely.

‘Matters more to-day, for she had special orders all to herself not to come in. There was a book she wanted real bad; I guess she’s been to get it.’

‘Binky will be wild when she hears Dorothy Ann went, after all.’

‘I guess you aren’t going to tell on her, are you?’ Melda asked incredulously.

‘Of course not!’ There was an indignant outcry. ‘But she’ll own up, too. She isn’t a rotter, either, Melda Tarring!’

As Dorothy Ann looked longingly at the library windows, she had seen a white figure cross the room, and had recognised Melda’s middy blouse. Startled and curious, she had crept nearer; but by the time she had reached the window they had left the room in answer to Annabel’s cry. Throwing caution to the winds, she had followed to see what they were at. It did not seem so serious a crime, now that she was not the only sinner; and if any were to be blamed for entering her aunt’s house, surely she might have the privilege of being among them!

‘Melda! Irene! Violet, of course, and Clare! And Phyllis! The wretches, I wonder what they’ve been up to!’ She slipped out of sight among the heavy curtains at the dining-room door as the culprits came hastily out of the drawing-room. ‘They didn’t see me, or they’d have shouted. I’m going to see what they’ve been doing! Oh—oh, I say! Some smash, as Melda would say! I wonder how it happened!’

She looked down at the broken vase in dismay. Then, kneeling, she began to gather up the pieces, her face very grave. What were the others going to do? Surely they had gone at once to Miss Bingham to tell what they had done? They had evidently not gone to give warning to the servants.

Dorothy Ann’s lips pinched tight. She glanced at the windows. One was open at the bottom; it would be possible to suppose a stray cat had found its way in and done the damage. Could Melda and the rest mean the matter to be left so?

She grew hot and angry, but it was with herself for harbouring such a thought. ‘Dorothy Ann Nairn, you’re a mean pig! Of course they’ll own up! Doesn’t the Law of the Fire say, “Be Trustworthy”? And the Law means a lot to Melda, though it’s still new to the rest of us. It wasn’t being awfully trustworthy to come here at all; but, at least, they’ll be honest and own up. There’s not a thing to make you think they’re not going to. You’re mean! Now what shall I do with these?’

She knelt, staring down at the neat pile of broken china. Then the door opened softly, and as she looked up quickly her startled eyes met her aunt’s dismayed face.

CHAPTER II.
‘AN ABSOLUTE ROTTER.’

‘Dorothy Ann, my dear’——

‘Aunt Ann, dear, I thought you’d gone away!’

‘I was not very well, my dear, so I postponed my journey until Monday. I was lying down, but I thought I heard something—a scream’——

‘I guess she did!’ Dorothy Ann thought. ‘I expect one of them screeched when this came down.—Aunt Ann, dear, isn’t it awful? This lovely vase has gone and got itself smashed! Are you awfully cut up about it? Was it one of your favourites? And Miss Chinchen said nobody was to come into the house for any reason whatever! I shall get in a jolly row when I go back and own up!’

What made her refer to herself at the moment she did not know; but considering the circumstances and her rather muddled exclamation, it was no wonder her aunt took it for granted she was the culprit, ignorant as she was that any other girls had been in the house.

‘My dear, I do not wish that for a moment. I am sure it was purely an accident; you would not wilfully do such a thing, and therefore’——

‘I?’ Dorothy Ann echoed, then understood and laughed ruefully. ‘Oh no, dear, of course I wouldn’t! Accidents will happen, you know! I’m simply awfully sorry about it.’

‘I can’t tell on the rest. They must do that for themselves,’ she argued hastily. ‘They’ll own up all right, and that will put things straight.’

‘Of course, Dorothy Ann. And you must say nothing of this to Miss Chinchen. It matters to no one but myself.’

Dorothy Ann, springing up, kissed her warmly. ‘It’s awfully good of you, dear! But I must tell Miss Chinchen. She told us not to come into the house, you know.’

‘Now, Dorothy Ann, I beg you will do nothing of the kind.’ The old lady had understood the remark about ‘getting in a jolly row,’ though she would have phrased it differently. She was deeply agitated at the thought that any girl, and particularly her own Dorothy Ann, should get into trouble on her behalf. ‘I beg you to say nothing to Miss Chinchen—to please me, my dear! It would distress me deeply to think you were in trouble over this matter. The vase was costly, but not precious from old association, as many of my treasures are. I should be infinitely more troubled to think you had been in disgrace on account of what I am sure was a pure accident. Promise me you will say nothing of this to Miss Chinchen, Dorothy Ann!’

‘Sit down, anyway, Aunt Ann, dear!’ Even unobservant Dorothy Ann saw that the old lady was tremulous and shaky, and obviously not at all well. She pushed her gently into a big chair, thinking rapidly as she did so.

‘Promise me, Dorothy Ann! My mind will not be at ease on your account unless you do so!’

‘She’s going to worry all the time because she thinks I’m getting a wigging. I ought to tell, of course, but I really don’t see that it matters. It’s her house; if she says it’s all right, I suppose it is. If those others had seen me just now it might have been a bit awkward, but they didn’t, so it’s all right. Nobody saw me come in, and if she’s really going to worry, I guess nobody’d better see me go out either. I’d best say nothing about it; that will satisfy her, and I’m sure she’ll be ill if she worries just now.’

‘Promise me not to tell any one you have been in the house and seen me, Dorothy Ann! I would rather no one knew I was at home to-day.’

‘Now, Aunt Ann, dear, what can it matter if they know you were here?’ Dorothy Ann argued, much puzzled.

The old lady blushed faintly. ‘They will think—it sounds—as if I had made an excuse again. I did feel unwell, my dear; but your friends would not believe—they would think’——

So she knows they know she’s shy, and hides, and makes excuses every time! The poor little old thing! How awfully like her, though! She thinks we go away and laugh because she’s shy!—‘Aunt Ann, dear, I won’t tell a soul I saw you. Nobody shall know you were at home. I hope you’ll be better in a day or two. Now don’t worry any more. I’ve promised, and I’ll keep my word. And nothing can happen to me, for Miss Chinchen can’t jaw me if she doesn’t know, and if you don’t want her to know there isn’t any reason for me to tell her. It’s for you to say. I think it’s just awfully decent of you not to mind about the vase, dear. You ought to be awfully wild. Now I’d better run, or they’ll be starting for home, and if I’m not there Miss Bingham will be coming to look for me.’ Dorothy Ann dropped a light kiss on her aunt’s cheek, then hurried away, and left the house unseen, as she had entered it.

She was not given to worrying over her own acts and feelings or those of other people, and was quite happy over it all as she walked home, talking to Leonora. The matter had ended quite satisfactorily, so far as she was concerned. As for Melda and the others, they must be waiting to make their confession to Miss Chinchen herself, since Miss Bingham had evidently heard nothing. That was a matter for themselves to decide, of course.

The blow fell as they crossed the Water Meadows, all wandering as they liked. Melda slipped a hand through Dorothy Ann’s arm, and said casually, ‘We’re going to the Chinaman as soon as we get in. I guess you’ll want to come along too, won’t you?’

Dorothy Ann looked at her with startled eyes. ‘What for? What d’you mean?’

‘Oh, come on, Minnehaha! D’you think we didn’t see you?’

‘See me where?’ Dorothy Ann was playing for time, while her thoughts whirled.

‘Dorothy Nairn, I’m surprised at you; I sure am! Don’t try to put me off. We saw you in the house right now. There’s not another pink coat in the school. You don’t mean to say you weren’t going to say anything about it?’ Melda eyed her incredulously.

Dorothy Ann’s lips pinched, and she walked on frowning. To her mind, there was only one solution to the problem she was facing; but it was not a pleasant one, and she sought desperately for some other way. Would it be possible to run back to the house and explain? She knew her aunt had never dreamed of putting her in such an awkward position, and would release her from her promise at once it she understood. Dorothy Ann turned towards Miss Bingham. But how could she ask for leave to go back to speak to an aunt who was supposed to be away from home? As she remembered the full extent of her promise, she saw the whole difficulty of her position. Aunt Ann, in getting her out of trouble with Miss Chinchen, had plunged her into what she would feel far more—trouble with the other girls.

Melda was waiting impatiently, watching her with incredulous black eyes. ‘Well, Dorothy Ann, I guess you weren’t going to try and lie low, if we hadn’t happened to see you?’

‘I’m not going to tell Miss Chinchen anything about it.’ Dorothy Ann looked straight ahead. She spoke defiantly, but hardly recognised her own voice. She did not look at Melda; she did not want to see the unbelief in her eyes turn to scorn and dismay.

Melda dropped her arm. ‘Well, I guess I never did! I sure never thought you’d be an absolute rotter, Dorothy Nairn!’ She ran on, and caught Phyllis and Clare as they walked in sober silence, burdened with the thought of the coming interview. ‘Say, Dorothy Nairn’s not going to tell!’

‘Oh, I say!’ They turned to stare at her, and then at Dorothy Ann.

‘I’ve just asked her. She says she isn’t going to say anything!’

‘Need we, then?’ Clare ventured.

‘Goodness gracious! Isn’t one like that enough in a school? I’ll be honest, anyway. You said yourself any one who didn’t own up would be an absolute rotter.’

‘It’s awfully queer of Dorothy Ann. It’s not a bit like her.’ Phyllis stared doubtfully at the culprit.

Dorothy Ann was walking silently by Leonora, who had found her questions unanswered. She stared past Phyllis and the rest, her eyes defiant. It would only be for a day or two, of course, till she could write to her aunt and explain, and then she would be able to clear herself triumphantly. But until she could get leave to speak, things would be very uncomfortable. She saw that punishment and disgrace must follow Melda’s confession, and that if she still kept silence she must seem a shirker.

It was all so utterly foreign to her nature—the seeming cowardice and lack of all sense of honour—that she was tempted to break her word and tell the whole story. It mattered so little, after all. She knew Aunt Ann’s wishes would be sacrificed in a moment to save her annoyance. But she had given her word, and according to her creed a promise was sacred. She would not break it for fear of what other girls would say; that would be cowardly indeed. She would be really guilty then, and she knew she was not so far, whatever they might think.

‘Well, there’s one thing,’ she was saying to herself, as the others waited for her to come up; ‘I’ll know now which of them really care anything about me. If they know me at all, they’ll know there must be some reason I can’t tell. They’ll know I’m not such a rotter as that. I’ve never funked before. Katharine will understand, anyway. She’ll stick up for me. I guess I can depend on her.’

‘Dorothy Ann!’ Phyllis began in a challenging tone, ‘you don’t mean to say’——

‘Yes. I do.’ Dorothy Ann’s eyes met hers defiantly.

‘Well!’ Phyllis drew back and stared at her as Melda had done.

Dorothy Ann’s temper began to rise. ‘There’s nothing for me to tell! I didn’t go smashing things.’

‘Oh, you know about that, do you?’

‘She always was good at spying on people!’

‘Melda Tarring, you’re a pig!’ Dorothy Ann said hotly.

‘I’m not a sneak and a coward, anyway,’ Melda rejoined instantly.

‘Neither am I.’

‘Looks jolly like it, then, that’s all I can say.—Come on, Phyl! Perhaps she’ll come to her senses.’

Dorothy Ann walked on haughtily, but she felt very uncomfortable. To Leonora’s questions she would give no answer; she was watching Melda as she found Violet and Irene, and told them the news. The five walked in a bunch, and cast occasional glances over their shoulders at her to see if she showed any sign of repentance.

Leonora looked up at her anxiously. ‘Dorothy Ann, what is it? Why won’t you tell?’

‘Because I’m scared of Chinny, I suppose! That’s what Melda will say,’ the culprit said grimly.

‘I know she will; but it isn’t that. There must be some other reason; you wouldn’t be so mean. Won’t you tell us?’

Dorothy Ann’s lips quivered; she was feeling the strain more than she had realised. ‘I can’t, Leo. I’ve got a reason, of course; but I can’t tell anybody. You’re a brick, though.’

‘They’ll be awfully mad if you don’t own up.’

‘Let them! I don’t care!’

‘You sure do!’ Leonora’s hand slipped through her arm. ‘Dolly Ann, do tell! Never mind the reason! It can’t be good enough. You ought to own up, if they do, whatever it is.’

‘Think so? It’s no use, Leo; I can’t do it. You’ve either got to trust me, and believe I’m not a rotter, or think as Melda and the rest do. I can’t explain.’

‘I don’t know what Katharine will say,’ Leonora said miserably; but she did not withdraw her hand. She realised, however, that although Dorothy Ann might be grateful for her companionship at the moment, it was Katharine’s judgment which would really count with her.

That was all that mattered now to Dorothy Ann. She was keenly anxious to see how the seniors, and particularly Bernice and Priscilla, received the news; for, of course, it would spread through the school as soon as Melda and her companions had made their confession, and so were free to speak. No fear of ‘sneaking’ would make them keep it to themselves. It would not be told to Miss Chinchen or any other mistress; they would probably never hear of it unless the pressure of public opinion could force her to confession; but it would spread among the girls very quickly. Melda was far too angry to keep silence. But the thing that mattered even more than the attitude of her older friends was Katharine’s opinion. If Katharine failed her, Dorothy Ann told herself gloomily, that would be the end of everything!

The walk home was very uncomfortable. Most of the girls only knew that there was something wrong; no one would tell them what, but it was easy to see who were in the secret. Dorothy Ann and Leonora walked in gloomy silence. Melda, Clare, Phyllis, Violet, and Irene had much to say, but only to one another. Melda promised wrathfully to tell everybody ‘presently,’ but would give no satisfactory answers at the moment.

She had a new reason now for wanting to make her confession as quickly as possible. The thought of betraying Dorothy Ann to Miss Chinchen had never occurred to her, but neither had the thought of not telling the whole story to the rest of the girls at the earliest possible moment. She disappeared with the other four into the headmistress’s study as soon as they reached the house, and Dorothy Ann fled to her cubicle.

Leonora sought Katharine, and threw herself upon her. ‘Katharine, something awful’s happened!’ She had had a word with Melda as they came up the steps, and knew the whole story now. ‘Melda and some more went into the house when Miss Chinchen told them not to, and Dorothy Ann was there too. They’ve gone to own up, and she says she won’t, and they’re awfully mad with her. And I don’t know why she won’t, or what’s the matter with her!’

Katharine started up. ‘Where is she, Leo?’

‘I don’t know. She ran upstairs.’

‘All right. Thanks for telling me, Leo;’ and Katharine ran up to their dormitory in search of her friend.

CHAPTER III.
KEEPING A PROMISE.

Katharine found Dorothy Ann dropped on her bed, crying heart-brokenly. A defiant attitude in public was all very well, but between overstrain, dread of the immediate future, and anger with Melda and the rest, she was in a state of collapse as soon as she was alone.

‘I say, Dan, what’s up?’ Katharine put her arms round her. ‘Look here, Dorothy Ann, you’ve got to tell me all about it!’

‘I can’t. Who told you?’

‘Leonora. Now, Dan’——

‘Leonora’s a brick.’ Dorothy Ann pushed back her tumbled hair and sat up wearily. ‘Oh, I say! what a sight I look! They’ll know I’ve been howling. How can I make myself decent, Katharine? You howl oftener than me. I am a fright!’

‘I don’t! And you jolly well are!’ Katharine retorted, much exasperated. ‘Dan, aren’t you going to tell me what’s wrong?’

Dorothy Ann tossed off her hat and the pink coat. ‘That’s the beastly thing that gave me away; they knew me by my coat. I thought they hadn’t seen me.’

She sat down to change her shoes, while Katharine watched her doubtfully. ‘You’d better—wash your face,’ she said, a break in her voice, and turned to the window and stood blinking away fast-gathering tears.

Dorothy Ann looked at her. Then she kicked aside her shoes, and went and thrust a hand through her arm. ‘Sorry, old girl! I was a pig. But it isn’t easy. I don’t know what to say’——

‘I thought you weren’t going to tell me!’ and Katharine, her hurt feelings much relieved, threw her arms about her again. ‘Oh, Dan, it wouldn’t have been fair! I did feel bad for a minute!’

‘Now you’re howling too!’ said Dorothy Ann, with gloomy satisfaction. ‘Now, Katharine ducky, do stop it and listen! I’m not going to tell you about it. I can’t tell anybody. See?’

Katharine rubbed away her tears and looked at her. ‘Why not?’

‘I can’t tell you that either. There’s a reason. Won’t you believe me? Leonora did, though she won’t believe it’s a good one.’

‘A reason you can’t own up, like the others?’

‘Yes. Do you think I’d funk?’

‘No, you wouldn’t,’ Katharine said, with conviction.

‘I want you to feel sure! You matter more than any one. I felt bad about the rest, but you really count. Look here, Katharine; I haven’t always been awfully keen on owning up. That time we watched their meeting, for instance; I only went because you said we must. I hadn’t thought there was any need myself. Perhaps you think I’m a slacker, after all.’

Dorothy Ann’s eyes searched Katharine’s face keenly but very wistfully. But there was no hesitation in Katharine’s eyes.

‘But you wouldn’t let me go alone. When I said I was going, you never thought of not coming too. You wouldn’t let Melda and the rest go without you if you could help it. You must have some jolly good reason if you’ll do that, Dan!’

Dorothy Ann drew a long breath of relief. ‘Yes, that’s true; I hadn’t thought of that. Katharine, you’re a dear! You won’t hate me, then, whatever they say?’

‘Dan, you’re just a pig to ask me!’

Dorothy Ann laughed unsteadily. ‘I know; I said I was a pig. I’d tell you all about it if I could; I will tell you as soon as ever I can. But I can’t just now.’

Katharine leaned against her, and said persuasively, ‘You were in the house with Melda and the rest?’

‘No; they went first. I went to see what they were doing.’

‘Oh! And what were they doing?’

‘Coming out of the drawing-room, where they’d somehow managed to smash a lovely vase.’ Dorothy Ann frowned.

‘Oh, Dan, how awful! You weren’t there when they did it?’

‘No; I found the pieces afterwards.’

‘And they’ve gone to tell Chinny?’

‘I suppose so. And they’re just mad because I haven’t gone too. Binky specially told me not to go into the house, you see. I wanted to get that flower-book.’

‘And why didn’t you go with them to Chinny, Dan?’

‘Why d’you think? I’ve told you already.’

‘Because you couldn’t, for some reason. Yes, Dan, but they’ll think—they’ll say’——

‘The reason is I’m scared. I know it’s not, and so do you—at least, you said so just now; but I can’t give them any other.’

‘Not ever, Dan?’

‘Oh yes! I’ll put it all right in a day or two,’ Dorothy Ann said confidently.

‘Oh, then, it’s all right! I thought it was going on for ever and ever. I can stand it for a few days.’

‘And you’ll stick up for me, and not mind what the others say? They’ll be awfully nasty; Melda’s as mad as she can be.’

‘That’s because she’s so straight herself. And she’ll think—she can’t help it, you know, Dan, if you don’t tell her more than you’ve told me’——

‘Oh, she’s told me already what she thinks,’ Dorothy Ann laughed unhappily as she bathed her face. ‘But I haven’t told you any more, and yet you don’t think that of me.’

‘I hope it’s different for me,’ Katharine said indignantly. ‘Melda’s only been here a few weeks; I’ve known you for years. It would be funny if I thought the same as Melda about you. She doesn’t know you; I hope you think I do.’

She turned to the door, then came running back, and took Dorothy Ann by the shoulder and shook her gently. ‘Tell me, Dan; did you think I’d go back on you? I’ll be frightfully hurt and angry if you say yes.’

‘No, I didn’t—I really didn’t,’ Dorothy Ann laughed hastily; but her voice was unsteady. ‘I thought I could depend on you, but’——

‘You thought!’ There was a world of reproach in Katharine’s tone. ‘Dorothy Ann Nairn, I don’t like you a scrap!’ She threw herself upon her again and kissed the back of her neck because her face was wet, then hurried away to bathe her own eyes before the gong rang for tea.

Dorothy Ann laughed again. ‘How awfully like Katharine! She’s a jolly good sort, and she doesn’t like me a scrap—oh no! Now for tea!’ and they went down arm-in-arm, and ready for any unpleasantness.

‘Where’s Melda?’ Marjory Ferguson asked, as they sat down.

‘Haven’t seen her since we came in.’ Dorothy Ann realised that, so far, Marjory knew nothing.

Neither did any one else, it appeared. Tea began as usual; but presently Katharine nudged her friend. ‘Dan, Phyllis isn’t here either, or Clare, or Irene, or Violet. The Chinaman’s sent them all to bed.’

‘Oh!’ Dorothy Ann glanced round quickly, and reddened in sudden distress. ‘I ought to have gone too. It is jolly beastly!’

‘You can’t help it,’ Katharine urged loyally. ‘You would if you could, Dan.’

But Dorothy Ann was unhappy and ill at ease for the rest of the meal. At first she had been glad to find no one knew; now suddenly she wished they did know. She felt horribly guilty as the absence of the five dawned on the rest, and much speculation followed. Now she seemed a shirker indeed. She felt Leonora’s eyes reproachfully on her, and did not wonder. Her only wonder was that Leonora and Katharine, knowing so little, would stand by her at all.

The general opinion was that this was the result of the unknown trouble which had been apparent on the way home. The five absentees had evidently ‘done something awful,’ and the awful something must have occurred during the afternoon.

‘Do you know where they are, Leonora?’ Marjory asked.

Leonora’s eyes fixed themselves reproachfully on Dorothy Ann once more. ‘No, I don’t know. I haven’t seen Melda since we came in.’

‘Isn’t it horrid, Dan?’ Katharine slipped her hand through her friend’s arm as they went out together.

‘Simply beastly. I feel just sick.’

‘When will the tennis girls get home?’

‘Not before seven. They always stop a while after tea.’

Dorothy Ann sat on the steps staring gloomily before her. There was nothing to be done. No letter could reach her aunt before Monday. She could only wait and see what happened. So, in much discomfort, she and Katharine waited.

It was not for long. Presently Marjory, Mary Manners, and Meg came hurrying through the kindergarten-room, and flung an incredulous challenge at her.

‘Dorothy Ann,’ said Marjory, ‘Melda Tarring and the rest have been sent to bed because they went into the house this afternoon, and they say you were there too, and you haven’t owned up!’

Katharine stared at the ground, her face set. Her hand crept into her friend’s lap, however, and lay there clenched.

Dorothy Ann swallowed hard. ‘Well?’

‘It’s not true?’

‘ ’Tis, then. I’ve got a reason.’ She looked up in the desperate hope that they would understand and believe, as Katharine had done.

But that was hoping for too much, and she knew it. Before the dismay in Marjory’s eyes, the scorn in Mary’s, and the unbelief in Meg’s, her own fell; and she looked as she felt, utterly ashamed and guilty, though the reason was not what they thought.

‘A reason! You’re afraid!’

Dorothy Ann grew scarlet. It was a taunt she had never been able to face. ‘I’m not! I’ve never funked anything yet, and I’m not likely to begin now. I’d like to own up, but I—can’t.’

‘Can’t! It does sound likely, doesn’t it? Why can’t you?’

‘I can’t tell you.’ It sounded hopelessly weak and silly even to herself.

‘You mean you’re funky. I think it’s just hateful of you, Dorothy Nairn!’

‘It was awfully mean not to stand by Melda and the rest,’ Meg ventured.

‘Thanks awfully, Meg! I hadn’t thought of that, of course.’ Dorothy Ann grew sarcastic.

‘Well, if you had thought of it, it’s just awfully mean of you!’ Meg’s power of expression was limited; but she was quite sure of what she meant, and so was Dorothy Ann.

‘It’s not a bit like you, Dorothy Ann,’ Marjory said doubtfully.

Katharine looked up quickly. ‘Of course it’s not! I should have thought you’d all know she must have a good reason. You know she’s never been a rotter.’

‘Oh, you know all about it, of course!’ Meg began.

‘Has she told you what the reason is?’ Marjory demanded.

‘She hasn’t told me a thing more than she’s told you. But if she says there’s a reason, then there is. Even if she didn’t, I’d know there must be. She isn’t a slacker, and she isn’t mean. She wouldn’t do it if she could help it. It’s not so jolly nice for her to have you all down on her,’ Katharine said hotly. ‘It would be much easier to go to Chinny and be sent to bed like the rest. If she wanted to do the easiest thing, it would be that. Any one can see she must have a jolly good reason!’

‘I don’t see that,’ Marjory rejoined instantly. ‘If she’s got a reason, why can’t she tell us?’

‘I don’t know; but I know there is a reason.’

‘I shall see what Menie says,’ said Meg.

‘I wonder what Bernice will say!’ Marjory said. ‘Well, Dorothy Ann, unless you can tell us something more, I guess you know what most of us will think!’

‘You ought to be in bed with the others,’ said Meg, as they turned to go.

‘Look here, Katharine,’ Dorothy Ann burst out, as soon as they had gone, ‘it’s making things beastly for you too! You’d better clear out and leave me alone.’

‘Now, Dan, don’t be silly! But isn’t it hateful?’ Katharine wailed. ‘I want to kick them all when they speak to you like that!’

She stuck to Dorothy Ann manfully during many similar interviews. These were all short, but much to the point. The girls could not believe in a reason which had to be a secret when there was such a tempting explanation before their eyes. Dorothy Ann had ‘funked’ the necessary confession, and her hints at a mysterious reason were all ‘absolute rot.’ She knew it, and was miserable, but grateful beyond words for Katharine’s sturdy championship. Katharine asked no more questions, but refused to leave her alone for a moment, and they awaited the verdict of the seniors in suspense and complete isolation from the rest of the school. Even Leonora’s sympathies had turned towards Melda when her sister disappeared to bed at five o’clock on a Saturday afternoon, and she, too, was waiting for Bernice before giving any further sign of friendship towards Dorothy Ann.

It was through Leonora the story had become known, for Melda had been far too angry to obey the spirit of Miss Chinchen’s command that she should not speak to any of the other girls that night. During tea-time she had scribbled a note to Marjory, telling the story in hot, angry words, and had tossed it to Leonora when she came upstairs in search of her. Leonora had not troubled her with questions, but after a glance at the angry heap of bedclothes and black pigtail, had retreated to deliver the letter and see the result.

The seniors and Miss Tarring had not arrived when the time came for the juniors’ supper. Annabel was in a surprisingly bad temper this evening—‘Snapping all our heads off,’ as Jeanie said to Meg; and the younger children were ready for supper and bed before the summons came, though, of course, none of them would admit it.

At last Miss Chinchen appeared, looking worried. ‘Now, Camp Fire Girls, who is ready to “give service”? I want some one to set the table for supper.’

Dorothy Ann and Katharine sprang up willingly; anything would be better than the present uncomfortable state of things.

‘What’s happened to cooky and the maids?’ Mary laughed, as she and Marjory went to help. ‘I’ll cut the bread. I have that job at home.’

‘They can’t all have given notice at once,’ said Meg, bringing plates and knives.

‘Even if they had, they wouldn’t all disappear in a moment. They have to give a month’s notice, silly,’ said Katharine.

Speculation brought no satisfaction, however. The maids had all disappeared, and the juniors’ supper was cleared away, and the table laid again for the elders by the girls who had first gone to help. The seniors arrived just in time for supper, and had so much to hear and tell that they had difficulty in getting ready in time.

‘We were second for the shield. Alderton House won it. Miss Tarring says we needn’t mind being beaten by them, for their play was brilliant, and she says we all played a jolly good game.’ Van got out her news first.

‘Oh, well, we’ve gone up two places since last year! That’s not so bad!’

‘Say, Dorothy Ann, have you taken a place as housemaid?’ asked Bernice.

‘That’s about it.’ Dorothy Ann went on laying plates, her eyes full of dread.

Bernice saw it. ‘What’s the matter, Dorothy Ann?’

‘Servants have all disappeared. We don’t know why or where; but they’ve gone.’

‘How frightfully weird! But I meant, what’s the matter with you?’

‘Oh—nothing much!’ and Dorothy Ann disappeared into the kitchen.

‘Say! what’s up with her?’ Bernice demanded.

‘Bernice, you won’t be ready for supper if you don’t hurry,’ said her aunt in the doorway.

‘Tell me about Dorothy Ann when I come down again!’

‘You’ll find out when you get upstairs, I expect!’ Marjory said darkly.

Pondering this mysterious saying, Bernice ran after her aunt. They were going upstairs together, when Miss Chinchen appeared in the hall. ‘Miss Tarring, I must speak to you for a moment, if you please.’

Bernice went on alone; but at the door of the little dormitory she stopped, aghast. ‘Melda! what’s the matter? Are you sick? Has there been an accident? Or have you got scarlet-fever?’

Melda was sitting up in bed, her hair tossed back, her eyes excited, her face flushed. ‘Is aunty there? Well, then, I can tell you; but you mustn’t tell her, Berny. You’ll see that for yourself, though. We did something awful at Waterside this afternoon. Chinny told us not to go into the house, and five of us went. We were trying to do something to please the old lady, and we sure never meant any harm. But a lovely vase got smashed—don’t ask me how—and, of course, we had to own up as soon as we got home. She sent us to bed at five o’clock, and we’re not to go to Waterside again this term, and we’re all to write separately saying we’re sorry; and, of course, there are conduct marks and extra lessons as well. But that’s not the awful thing; none of that matters, though it was awfully bad luck about the vase. But the awful thing is this—Dorothy Nairn was there too, and she hasn’t owned up! Now you can’t give her away to aunty, but I guess you know how I feel about her; and I reckon all the rest feel the same. You can give her my love, and tell her I think she’s a cowardly sneak!’ Hearing her aunt’s step, Melda disappeared under the bedclothes again.

‘Dorothy Ann! Melda, there’s some mistake! That isn’t a scrap like Dorothy Ann!’

‘Oh, she talks a lot of rot about having reasons; but she can’t say what they are. If you can find out, I’ll be glad to hear them. Don’t talk to me, Berny! I feel just sick, and as mad as anything with Dorothy Nairn;’ and Melda turned to the wall and lay in an angry heap.

Bernice looked from her to their aunt, as Miss Tarring entered, looking very grave. Evidently Miss Chinchen had told her, for she asked no questions. But as Bernice turned to go downstairs, eager to hear more, Miss Tarring called her back. ‘Wait for me, Berny. I want to speak to you.’

Melda raised herself on her arm and looked round. ‘Aunty, I’m awfully sorry. I wasn’t trustworthy to-day. I’ve broken the Law all to smash.’

‘I’m sorry too, Melda. I did think you were old enough to be trusted.’

‘There’s two parts of me!’ Melda wailed, and collapsed suddenly. ‘Sometimes I am quite sensible; but sometimes I go on like a kid, and to-day that bit got on top! I’m sorry as I can be, aunty, and I’ll tell the old lady so. We never meant any harm, only to try to please her.’

‘How did the vase get broken?’ her aunt asked, looking much worried. ‘Miss Chinchen says you refused to explain.’

‘I can’t tell you, so it’s not a mite of use asking. I hadn’t anything to do with it. But it got broken while we were there.’

‘I would like to know which of you five was responsible for it, all the same.’

‘ ’Fraid I can’t tell you that.’ Melda turned her face to the wall again, and her aunt asked no more.

CHAPTER IV.
THE CAMP FIRE ON DUTY.

‘I’m sorry Melda has got into trouble,’ said Miss Tarring, as they went downstairs.

‘Me, too! I mean, so am I, aunty. But I’m not a bit surprised. She is a dreadful kid sometimes; that bit of her was sure to break out before long.’

‘I am very sorry about the vase. But there’s another trouble, Berny.’

Bernice looked at her apprehensively. Who had told her of Dorothy Ann’s failure? Surely Miss Chinchen did not know?

‘The servants have been suddenly taken ill,’ said Miss Tarring, and Bernice breathed again. ‘Miss Chinchen is in great distress; it is really very awkward.’

‘What! all of them? What on earth have they been doing, aunty?’

‘One of them has confessed that yesterday she brought in some tinned salmon, and they all ate it at their tea to-day. You know what tinned salmon can be like!’

Bernice nodded. ‘They’ve all gone and got poisoned? Are they bad? I guess we’d better wash-up after supper. So that’s why Dorothy Ann has turned housemaid!’

‘Miss Chinchen asked for volunteers, and I am glad our girls rose to the occasion. But it is not merely a question of to-night’s work. Cook and some of the others won’t be fit for work for a day or two. Miss Chinchen has sent the gardener to try to find some woman to come in and help; but she can get no one before Monday, in any case, I wondered if we couldn’t help her out.’

Bernice’s eyes snapped. ‘I guess that’s our chance! I’ll cook to-morrow, if she’ll let me off church. That’s my stunt, aunty! I’ll want some of the rest to help, though.’

‘Can you undertake it? To cook for such a household is a fairly big stunt, Berny. Of course, I will help.’

‘I’ll just love it! I’ll have Katharine and Dorothy Ann, though they don’t know a thing; but they’ll do what I say. And I guess Priscilla knows nearly as much as I do myself. I suppose Melda can help to-morrow? Oh, we’ll do it among us, aunty.’

‘It will probably be a case of Honours all round, if you do,’ her aunt laughed.

‘I hadn’t thought of that. Yes, they’ll qualify in heaps of things. I say, aunty, do see Miss Chinchen quick, and tell her she needn’t worry another minute!’

Her eagerness was obvious. Miss Tarring laughed, and sought Miss Chinchen.

‘Bernice?’ Miss Chinchen raised her eyebrows. ‘It is surely too heavy a task for her?’

‘She’s very eager to try. I thought she’d rise to it. She’s fond of housework, and has done a good deal of cooking at home and in camp. If you’ll let her try till Monday, I think you’ll be satisfied.’

‘If she has done any cooking at all she is more qualified than I am! I have never claimed to be domesticated, and I certainly never anticipated a crisis of this kind.’

‘How are the invalids?’

‘Nurse has her hands full; she will have to sit up to-night. I suppose Bernice is not experienced in nursing also, by any chance? I would gladly give nurse some help.’

‘I’m afraid not. She has some knowledge of elementary nursing and first-aid, of course; but that is hardly what you require.’

There was much excitement when Bernice made the news known. The trouble of the afternoon was almost forgotten in this new sensation, and there was much speculation as to whether Sunday’s dinner would consist of bread-and-butter. When Bernice announced that she had temporarily taken the place of cook, there was a chorus of mingled cheers, groans, and laughter, and Van mockingly declared she would prefer the bread-and-butter.

Bernice smiled composedly, and called for assistants. ‘You won’t all get exciting stunts, so don’t come unless you’re prepared to work real hard. There’ll be pans to clean, and dishes to wash, and potatoes to peel. I’ll have to see to the oven and the pastry.’

‘I shouldn’t attempt pastry, if I were you, Berny,’ said her aunt. ‘We’ll be quite content with a milk-pudding.’

‘I’m not so sure!’ murmured Van.

‘I guess we’ll have everything just as usual, aunty.’ Bernice was serenely confident in her own powers. ‘I don’t like half-doing things. You kids needn’t be scared; I won’t poison you. One set of poisoned folks is enough at a time.—You’ll help, won’t you, Priscilla?’

‘I’d love to, if I’m not doing something else.’

As soon as supper was over Priscilla sought Miss Tarring. ‘Do you think Miss Chinchen would let me help nurse? I know a little about nursing; I can make arrowroot and Benger’s, and cook corn-flour, anyway.’

Miss Tarring’s face lit up. ‘That would be really useful, Priscilla. Miss Chinchen was asking if there was any one who could help. I had forgotten you; but, of course, you must have had experience.’ Miss Tarring had long since heard the life-history of each of her girls.

‘I didn’t have much to do with the patients at home, for they were mostly fever and dip. cases. But sometimes when Matron was short-handed she let me help, and I always helped mother.’

‘Come and speak to Miss Chinchen; she will be much relieved. She is not strong enough to give much help herself, and she is needed elsewhere, anyway. This escapade of Melda’s shows that even girls who ought to know better are not to be trusted;’ and Miss Tarring frowned.

‘I think Melda only meant to do something kind, as Bernice has done each time,’ Priscilla said earnestly.

‘I quite believe that. But she had no right to disobey so flagrantly.’

Priscilla was very grave as she followed Miss Tarring to the headmistress, thinking of the other things which had been discussed in undertones, but not allowed to reach any mistress. Everybody knew all about it now. Van was openly scornful of mysterious ‘reasons,’ Menie more quietly indignant. Priscilla, puzzled and unhappy, had had no chance of a private word with Dorothy Ann, and neither had Bernice. Both were anxiously suspending judgment till they had seen her alone.

Bernice found her chance first, since nurse received the offer of help with much relief, and Priscilla was kept busy long after the others were in bed. She would willingly have shared the night-work, but no one would agree to that.

Miss Tarring offered to sit up to give help, if necessary. ‘I shall have a quiet morning, and can rest then. I must be at hand in case Bernice finds herself in any difficulty; we cannot seem to leave everything to her, but, as a matter of fact, she won’t need help. I shall rest then, so I can very well sit up to-night;’ and she sent Priscilla off to bed, promising that she should help again in the morning, when the invalids might be ready for a little milk-food, and her assistance in the special cooking required would be very valuable.

Bernice took command of the proceedings as soon as the girls had cleared the table as usual. ‘Marjory, will you wash-up in the pantry? I’ll take another lot in the scullery. Ever done this stunt before?’

‘Washing-up? No; but I expect I can manage. It’s not difficult, is it? Shall I put everything in a basin of hot water to begin with?’

‘Not the knives, my dear girl!’

‘Sorry!’ Marjory hastily rescued the knives. ‘I didn’t know. Perhaps some one else had better boss. I’ll help.’

‘We want Priscilla. I guess she’s washed-up for a crowd before now,’ said Bernice.

Mary came forward. ‘I’ll do it, Berny. I’ve done it at home. There are dozens of us sometimes.’

‘Good for you, Wenonah! Here you are, then.—Soak those milk-jugs, Clare; they’ll wash easier.—Cold water, Katharine!’ as Katharine, eager to be useful, turned on the hot tap.

‘Wouldn’t hot take it off quicker?’

‘Soak them in cold; wash them in hot! Never put the knives in water at all; just wipe them. Leave those jam-jars to soak till the morning; they’ll have washed themselves by then,’ Bernice said promptly.

‘Washed themselves?’ Katharine repeated doubtfully.

Mary-Wenonah laughed. ‘I’ve found out that trick too. If you leave them full of water all night, they’re clean in the morning.’

‘What a good idea!’ Marjory said innocently, and the more experienced girls laughed.

Bernice rescued a glass dish which Dorothy Ann had been about to plunge in the hot water. ‘That’ll crack, my dear kid! Do think a little what you’re doing!’

‘I’d no idea there were so many things to think about in washing-up! I thought you just—well, just washed and dried things, you know!’ said Marjory.

‘Now, who’ll set the table in the morning? Who’ll make the porridge? Who’s going to fry bacon? You’ll get Honours for all these things when you can do them properly, you know.’

Bernice assigned different tasks to each for the morning, then sent them all away except Katharine and Dorothy Ann. ‘We haven’t cleaned the knives. You two can do that job. Miss Chinchen ought to have a machine; she’s all behind the times. You two are going to rub, and I’ll polish when you’re done. You haven’t been playing tennis all afternoon; some arm exercise will be good for you.’

‘It does make your arm ache!’ Katharine said presently.

‘What have you been doing, Dorothy Ann?’ Bernice demanded. She had been watching her all evening, waiting for a chance to speak. All through supper and washing-up Dorothy Ann had been silent, an unheard-of thing for her.

She said nothing, but her lips quivered suddenly. She rubbed her knife so fiercely to and fro that Katharine remonstrated.

‘You’ll cut me if you don’t mind, Dan, or you’ll break the knife. There! You’ve chopped a great piece out of the board!’

‘Steady, Dorothy Ann! The lady who uses that board will object if she finds it all sliced up like that.’

‘Sorry!’ Dorothy Ann rubbed more carefully, and did not explain that she could hardly see the board for tears.

Bernice, sitting on the table, polished a knife very carefully. ‘Melda told me a mighty queer story just now, Dorothy Ann. I want to hear your side. ’Tisn’t like you, the way she told it.’

‘It’s true, all the same.’ Dorothy Ann worked on with bent head.

Bernice raised her eyebrows. ‘Say, now, why don’t you tell us all about what happened to-day? There’s something we don’t know, sure and certain. Why didn’t you own up with the rest?’

‘Because I couldn’t.’

‘Well, then, why couldn’t you? What happened?’

‘I can’t tell you.’

‘Oh, come on, Dorothy Ann! That’s right-down silly. I don’t pretend to be brilliant,’ Bernice said deliberately, ‘but I’m not quite a softy either, and I guess I know that if you didn’t own up it was because there was something stopping you. I want to know what it was.’

‘I can’t tell you, but I’m glad you believe there was something. Melda and the rest say it’s because I’m scared.’

‘Rot! That’s some nonsense! It wouldn’t be you. But you haven’t any business to make a secret of it, Dorothy Ann. The girls will say things like that it you don’t tell them, of course.’

‘They’ll have to, then. I can’t tell any more.’

Bernice turned to Katharine. ‘Do you know?’

‘Not a thing. I said what you said, that there must be a reason, but she won’t tell me what it is; so I’m waiting till she does.’

‘Well, of course, you’re her chum.—But the others won’t see it that way, Dorothy Ann.’

Bernice argued and persuaded and coaxed, but could get no more out of her. She sighed when all the work was done.

‘I didn’t think you’d be such a mule, Dorothy Ann. If you won’t let us help you, we can’t, you know. You’ll just have to worry along by yourself, and the girls will have to go on thinking what they like.’

‘I can’t help it. I wish,’ Dorothy Ann said fiercely—‘I just wish some of them would go and tell Miss Chinchen! You can tell Melda that, it you like.’

Bernice stared at her. ‘Why? You are queer to-night, Dorothy Ann!’

‘Because then she’d send me to bed, and I’d feel better.’

‘But if you want her to know, why can’t you go and tell her yourself?’

‘I’ve told you, because I can’t.’

‘Dan, it does sound awfully silly!’ Katharine gazed at her seriously.

‘Does it? I’m going to bed.’ Dorothy Ann turned away wearily. ‘I’m tired.’

‘The girls won’t tell Miss Chinchen, but they won’t love you, Dorothy Ann.’

‘Well, I hate the whole jolly lot of them!’ Dorothy Ann’s overstrained feelings blazed up.

‘Camp Fire Sisters!’ said Bernice to herself, as she left everything ready for the morning. ‘ “I will cleave to my Camp Fire Sisters, wherever, whenever I find them.” Guess we’d better not have a ceremonial meeting till some of them are feeling better! There were several couldn’t say that “Desire” just now!’

CHAPTER V.
A STRENUOUS SUNDAY.

The excitements of that sensational Saturday were not quite over. When Bernice went up to bed, she found Leonora trying to comfort Annabel, who was crying stormily; while Melda sat with hands clasped round her knees, watching her youngest sister with gloomy satisfaction.

‘You’d better get it over, Annabel! You won’t be better till it’s through. No one can settle down so long as there’s something on her mind—at least, most people can’t!’ with sudden bitterness.

‘Why, what’s the matter, baby? Nancybel, what is it, dear? Do you feel bad? Shall I call aunty?’

Annabel crept into Bernice’s comforting arms. ‘It was me—broke the vase,’ she sobbed. ‘Will you tell Chinny, Berny?’

‘You poor baby! And it’s been worrying you all evening, of course! But I didn’t know you were there at all, Annabel.’

‘Melda wouldn’t tell on me. But it was me did it—me and the big green bird;’ and Annabel sobbed out the whole story, ending with a piteous request that Berny would go and tell Miss Chinchen at once.

Bernice saw Annabel would not sleep till she was satisfied, so she went to find Miss Chinchen and tell her the true story. She returned with peremptory orders that Annabel was to lie down and go to sleep and not say another word to-night, even to Leonora. It sounded harsh, but was the best way to quiet the over-excited child. Annabel lay sobbing quietly till she fell asleep, and even after she slept there was a catch in her breath as if tears were still not far away. But she was not the only one who cried herself to sleep that night.

Melda was the first to wake next morning. She had had fourteen hours in bed, and was thirsting for action.

‘Wake up, cooky! It’s seven o’clock. We’ll have to hustle if we’re to have breakfast ready in time;’ and she gave Bernice’s yellow plait a tug. ‘Shall I wake the rest?’

Bernice yawned and stretched. ‘Yes, wake all the Camp Fire, but do it very quietly. We’ll get breakfast for the others.’

‘I won’t wake Dorothy Nairn. Katharine can, if she likes. I’m not going to speak to her.’

‘That will be hateful for everybody. I say, Melda, she must have some reason, you know’——

But Melda was gone, running barefoot and without a dressing-gown down the corridor, putting her head in at the doors of certain cubicles to say, ‘Wake up, lazy! Come and get the breakfast! Be quiet about it; don’t wake the rest!’ and when she came back she would listen to no words or excuse for Dorothy Ann.

‘Of course she had a reason, and a jolly good one, Berny! She funked, and she’s a downright rotter. We all know that;’ and though Bernice kept her own opinion, she could not modify Melda’s.

But for the cloud overhanging them, the Camp Fire Girls would have enjoyed that Sunday to the full. The whole school would, of course, have chosen to stay at home and cook rather than go to church. ‘Anything for a change!’ as Van said. But Miss Chinchen naturally would not hear of that. Bernice could only use a limited number of assistants, and she chose the members of the Camp Fire, saying there was no rule against qualifying for Honours on Sundays. The rest went off to church with mock expressions of dread of dinner-time, in spite of the excellent breakfast they had just eaten, and Bernice and her handmaids set to work.

Priscilla had come to help with the breakfast, superintending Phyllis and Clare, Violet and Irene, while they stirred the porridge-pans in turn. She knew all about making porridge, of course, and under Bernice’s directions began to use the rings on the gas-stove instead of the big coal-fire. While the others washed-up, swept and dusted the dining-room, and laid the table for dinner, she made arrowroot for the patients, and gave help upstairs, for which nurse was very grateful. When all were fed and made comfortable, Priscilla came down to help in the kitchen.

Clare and Irene were cleaning knives, and Phyllis was polishing them. Violet and Marjory were chopping mint for sauce, with many groans as Bernice insisted, ‘Smaller! Finer still! Oh, you aren’t nearly through yet!’ Mary was slicing rhubarb for pies; Dorothy Ann and Katharine were silently peeling potatoes.

‘Say, Katharine, do you put them on in water, or dry?’ Bernice asked, laughing.

‘I don’t know! Why d’you ask me? Oh, you’re thinking of those eggs!’ Katharine laughed. ‘In water, then, I suppose. I don’t know how much, or how to tell when they’re done, though. Do they go on at once?’

‘Mercy, no! It’s only ten o’clock. You won’t get Honours for boiling potatoes just yet! I say, Dorothy Ann, you ought to scrape those; they’re new ones. There’ll be nothing left if you peel them.’

Dorothy Ann paused. She was as silent as she had been the night before. ‘They’re awfully tiny. But I thought you always had to peel potatoes?’

‘Not new ones.—Oh, do show her, Priscilla! They don’t know the first thing!’

Priscilla laughed, and came to help. ‘Wash them first under the tap.’ Under cover of the running water she spoke earnestly. ‘Can’t you tell me any more about yesterday, Dorothy Ann? Of course I know you weren’t afraid, but I would like to know’——

‘I can’t, Priscilla, and that’s all about it. It’s not an excuse, as they all say; and I’m not cracked, as Bernice seems to think. I can’t tell, and that’s the truth.’

‘Will you be able to some day?’

‘Yes. Soon, too.’ Dorothy Ann shot a quick look at her.

‘All right; tell me as soon as you can. I’ll wait, as Katharine’s doing, I suppose.’

‘It’s awfully decent of you both!’ Dorothy Ann’s voice shook. ‘I’ll tell you the first minute I can. You two have been bricks to stick to me. Berny’s been jolly nice too; she doesn’t think I funked. But she’s mad because I won’t tell her.’

‘It’s no good. You would if you could. It’s making things awfully horrid for you; you wouldn’t do it if you could help it. It would have been much easier to go to Miss Chinchen with the rest.’

‘Oh, heaps! But they can’t see it. Thanks awfully, Priscilla! You’re a jolly good sort!’

Leonora was mixing custards, to be eaten with the pastry. She was very grave, for Annabel was in dire disgrace, and Leonora was lonely. Annabel had had an interview with Miss Chinchen after breakfast, and had received a lecture and a punishment lesson which appalled her baby soul, but which did not seem so terrible when Leonora came to help her with it, and to help her to write her letter to Miss Nairn, saying how sorry she felt. It was a muddled, tear-stained document, but not quite so confused as if it had been left to Annabel alone.

The true story of the broken vase was known through the school now, and Melda could declare triumphantly that she had meant no harm, and had done none. This did not seem to impress Miss Chinchen, however; in her eyes the disobedience was the crime, and Melda and the rest were still in disgrace so far as she was concerned.

Annabel had not been allowed to stay at home to help. Melda would not have been there either if Bernice had not begged so earnestly for her help. ‘She’s cooked in camp. She knows what she’s doing, not like these other greenies,’ she had urged.

So Melda had been allowed to stay, and in justice the other culprits also. Melda had already done good work by cleaning porridge-pots and frying-pans, and had now taken the vegetables as her special task for the morning.

Bernice put down the flour-barrel, and came and poked Priscilla in the back with a rolling-pin. ‘Say, Priscilla, can you make pastry? I thought so! Why not do it to-day, and claim an Honour? I’ve done it heaps of times, so it’s no special good to me.’

‘I’d love to!’ Priscilla said warmly, realising that this was one of the posts of honour. ‘Don’t you mind, Berny?’

‘Not a scrap! I’ve the joints to see to. Guess I’ll have my hands full. I haven’t started yet, so you can do the whole thing.’

She was thorough in her methods, and made Katharine and Dorothy Ann watch the boiling, testing, and dishing-up of the potatoes. Marjory and Violet had to mix the vinegar for their mint-sauce. Mary arranged the fruit for the pastry, and added the necessary sugar. Leonora made her custard without help, and poured it into glass dishes successfully and without cracking them. At the last moment it was discovered that there was no salt with the potatoes. Katharine cried out in dismay at sight of the amount Priscilla thought necessary; Dorothy Ann looked startled, but said nothing. She had hardly spoken all morning.

The new members of the Camp Fire watched admiringly the mixing and rolling of the pastry, much impressed by Priscilla’s air of being quite at home. They were even more awed when Bernice began to attend to the legs of lamb, flouring them, taking them out to baste them, mixing and making gravy.

‘You do know how to cook, Berny!’ Phyllis said enviously. ‘Where did you learn it all?’

‘Some at home, but mostly in camp. That’s the place to learn. Of course, we hadn’t gas-ranges in camp!’

‘I wish we could go camping!’

‘Not this summer. Perhaps, if we work all winter and show Miss Chinchen the Camp Fire’s really good for something, we might have a camp next summer. I’d like to camp on the island at Waterside. There! I call that a simply ripping dinner, and we’ve never called aunty once!’

Miss Tarring came in from a refreshing sleep in the garden, Miss Chinchen and the rest came home from church, and all sat down to dinner, which the cooks served without help. They were hot and a little tired, but triumphant. The dinner was pronounced ‘just as usual,’ to the surprise of the church-goers and the relief of the mistresses, who had given unusually anxious thoughts to their dinner and their possibly hungry school during the morning service.

The after-dinner washing-up was not so pleasant, for all were tired, but they had agreed to do the whole ‘stunt,’ and would not accept extra help. Priscilla and Melda tackled the cleaning of the saucepans, and the rest were loud in their gratitude.

‘I call that a positively loathly job!’ said Marjory fervently.

‘Got to be done!’ Melda laughed. ‘These had better boil up;’ and she threw some soda into the roasting-tins and put them on the gas-rings.

‘Will that clean them? They’re disgustingly greasy!’

Bernice laughed. ‘After we’ve washed-up, there are the knives to clean, and the floor to sweep over, and the range to polish. I guess I’d better do that; it’s about the worst job on record.’

She would not let them go till the kitchen was as tidy as if it had been in the hands of its usual mistress. Then Priscilla, who never tired, the girls declared, ran upstairs to help nurse, and the rest dropped into chairs in the garden, or retired to their cubicles and read—or said they read—till tea-time. There was a rumour that Marjory had been asleep, however, and others appeared looking very drowsy when the gong rang.

Bernice lay out in the garden in a long chair, dozing over a book, but looked up presently. ‘I say, Leonora, there’s not a soul spoken to Dorothy Ann all day, except you and me and Katharine and Priscilla.’

‘I know.’ Leonora looked unhappy. ‘And they won’t, either. Melda says I’m a rotter because I do. But you do, Berny!’

‘Don’t mind Melda; she’s feeling real bad still. Can’t you or Katharine get anything out of Dorothy Ann?’

‘We’ve all tried, and Priscilla too: but she won’t say a word.’

‘We can’t do any more to help, then. But don’t you throw her over too, Leo.’

‘I won’t. But I do think she ought to tell. She makes it awful difficult. Why, even Annabel’s owned up!’

Bernice knit her brows. ‘I guess they’ve been saying that to Dorothy Ann?’

‘Not to her,’ said Leonora suggestively.

‘No; at her, I guess. Poor kid! It’ll drive her nearly wild, if there’s really a reason she can’t tell. To think of a scrap like Annabel having the pluck to own up, and Dorothy Ann lying low! It is awfully weird! And she’s feeling so mighty bad—every bit as bad as Melda. She looked this morning as if she’d cried half the night.’

Dorothy Ann had indeed been heavy-eyed and silent all day. Annabel’s confession had been the last straw. The girls had not failed to comment in her presence on the difference between tiny Annabel and ‘some people;’ she had only grown more silent, if possible. She had not a word even for Katharine, who would not let her out of her sight, but was quite unable to cheer her up.

Now, when they were all supposed to be resting, Dorothy Ann was writing a desperate letter of explanation and appeal to her aunt, telling the whole story, lest Miss Nairn should still think it kinder to bid her be silent. The letter went with the six letters of apology and one from Miss Chinchen of deepest regret for the disobedience of her girls, and Dorothy Ann went down to tea in slightly better spirits.

To-morrow or on Tuesday morning an answer would come, and she would be able to explain. She was not sure how soon she would forgive the rest of the girls for their distrust, however; those who had known her for so long might surely have believed in her, as Bernice, a comparative stranger, had done. She felt considerable resentment towards Phyllis and the others, and was not inclined to make friends again too quickly. But she was keenly anxious to right herself in every one’s eyes, and particularly to explain to Katharine and Priscilla, Bernice and Leonora.

Lying under a tree, Bernice and Mary-Wenonah dozed and rested after their strenuous morning.

Mary stirred at last, and looked at her watch. ‘It’s tea-time. I say, Berny, we’ll see to it. You did twice as much as the rest of us this morning. We can’t go far wrong over tea. Priscilla will tell us how much to make. She’s frightfully energetic, isn’t she? Fancy going to help nurse after working all morning! She’s never tired.’

Bernice spoke drowsily from under a big garden-hat. ‘Says she used to walk twenty miles on the moors, and do housework and gardening and feed the chickens besides. Guess she’s not tired with a little stunt like we did this morning. She’s some strong and clever, Priscilla is!’

‘There’s the gong! I say, what good angel’s got the tea? I’m dying for mine, but I thought I’d got to get it ready.’

Bernice sat up. ‘It’s Van and Menie, I expect. You are bricks, you know!’ she said warmly as they sat down to tea. ‘I’ve been nine-tenths asleep this afternoon.’

‘Marjory’s been ten-tenths,’ Van laughed. ‘We thought you deserved a holiday. We’re not incapable, you know, though we don’t belong to your Camp Fire!’

‘Isn’t it jolly to sit down to a meal you haven’t got ready yourself?’ Clare sighed. ‘I really didn’t want any dinner, after seeing it uncooked. It looked so horrid raw.’

Melda jeered. ‘What’s wrong with a nice little leg, just come from the butcher’s? You wouldn’t do in camp, Pamela! Suppose you had to skin a rabbit, or cut open the fish you’d just caught?’

‘I don’t think I’ll go camping. I do like to be comfortable. Presently I suppose there’ll be supper! We seem to be always eating!’

‘And washing-up,’ Marjory added. ‘It’s an awful life!’

‘Ghastly! Do you clean the knives after every meal?’

‘It’s very good for you all to get some experience,’ Miss Tarring laughed. ‘Now you know what your mothers have to put up with.’

‘Gracious! I’m afraid I’ll feel I ought to help more in the holidays! What an awful thought!’ Marjory sighed, and Miss Tarring laughed again.

CHAPTER VI.
KATHARINE’S VIEWS ON FRIENDSHIP.

Some of the girls were honestly trying to live up to their ceremonial names at this time, but neither Mavis nor Minnehaha could claim much success. Minnehaha, far from inducing ‘miles of smiles’ in other people, never smiled once herself all through that gloomy Sunday, and Mavis was so deeply burdened in sympathy that she was the reverse of happy.

Miss Tarring, knowing nothing of the trouble, noticed its results. ‘Dorothy Ann, what is the matter with you? I said a gloomy Minnehaha would never do. Has your housework been too much for you?’

‘No, Miss Tarring. I’m all right, thank you.’

‘Mavis, you’re almost as bad. You look as if you were in disgrace as well as Melda and the others.’

Katharine shook her head. ‘It’s worrying to have things happen,’ she said cryptically.

‘It would be dreadfully uninteresting if nothing happened!’

‘Yes, frightfully stale. But all the same’—— and Katharine shook her head again.

‘Are Katharine and Dorothy Ann worried over Melda and the rest?’ Miss Tarring asked Bernice that night. ‘Or are they over-tired? They are both unusually depressed and silent.’

‘Can’t tell you, aunty, I’m sure! I don’t think they’re worrying over Melda, though.’

‘See if you can find out what’s the matter! I don’t like to see them look so troubled.’

‘I’ll do that!’ said Bernice; but she met with no success in her efforts.

Dorothy Ann’s spirits improved as Monday passed. She was expecting her aunt’s letter, and it would put everything right. The Camp Fire Girls were still on duty, and voted housework a pleasant change, but too strenuous to be enjoyable for long. Nurse reported that by Wednesday her patients might be able for their usual duties; so Miss Chinchen decided not to seek further for outside help, as the girls were eager to continue their work. Miss Tarring took note of what each accomplished, and promised them the beads they had earned at the next ceremonial meeting.

No letter came for Dorothy Ann on Monday night. In the intervals of stirring the porridge next morning she kept watch for the postman, and presently returned to her task crestfallen and worried.

All that day she waited, and the next. Trusting to her explanation to put matters right, she had made no overtures to Melda; so they were not on speaking terms. It was very uncomfortable for everybody; and but for Katharine and Priscilla, Dorothy Ann would have been very lonely. They stood by her loyally, in spite of the disapproval of the rest. It mattered little to Priscilla; but Katharine, sociable and used to being on the most friendly terms with every one, felt it keenly. Bernice and Leonora were friendly enough; but Dorothy Ann knew that they disapproved of her silence. Only Priscilla and Katharine gave her full sympathy whether she explained or not. She knew they were both waiting anxiously for her to speak.

On Thursday morning Katharine was awakened by Melda as usual, for cook was still hardly fit for early morning work. She woke Dorothy Ann, and as they went down to lay the table she noticed how white and heavy-eyed her friend was looking.

Her hand slipped through Dorothy Ann’s arm. ‘What’s up, Dan? Anything new? You look as if you hadn’t been to sleep.’

‘I’ll tell you after breakfast;’ and Dorothy Ann went round the table with knives and spoons, keeping one eye on the front window.

She took in the letters as usual, and Katharine, watching her closely, saw her turn white as she looked them over. She laid them on the table, and slipped into the kindergarten-room out of sight, crushed under the weight of a great disappointment.

Katharine left her work and followed. Dorothy Ann had dropped on one of the baby forms, her arms flung across the low table, her face hidden upon them, sobs shaking her from head to foot.

‘Dan, what is the matter? You’re a mean thing not to tell me. Oh, Dan dear, don’t! Do tell me what’s happened!’

But Dorothy Ann had been overstrained for days, and now that she had given way she did it thoroughly. She cried and cried, and Katharine, frightened and helpless, locked the door, and then clung to her, trying in vain to comfort her.

‘I was expecting a letter,’ Dorothy Ann sobbed at last. ‘I’ve been expecting it since Monday; it hasn’t come.’

‘Who from?’ Katharine demanded fiercely, with a mental resolve to write herself to the delinquent, and ‘ask what they meant by it!’

‘Aunt Ann. I was sure she’d write. And it would have put everything right. I can’t stand it much longer.’

‘Your aunt? But she’s away, Dan! She hasn’t answered those other letters yet—from Melda and the rest.’

But Dorothy Ann knew her aunt must have received the letters. Why had there been no answer? ‘I was so sure she’d write at once,’ she sobbed.

‘What was it about? Oh, mustn’t I ask? Well, then, I won’t!’ Katharine could not be impatient while Dorothy Ann was crying like this. ‘Look here, Dan dear, you’d better run upstairs before the rest come down. I’ll say you had a headache, and I’ll bring up your breakfast, and you won’t have to see anybody till you’re feeling better.’

Dorothy Ann fled, grateful for the suggestion, and was safely in her cubicle before the other girls appeared.

Katharine delivered her report to Bernice, who looked surprised. ‘She was there a minute ago, wasn’t she? I thought she didn’t look well, though. But she was able to get up?’

‘Yes, she got up; but she was feeling awfully bad, Berny, so I told her to go and lie down again. I’ll take up her breakfast.’

‘Better tell aunty,’ said Bernice, as Katharine arranged a tray.

Dorothy Ann had bathed her face, eaten her porridge, and drunk a cup of tea before Miss Tarring came up to interview her. She insisted that she was better, and begged to be allowed to go into class as usual; anything would be better than sitting wondering why that letter had not come. Miss Tarring gave her permission rather doubtfully, and watched her carefully.

‘Now, Berny,’ she said that evening, ‘tell me the truth! Do you know what’s the matter with Dorothy Ann? And is there anything wrong with Katharine too, or is it only sympathy in her case? Are they both sickening for something?’

‘No, no, aunty, ’tisn’t that!’ Bernice said hastily.

‘And you know what it is? Have they a secret?’

Bernice considered the matter carefully. ‘Say, aunty, I’ll tell you because you’re our Guardian; but as our teacher you mustn’t know anything about it—see? I can tell “Iris,” but I can’t tell Miss Tarring!’

Her aunt looked dubious. ‘You mean you will tell me in confidence, but I must keep it to myself?’

‘Sure! You won’t tell Miss Chinchen?’

‘Very well. Tell me as Dorothy Ann’s Guardian. I must know what is troubling the child. She hasn’t been herself since Sunday.’

‘Saturday. She was in that business with Melda, and she didn’t own up.’

Miss Tarring raised her eyebrows. ‘I see! But—Dorothy Ann! Berny, isn’t there some mistake? It’s utterly unlike her; she’s usually so frank.’

‘That’s what I say. Melda and the rest won’t see it.’

‘And all the girls know, I suppose?’

‘Oh, everybody knows but you mistresses!’

Miss Tarring laughed, then grew grave again. ‘And what does she mean by it? I understand her unhappiness now, of course. And Katharine is standing by her? To be sure, she would do that. Any one else?’

‘Priscilla.’ Miss Tarring nodded. ‘Leonora and I don’t believe she funked; but we say if she’s got a reason she ought to tell it.’

‘She says there was some reason why she could not confess?’

Bernice told all she knew. ‘She says she wants to own up, but she can’t.’

‘It’s very mysterious! Shall I speak to her about it?’

‘Oh no, please! She wouldn’t like to think you knew.’

‘But I would like to help her. She’s so obviously unhappy.’

‘So would I; but I can’t unless she explains. She’s feeling awfully bad, of course. She’s more than paid out for going into the house without leave. The others won’t speak to her. And she’s simply wild with them because they think she funked.’

‘I was planning a ceremonial meeting for some Saturday soon. Most of the gowns are finished, and there are a good many Honours to be given.’

‘Oh, don’t! We couldn’t have a meeting while things are all mixed up! Let’s wait, aunty! Perhaps something will happen to put us right. We sure need it! I don’t think Dorothy Ann would come, and if she didn’t, Katharine wouldn’t; or if they did come, it would be even worse.’

‘We had better wait, then. If you see any chance to help, I know you’ll take it, Berny.

‘I sure will, aunty! But I can’t do it; she’ll have to do it herself.’

Katharine’s loyalty had come triumphantly through one severe test, in the first discovery of her friend’s trouble. Now it had to face another, as that day passed, and the next, and no letter came. What Dorothy Ann expected the letter to do Katharine did not know; but somehow it was to put everything right. She believed what she had been told, and waited as anxiously as her friend.

On Friday evening Dorothy Ann invited Katharine into her cubicle while they were undressing. They had not brushed their hair out in the corridor all this week.

She closed the door and spoke resolutely. ‘Katharine, you’ve been just a brick, the way you’ve stuck to me. But it’s not fair to you. At first I thought it was only for a day or two, and I might let you stand up for me, even if it did make things horrid for you, since it was only for a little while. But it’s different now. I can’t tell anybody anything unless I get that letter from Aunt Ann, and it doesn’t seem to be coming. I can’t tell you more than that. If this has got to go on till the end of the term, you’d better drop me and go in with the others. I don’t know how I’m going to stand it; but I’ve got to somehow. You haven’t, and it’s not fair to make you. That’s all.’ She turned away, her lips quivering.

Katharine, with an unusual touch of sarcasm, asked grimly, ‘Quite sure that’s all, Dan?’

‘I think so. Isn’t it plenty?’

‘Yes, a heap too much. I—I think you’re just a pig, Dorothy Ann!’

Dorothy Ann turned and stared at her.

Katharine said vehemently, ‘I don’t know why you should think me such a slacker! As if I cared a farthing for any of the others! I’d rather have things horrid and be chums with you than be friends with all the rest. And I think you’re just mean not to know it. And that’s all, I hope!’

‘It’s jolly nice of you.’ Dorothy Ann looked at her wide-eyed and doubtful. ‘Quite sure you mean it?’

‘You’re horrid not to know I mean it!’ Katharine turned away indignantly.

Dorothy Ann caught her by the arm. ‘Katharine, don’t be mad! I didn’t want to say it, but I felt I had to. It’s just awfully bricky of you, when it’s not your mess at all.’

‘It’s mine if it’s yours, or what’s the good of being friends?’ Katharine said sturdily.

They were even better friends after this explosion had cleared the air. Fortunately an explanation of Aunt Ann’s silence was forthcoming next morning, though it did not right matters as Dorothy Ann had hoped.

‘I’ve a letter from mother,’ she said to Katharine at breakfast-time. ‘Miss Chinchen had one too. I wonder what she’s writing about!’

She looked up presently with startled eyes. ‘Aunt Ann’s ill. She was taken bad on Sunday, and mother was sent for—a heart-seizure, she says.’

‘Oh, I say! And where was she? Had she gone far away?’

‘She hadn’t gone.’ Dorothy Ann flushed, and took up her letter again. ‘She felt poorly on Saturday, so she didn’t go away.’

‘And was she at home all the time Melda and the rest were in the house? Didn’t you know? I say, Dan’—— with a dawning idea.

‘Shut up! Wait till afterwards, anyway!’ Dorothy Ann bent over her letter. ‘She’s been very bad all week. Mother’s been very busy going between Waterside and home. Of course, they’ve got a nurse; but mother felt she ought to be there. She’s had to write to Miss Chinchen about this afternoon.’

‘Of course.’ Katharine was very thoughtful, and hardly heard Miss Chinchen announcing that the visit to Waterside must be given up, and expressing the regret she knew all the girls would feel at the news of their kind old friend’s illness.

Somewhat subdued—for, though they had never seen Miss Nairn, they were grateful, and had often thought of her—the girls scattered to their Saturday tasks. Melda, while grieved for Miss Nairn’s sake, was not sorry Waterside was out of the question, since she would have had to stay at home in disgrace. The Camp Fire Girls settled down to work on their gowns, or other work for Honours, and those who had gardens fetched their tools.

Katharine took Dorothy Ann by the arm. ‘Dan, you’re coming to talk to me. If you don’t, I’ll ask questions at dinner, and everybody will hear.’

Dorothy Ann laughed, and submitted. ‘Well, what is it? What do you want to know?’

‘Everything. I won’t tell a soul; I can keep secrets too! But I’m going to know; I can’t stand half-knowing things.’

‘What do you “half-know”?’

‘Did you see your aunt last week? Was it to please her you wouldn’t own up?’

Dorothy Ann flushed, but faced Katharine steadily. ‘She made me promise I wouldn’t say I had seen her. She didn’t want the girls to know she’d been at home; she thought we’d laugh and think it was an excuse again. She seemed so worried and upset that I had to promise. I know you’ve thought I was cracked all week, but just tell me what else I could have done!’

Katharine’s eyes were very bright. ‘I just knew it! I knew you’d got a jolly good reason! You had to keep your word, of course. And everybody’s been simply hateful to you because of it! Oh, Dan dear, it was awfully hard lines!’

‘It would have been worse if you hadn’t been such a brick!’ Dorothy Ann said shakily. ‘You just pulled me through.’

‘I’m awfully glad; I’m proud, Dan! But it must have been jolly difficult!’

‘It was. But it will be better now that you know.’

‘Oh, won’t you tell them now?’

‘How can I? I’ve got to get her leave.’

‘But it may be ages before she’s better!’

‘She’s better already. Mother says perhaps I may see her in another week.’

‘Did she ever get your letter?’

‘I don’t suppose so. She was ill on Sunday, and it would only arrive on Monday. Poor Aunt Ann! No wonder she didn’t answer!’

‘I suppose it will be given to her when she’s better?’

Dorothy Ann looked troubled. ‘It might worry her and make her worse. I shall write and tell mother not to let her have it till she’s quite all right, for fear it would give her a relapse.’

‘Oh, but what about you, Dan? If you do that, it will be ages before you can explain.’

Dorothy Ann sat digging a hole in the moss with her fingers, her head bent. ‘But if it’s going to make her worse? She’s awfully old, and not a bit strong. Aunt Dorothy’s death upset her frightfully, and mother said then we mustn’t let anything worry her, because her heart was weak. I know what kind of letter I wrote. I piled it on pretty thick about feeling so bad, and all that, because I wanted to be quite sure she’d understand. At first she made me promise not to own up for fear it would get me into a row, you see; I had to make sure she’d see I was in a worse row because I’d kept quiet. So I told her straight how awful things were, and I know it will worry her when she understands. She’ll be awfully upset; she cares a heap about me—funny, isn’t it? I can’t tell her while she’s ill, Katharine; it’s no good. I’d rather put up with anything than risk giving her another attack. What does it matter, after all? I sha’n’t feel so bad now I understand what’s the matter. There’s only four more weeks of term, and then you and I are going off to the moors with Priscilla, and silly old school muddles won’t matter. We’ll tell Priscilla all about it, once we’re away from school; then we can forget, and she’ll be all right long before next term, and I’ll be able to explain after the holidays.’

‘But what about this term, Dan? If Melda and the rest won’t make it up’——

‘They won’t. Melda sticks to things. It can’t be helped. I’ve got to stick to my “stunt” too, as she’d say.’

‘Couldn’t you tell them, Dan? Would it matter now?’

‘No, I don’t believe it would. But I promised, and that’s all about it.’

Katharine glanced at Dorothy Ann’s face. ‘I didn’t know you could be like that, Dan. I didn’t know you could stick to things so hard. We’ll do as you want, of course. But—oh, couldn’t we just tell Bernice? She’s so awfully worried.’

‘I’ll tell Berny first of all, after Priscilla. But I can’t do it till Aunt Ann gives me leave. You’ll play up, won’t you, Katharine? You’ll be fair?’

‘Oh, I’ll be fair! You’d hate me if I wasn’t. But it is awfully hard lines, Dan!’ Katharine sat gazing thoughtfully at her friend, then suddenly threw herself on her and hugged her. ‘All the same, I do like you for sticking to it, Dan! I like people who stick to things!’

‘What else would you have liked me to do?’ asked Dorothy Ann indignantly, but her sore feelings were soothed. It was good to have one friend who understood, and not only sympathised, but approved.

CHAPTER VII.
‘CAMP FIRE SISTERS.’

The Camp Fire held its picnic on the following Saturday, going off for the whole day to some woods. They walked there and back, all laden with provisions, dishes, and cooking utensils; milk and eggs, and water for their kettle, they were to get from a farm.

They chose an open glade, and lit a real camp fire under Melda’s directions. She showed them how to hang a kettle over it from a forked stick, and Bernice and Priscilla fried eggs and bacon and made cocoa in the midst of an admiring hungry group. Then the girls scattered to various amusements, exploring, or seeking specimens for nature study.

Bernice stretched herself on the brown carpet under a great beech-tree. ‘This is my stunt! I feel real lazy to-day!’

‘Too lazy to talk?’ inquired Miss Tarring. ‘If you’re going to sleep, Berny, I won’t disturb you. I can wait.’

Bernice laughed. ‘Sit down and make yourself at home, Guardian! I’m not going to sleep. What have I been doing now? I have tried to get something out of Dorothy Ann,’ she said quickly, ‘but it’s no use, aunty. She’s just an oyster.’

‘I wasn’t thinking of Dorothy Ann at the moment. I wonder if she would have come to-day if she had not gone to Waterside to see her aunt!’

‘She’d have come, but she’d have disappeared with Katharine, as usual. Say, aunty, I can’t make them out. They aren’t feeling as bad as they were, but there’s been nothing I can see to make things better. Looks as if they’d forgotten all about it. They’re quite jolly when they’re together. It’s not the thing. Dorothy Ann hasn’t explained a word, and yet she seems quite pleased with herself.’

‘I can’t understand them either. They are certainly very devoted to one another.’

‘What did you want, if it wasn’t about those two, aunty?’

‘I was thinking about the holidays.’

Bernice nodded eagerly. ‘I wondered what you were planning. Where shall we go, aunty?’

Miss Tarring unfolded a plan, and Bernice’s face lit up in delight. ‘That would be absolutely topping! Say, let me find Priscilla quick!’

‘What will Melda say?’

Bernice’s face clouded. ‘She’ll like part, and not the rest. I think she’ll put up with it, aunty. I’ll find Priscilla; that’s the first thing.’

Priscilla and Katharine had undertaken to watch the camp fire, so were sitting in the glade, and they too had been talking of holidays. Priscilla’s parents were to spend the summer at the farm near the hospital to which she had been wont to go in search of eggs; Katharine and Dorothy Ann were going to their homes for a fortnight, and then were to join her on the moors for some weeks; and they were all looking forward keenly to this renewal of last year’s enjoyment.

Bernice and Miss Tarring joined them, and Bernice eagerly broached the plan. ‘Say, Priscilla, tell us what you think of this! We’re to go sight-seeing in the holidays and get to know England. Aunty says she’ll take us up to Yorkshire to see York and Whitby and Scarborough, and she says if you could make room for us at your farm, or find rooms near by, she’d leave us there for a while and go visiting friends. Will you have us? I’m pining to see your moors!’

‘I’d love to show them to you!’ Priscilla said eagerly. ‘I’ll write and ask Mrs Thwaites at once.’

‘There’s one thing against it;’ and Bernice looked sober. ‘And that’s Melda and Dorothy Ann.’

They looked at her quickly, and then at Miss Tarring. She said warmly, ‘My dear children, do you suppose I’m blind? Dorothy Ann has not seen fit to tell me what is the matter, so I’m not supposed to know anything about it; but I can’t help using my eyes,—Katharine, can’t you tell us anything about it? How much longer is it to go on?’

Katharine, taken unawares, reddened. ‘I can’t tell you! I don’t know myself,’ she faltered.

It was a difficult moment for her. They were all Dorothy Ann’s friends; why should she not tell them what she knew? It would relieve their minds as it had done her own. But she had promised, and with her friend’s example before her she must be loyal.

‘I should think it will be all right about Melda,’ she said. ‘There’s room for them both, and she’ll love the moors. I’m afraid it may spoil it for Dan, though.’

‘We do not want to spoil her holiday; but, on the other hand, Dorothy Ann is the one in the wrong, you know. We need not decide yet, of course,’ Miss Tarring said. ‘We could go somewhere else. But I thought it would be pleasanter for you all to be together.’

‘I should like it!’ Priscilla said warmly. ‘I’ll write about rooms, anyway. I’d love to show you the moors, Berny!’

While they were all sitting round the camp fire after tea, Miss Tarring announced that a ceremonial meeting would be held on the following Saturday on the island at Waterside. ‘It is so far from the house that we can go there without disturbing any one, and Miss Nairn is so much better that Miss Chinchen sees no objection.’

‘Say, aunty, we weren’t to go there any more!’ Melda began, in consternation.

‘Miss Chinchen will allow you to attend the meeting; though, frankly, Melda, neither she nor I think you deserve to do so.’

Melda’s face cleared. ‘Thanks awfully, aunty! It was jolly good of you to ask her.’

‘I didn’t say I did ask her. Girls, all who have taken their names, completed their record books, won their ten Honours, and finished their gowns will be given the rank of Wood-Gatherer and will receive their beads, so you must all learn the “Desire.” We shall want somebody to gather the wood for our fire; would you like to have the honour, Mavis?’

Katharine flushed, and her eyes fell. ‘I’d rather not, thank you, Guardian; not this time.’

Miss Tarring made no comment. She looked round at the eager faces, and deliberately passed over those who had not shown themselves trustworthy since the last meeting. ‘Wenonah, you are “the eldest daughter;” will you gather the wood?’

Mary looked as pleased as Katharine looked downcast. ‘I’d love to, thank you, Guardian.’

‘Why would you not take part in the ceremony, Mavis?’ Miss Tarring asked gently, as they cleared up the remains of their meal.

Katharine’s face grew troubled. ‘I wanted to, just dreadfully! But I’m afraid I sha’n’t be at the meeting, Miss Tarring.’

‘You think Minnehaha won’t come, and you won’t come without her?’ The Guardian needed no explanation.

‘Doesn’t that “Desire” say something about sticking to our Camp Fire Sisters?’

‘ “I will cleave to my Camp Fire Sisters” is the exact expression,’ Miss Tarring laughed. ‘Can’t you say it? Don’t you want to cleave to them?’

‘I want to stick to Dorothy Ann.’

‘I see. And you think she won’t come?’

‘She can’t say it,’ Katharine said bluntly. ‘She doesn’t feel a bit like sticking to Melda and the rest. And they can’t say it if she’s there. I don’t think she ought to go unless—unless things are different.’

‘And do you see any chance of that?’ Miss Tarring asked quietly.

‘Not much. No, I don’t, Miss Tarring. I think you’ll have to leave us out of this meeting.’

‘I am very sorry about it all, Katharine. But we have waited as long as we can. We must have one more meeting this term, and it should be before the exams. begin.’

‘I’ll talk to Dorothy Ann, but I don’t think it will make any difference. When she makes up her mind, she does stick to it.’

‘I’m afraid she is very obstinate. It makes things very difficult for you, Mavis.’

‘I like her for it! I’m glad she’s stuck to it!’ was Katharine’s amazing reply.

Knowing her well, Miss Tarring pondered it deeply, and came to the conclusion that Dorothy Ann’s silence must be forced on her by some reason which seemed sufficient to herself and Katharine, whether others would agree with them or not.

Katharine found Dorothy Ann as soon as they reached home. ‘Did you tell her anything, Dan?’

‘Not a word. I couldn’t, Katharine; she looked so old and ill. She’s better, out of bed, sitting up in her room. I’m to see her again next Saturday, and I’ll see then, but I couldn’t worry her to-day. I’d have felt a perfect pig.’

Katharine was too loyal to say any word of regret, though she felt that a chance had been lost.

‘There’s to be a ceremonial meeting next Saturday, and they’re all going to be made Wood-Gatherers and wear their gowns.’

‘Oh!’ Dorothy Ann knit her brows. ‘ “Camp Fire Sisters”!’ she quoted sarcastically. ‘I’d better not go. Besides, they think I haven’t kept the Law. They don’t think I’ve been trustworthy. You mustn’t mind about me, Katharine. I’ll have tea with Aunt Ann.’

‘Then I’ll have to stay here alone. I’m not going to the meeting without you; it would be hateful.’

Dorothy Ann argued and scolded, and even threatened to go to the meeting and make everybody uncomfortable; but Katharine would not change her mind. ‘I told Miss Tarring I’d rather stick to you than the others. She didn’t tease. She understands a jolly lot, you know, Dan!’

‘Yes, she’s a good Guardian. She’s tried to talk to me lots of times lately, but I’ve always got away. What’s the use?’

‘There’s something more to tell. I’m afraid you won’t like it much, Dan;’ and Katharine told of the holiday plan.

‘Oh, I say! I can’t stand Melda all the holidays too! It will spoil all the fun! Oh, that’s awfully mean!’

‘But it would be jolly to have Berny and Leonora!’ Katharine pleaded.

‘I don’t want them! They don’t approve of me! It will spoil everything!’ Dorothy Ann groaned. ‘I was looking forward to having just you and Priscilla, like last year!’

Katharine reported this to Priscilla, and as Bernice was forced to admit that Melda wanted to go to the moors, ‘but not less than twenty miles away from Dorothy Nairn,’ the plan seemed doomed to failure. Mrs Thwaites could spare two more bedrooms, but even Priscilla and Bernice shrank from being confined to one farmhouse with Melda and Dorothy Ann in their present mood.

‘Unless, of course’——as Katharine said to herself, but did not say it aloud, even to Dorothy Ann.

But if Miss Nairn was so much better, was there not just a chance that everything might come right before the holidays, after all?

CHAPTER VIII.
WOOD-GATHERERS.

‘Katharine, it’s simply awfully rotten for you!’ Dorothy Ann was dressing for her next visit to her aunt. ‘They’re all going to be Wood-Gatherers but you and me. It’s all right about me, of course; but it’s awfully rough on you. Won’t you go to the meeting, to please me? You know how upset Bernice and Priscilla are about your stopping away. It’s making them quite wild with me; they think I’m stopping you. They haven’t been half as jolly to me since they heard you were going to miss the meeting.’ She looked at her friend doubtfully, wondering if she could play this card with any success.

‘That’s rot, Dan. They haven’t been any different.’

‘Oh yes, they have! Bernice looks at me quite reproachfully.’

‘It’s only because she doesn’t understand. Priscilla knows it’s my doing, not yours.’

‘Sure you won’t go with them?’

‘Certain, Dan; not without you.’

‘Well, then, there’s something I wish you’d do. I’m going to take my gown and show it to Aunt Ann; she’s heard about the Camp Fire, and she’s tremendously interested. I want you to bring yours too, and we’ll dress up to please her. Yours is prettier than mine, because Leonora embroidered it for you.’

‘Yes; but you’re to get an Honour for yours, because you did it all yourself.’

‘If I ever do get it. I’d won nineteen; I would have liked to have them before the holidays!’

‘I have only sixteen. We’ll get them some day, Dan. I’ll take my gown, of course; it makes quite a wee parcel. We’ll dress up if you really think she’d like it. Why shouldn’t we wear ours as well as the rest? Didn’t they look jolly in them last night?’

There had been a rehearsal in the dormitory the night before. The new gowns and head-bands had been worn, and Wenonah and Ruth, Mnanka and Pamela, had marched up and down the corridor reciting ceremonial verses. Dorothy Ann and Katharine had taken no part, and only then had the rest realised their intention of missing the meeting. Everybody felt with relief that it was better Dorothy Ann should not come, and that she had realised it for herself; Katharine’s position, though equally well understood, was less easy to account for in words. Some of the girls held that she was ‘a little idiot;’ others acknowledged her ‘a brick to stand by Dorothy Nairn.’

‘I’ve been thinking about that “Desire” they’ll all be saying to-day,’ Katharine remarked, as they crossed the Water Meadows.

‘So have I!’ said Dorothy Ann grimly.

‘Well, Dan, don’t you think we’ve kept it, and the Law, as well as any of them? You’ve been as trustworthy as you possibly could, by keeping your word to your aunt when it was so awfully difficult; and so have I, for I’ve kept your secret, and it’s harder sometimes to keep other people’s than your own. And you’ve been “true to the truth that is in you;” that means doing what you think is right, I suppose. And I’ve cleaved—is that right? It sounds funny—to my Camp Fire Sister; that’s you.’

Dorothy Ann laughed. ‘Some day I’ll tell everybody how jolly well you’ve done it!’ she vowed.

Over on the island, the Camp Fire Girls, rather self-conscious in their new gowns and head-bands, were gathering for their meeting. All had braided their hair in the regulation plaits, with no hair-ribbons, with quite a transforming effect in some cases. They were led in by Rosemary, followed by the two Fire-Makers. The Guardian called on Wenonah to bring the wood, and on Catalina to make the fire. When it had been lit by Rosemary, and the ritual verses repeated, the Guardian said a short prayer over the newly kindled flames. This was an innovation of her own, and was received quietly at the moment, and afterwards, in discussion, with approval.

‘The meetings are really important. You don’t want to fool about too much,’ was Phyllis’s verdict.

While all sat round the fire, Bernice read the Count of the last meeting. Then those who had not already taken their names did so, burning their old ones in the fire, and as there were more than a dozen of them, this took some time.

After this the Guardian addressed them. ‘Now that all the names are taken, Daughters of the Fire, we can call the roll; but as we have heard so many of the mottoes already, we will omit it for to-day. Perhaps at our next meeting our circle will be complete.’ This was the first reference to the absent members, and the girls looked at one another consciously. They were all missing Dorothy Ann and Katharine; it seemed strange not to have them there. Miss Tarring continued: ‘Our next duty is a very pleasant one. All our new members have qualified for the rank of Wood-Gatherer. Before conferring this rank upon the candidates, I have a few words of explanation to make. As you know, we cannot appeal to the American organisation for the rings, bracelets, and pins which they give as sign of rank. However, I have substitutes which I think you will find satisfactory. I propose to give special beads as Honours for rank.’ She lifted from a basket a number of white glass beads. ‘Daughters of the Fire, these are your Wood-Gatherer’s Honours—fifteen white “diamonds.” They are unlike all your other Honours; for, though Patriotism is white, the beads are solid, not clear like these. These “diamonds” will be worn with the coloured beads you have won. For the rank of Fire-Maker I propose to give deep purple-blue Honours;’ and she held up another string. ‘They could not be confused with our bright-blue Nature Honours; these we will call “sapphires,” if you please!’ The girls laughed. ‘If we elect Torch-Bearers, we will give them “rubies.” Do you approve of these special Honours?’

The Daughters of the Fire approved very emphatically. They had expected to receive ten, fifteen, or twenty Honours, according to the amount of work they had accomplished, and were delighted to be given fifteen extra ones to make a beginning for their chains.

‘We’ll wear the diamonds in the middle, and the coloured ones will make patterns on each side,’ said Violet-Ianthe eagerly.

‘Say, aunty, that’s a topping idea!’ Melda said warmly. ‘When I’m a Torch-Bearer, I suppose I’ll get rubies too?’

‘Torch-Bearers have to be elected by the vote of the Camp Fire and approved by me,’ Miss Tarring said grimly. ‘Until you can show yourself more worthy of trust than you have done lately, my dear Estrella, you are not likely to satisfy the second condition, whether you can meet the first or not.’

Melda made a grimace. ‘I guess I brought that on myself! I couldn’t expect you to resist that, aunty dear! I asked for it, didn’t I?’

‘Now will all who are to take their rank please stand?’

Miss Tarring rose, and Melda stood beside her, holding up the basket. Miss Tarring held the Record Book, and read out the list of each girl’s Honours, after calling on her to repeat the ‘Desire.’ Each came forward to receive her beads, then sat down to thread the coloured ones beside the ‘diamonds.’

With so many to be invested, the ceremony took time. Ruth, Wenonah, Heather, Mnanka, Pamela, and Olive had received their beads, when there came an unexpected interruption.

No one noticed the sound of the punt as its nose ground into the bank. But every one looked up, astonished and indignant, as the bushes were thrust aside, and a small girl, in ceremonial gown and long yellow plaits, hurled herself into their midst, with no regard for the solemnity of the meeting.

‘Katharine Mayne! Has she quarrelled with Dorothy?’

‘Well, I do call that the worst cheek ever, to come and break up the meeting like that!’ Melda cried indignantly.

‘There’s something wrong!’ Priscilla and Bernice spoke together. ‘What’s the matter, Katharine?’

‘ ’Tisn’t wrong; it’s all right, and I’ve come to tell you!’ Katharine was still panting from her wild run through the garden.

Miss Tarring put down the basket and Record Book. ‘What does this mean, Katharine? I thought you were spending the afternoon with Dorothy.’

‘I don’t know how it happened!’ The explanation was jerky and incoherent at first. ‘We were talking to Miss Nairn. Dorothy Ann said we must dress up in these things to please her, and she liked them awfully. We told her there was a meeting to-day, and she asked why we didn’t want to go. Dan wouldn’t tell her the real reason; but she seemed so awfully well—she really seemed quite all right, Miss Tarring!—that I was sure she’d rather understand. I risked it, anyway. Dan wouldn’t have done it, but I thought it was only being fair. Miss Nairn would have felt so bad afterwards if we hadn’t. And she did, and she told me to come and tell you, and ask if Dorothy Ann mightn’t come to the meeting, after all. And Dan began to cry, so I came to ask you; for if you say it’s all right, that will be the best thing for them both, I know.’

The girls were all staring and whispering. Miss Tarring, rather bewildered, asked, ‘But what were you to tell us, Katharine?’

‘Why Dorothy Ann couldn’t own up,’ Katharine said simply.

This time she created a sensation indeed. The girls pressed more closely round her, with eager questions; but Miss Tarring interrupted, authority in her tone.

‘Girls! We all want to understand this clearly. Sit down; then you will all hear.—Now, Mavis, tell us your story!’

The girls dropped on the ground in a close circle, and waited breathlessly. Katharine looked up at Miss Tarring. ‘Dorothy Ann went into the house to see what Melda and the rest were doing; she didn’t go to fetch the book, or for anything for herself. She saw them, but she didn’t think they saw her. She was picking up the bits of the vase, when her aunt came in. Miss Nairn had felt poorly, and hadn’t gone away, after all. Of course, she thought Dan had broken the vase, and would get into a row when she owned up to Miss Chinchen, and Dan couldn’t tell on the others, so she had to let her think it. Miss Nairn cared far more about her getting into trouble than about the vase, and she made Dan promise not to say she’d been in the house, and not to tell anybody she’d seen her.’

‘So that was it?’ Miss Tarring said quietly.

‘Oh, I say! And she’d promised? And that was why’—— Melda cried sharply, her face suddenly troubled.

‘She wouldn’t have promised if she’d known you’d seen her. But she thought you hadn’t, so it didn’t seem to matter. Miss Nairn seemed so worried that Dorothy Ann thought she’d better promise to please her, though she’d much rather have owned up,’ Katharine explained swiftly. ‘She thinks Miss Nairn was afraid we’d say she had made up an excuse about going away, and that we’d laugh if we heard she hadn’t gone. Dan promised, and then she had to stick to it, you know.’

‘I say, she must have had a perfectly rotten time!’ Phyllis said contritely. ‘And she wasn’t funking, after all!’

‘You might have known that!’

‘And we thought she was such an awful rotter!’

‘It’s been very horrid for her,’ Priscilla said pitifully. ‘But the way she’s stuck to it has been rather fine, you know.’

‘It must have been awful for her when she heard her aunt was ill and couldn’t let her off her promise.’

‘But she came to see Miss Nairn last week! Why didn’t she ask her then, and be all right for to-day, anyway?’

‘She was afraid of making her bad again if she worried her,’ Katharine explained. ‘It must have been awfully difficult to come and talk to Miss Nairn and never say a word about the horrid time she was having. But she did it!’ There was a triumphant ring in her voice. She was very proud to-day, and overjoyed that she had been the one to clear her friend’s name.

Bernice had been thinking it over. ‘Say, Mavis, you and Priscilla come best out of this! You’ve stood by her without asking questions. You didn’t know about her promise, did you?’

‘I’ve known lately. I didn’t at first, but I found out, and made her tell me. Priscilla didn’t know at all.’

‘But I knew Dorothy Ann! You’ve only known her two months, Berny.’

‘All the same, I wish I’d trusted her.—Say, aunty, can’t she come to the meeting and have her beads? I guess she’s “been trustworthy”!’

Katharine’s eyes glowed. ‘I hoped you’d see that! Oh, may I fetch her, Miss Tarring?’

‘What do you say, girls? It is a question for you rather than for me. I am not supposed to have known anything about it. Of course, I have known; do you think me blind?’ as several looked up in surprise, and Melda reddened and sat punching holes in the turf. ‘It is not I who have kept Minnehaha from our meetings, but the rest of you. Shall we send for her now?’

An eager murmur of assent arose.

‘I’ll go for her!’ said Phyllis.

‘No; I’d like to!’ cried Clare.

‘Couldn’t we all go?’ Mary-Wenonah suggested eagerly.

‘I think Mavis ought to,’ said Priscilla.

‘I guess that’s only fair. But tell her we all wanted to go real bad, Mavis,’ said Bernice.

‘Say, Katharine, I’d like to go!’ Melda had not spoken since her first startled outcry. Now she looked up anxiously; her outraged sense of justice was satisfied, and she was eager to make amends.

‘Yes; that is the best idea yet,’ Bernice said warmly.

Katharine hesitated. She would dearly have liked to carry the good news. But the ‘imagination’ of which Dorothy Ann so often talked enabled her to see Melda’s point of view and her friend’s, and she knew they would both prefer to make their peace in private. ‘All right!’ she said reluctantly. ‘But go quickly, or she’ll be thinking you still don’t want her.’

Melda sped away, holding up her gown as she ran. She sprang into the punt, with an imperious demand to be put ashore, and the old boatman, past all surprise by this time, took up his pole, chuckling at her strange attire. She raced away across the lawn, and at sound of a shout from the island he turned thither again. A third girl in the same queer dress stood there demanding a hasty passage, and with another chuckle he poled the boat across to fetch her.

CHAPTER IX.
BURYING THE HATCHET.

It was Irene’s idea. Living up to her name, Olive, the peace-bringer, she turned eagerly to Miss Tarring as Melda vanished. ‘Miss Tarring, aren’t we supposed to be Indians?’

‘Our Camp Fire ideas are largely taken from the Indians, Olive.’

‘Well, when Indians make peace, isn’t there something about “burying the hatchet,” as a sign it’s all done with?’

Miss Tarring laughed. ‘Do you think Minnehaha and Estrella would like to do it?’

‘Dan would!’ said Katharine.

‘Melda’d be tickled to death,’ Bernice added. ‘Couldn’t we find them a hatchet, aunty?’

‘There’s sure to be a chopper at the house, for firewood,’ Priscilla suggested, laughing.

‘I’ll fetch it!’ and Irene ran to call the boatman.

Melda sought Dorothy Ann downstairs, then went straight to Miss Nairn’s bedroom. The door was opened by Dorothy Ann herself, and for a moment she stood, taken by surprise.

Melda seized her chance. ‘Say, you’re to come to the meeting right now! I’ve come to fetch you.’

From within the room came a weak voice. ‘Come in, my dear! I beg you to come in just for a moment!’

‘It’s Melda Tarring, Aunt Ann, dear!’ and Dorothy Ann stood aside.

Melda had never known either shyness or self-consciousness. She entered eagerly, anxious to see her hostess at last; then she stopped and gazed at the little old lady lying back on her pillows. ‘I felt like I might cry any minute,’ she said afterwards. ‘Felt kind of mean to be so big and strong and clumsy. She just looked made of egg-shell! She’d sure blow away like a feather. I wouldn’t have dared to sneeze for fear she’d smash.’

But though Aunt Ann was little and frail, she was very much alive to the situation she had created. They had had a brief pathetic moment of explanation, when Katharine, in a storm of tears, had told the story, and Dorothy Ann had cried, and protested that it had not mattered a scrap, and that she had not meant her aunt to know for weeks yet. But the knowledge had not hurt Miss Nairn, and now she would not be happy till she was satisfied that all was well. She had apologised for thinking Dorothy Ann had broken the vase; had been shown the letters from Melda and her companions, and the blotted epistle from Annabel; and she recognised Melda’s name as soon as she heard it.

She looked up at the handsome, healthy girl with wistful eyes. This was the type of girl whom she loved to watch, but from whom she always felt a secret shrinking because of her nervous fear of ridicule. The fear began to die at sight of Melda’s dark, pitiful eyes, wider than usual in sympathy, and she spoke hurriedly and tremulously.

‘I wish to assure you myself, my dear, that it was in deference to my very urgent wish that Dorothy Ann kept silence. I did not understand’——

‘We didn’t understand either. I guess she’s thought us the meanest ever! Say, Miss Nairn, don’t you worry about it any more! It’s quite all right now.’ Melda looked down at her with troubled eyes. ‘There’s just one thing I wish you’d do for us right away, Miss Nairn.’

‘And what is that, my dear?’

‘Come out and see us as soon as you’re better. It makes us feel downright bad not to see you. I don’t know if you’re afraid we shouldn’t know how to behave, but we wouldn’t do anything too awful, and we’d be real pleased to see you and say, “Thank you.” You’ve been mighty good to us.’

Miss Nairn’s white cheeks flushed. ‘You really think they would like it, my dear?’

‘Sure! They want to see you real bad. Now I guess Dorothy Ann had better come with me. The meeting’s waiting for her.’

‘Yes, yes, my dears, you must go. But if you would pass this window on your way home’——

‘We’ll sure do that!—Now come on, Minnehaha!’

Out in the corridor Melda once more got her word in first. ‘Say, Dorothy Ann, I’m mighty sorry! But I just couldn’t understand you, and it made me mad. I couldn’t wait like Berny and Priscilla.’

‘You might have known I wouldn’t funk!’ There was a resentful note in Dorothy Ann’s voice.

‘Yes; I guess so. But, I say, you’d have done just the same yourself! Suppose it had been me, and I hadn’t owned up, would you ever have spoken to me again? Would you have made allowances, and said I must have good reasons, and all that?’

Dorothy Ann’s sense of justice and fair-play was as strong as Melda’s, and her conscience told her what she would have done. ‘I’d have done just what you did,’ she admitted. ‘Then I suppose I mustn’t be wild with you any more. I did feel mad, Melda.’

‘Sure you did! But now let’s shake hands on it. It will please your little aunt too, and I’d like to do something to please her. She’s a little duck!’

Dorothy Ann laughed as they shook hands. ‘May I go to the meeting? Is Miss Tarring willing? And all the others?’

‘They’re all waiting for you. And you’ll all be Wood-Gatherers at once. Do you know the “Desire”?’

‘I guess so!’ Dorothy Ann said grimly.

‘Isn’t Katharine a brick?’ said Melda, as they ran across the lawn. ‘She’s stuck to you like goose-grass. That ought to have been her ceremonial name, or Fidelity, or Ivy, or something like that.’

‘Katharine’s Katharine,’ Dorothy Ann said cryptically. ‘I’d have broken all in pieces if she hadn’t stood up for me. Berny and Priscilla have been awfully jolly too.’

When they reached the Camp Fire they found the girls ranged in a wide circle again, while on the ground before the Guardian lay a huge chopper and two spades, placed in a triangle. The girls greeted them with a cheer, and Miss Tarring held out her hand with a smile.

‘Come along, Minnehaha! Now our circle is complete. We are glad to see you. I speak for everybody, as well as for myself. I have known all about it, of course.’

‘I rather thought you did, Miss Tarring.’ Dorothy Ann’s eyes fell. ‘You do understand, don’t you? I know I’ve seemed an awful rotter.’

Miss Tarring kissed her. ‘We will discuss it later, if you wish. Now let us get on with the business of the meeting. First of all’——

‘Say, aunty, what’s the chopper for?’ Melda demanded. ‘Who’s going to be beheaded?’

‘Don’t you and Minnehaha want to bury the hatchet, Estrella?’

‘Oh!’ Melda’s face filled with delighted laughter. ‘I just guess I do! Who thought of it?’

‘Olive, the peace-bringer. Take a spade, each of you, and dig in turn.’

Dorothy Ann laughed, entering fully into the symbolism of the act. ‘We’ll bury it jolly deep,’ she said.

Turn about, they dug a hole, and the Guardian laid the chopper in the bottom. When the earth was filled in and stamped down the girls raised another cheer, while Melda once more shook hands very emphatically with Dorothy Ann, who, laughing and greatly relieved, slipped into a corner beside Katharine.

Katharine hugged her openly, and then they turned to watch as the investiture of Wood-Gatherers was continued. One after another the girls received their rank and beads. When it came to their turn, Minnehaha and Mavis repeated the “Desire” with great earnestness, for it was no mere formula in their case.

All this business took so long that there was not much time for sitting in Council round he fire. Before the meeting broke up, however, the Guardian explained that this would be the last ceremonial meeting before the holidays, bade the girls work hard during their weeks at home, and keep a list of the Honours for which they qualified, and outlined plans for the winter.

‘Our ceremonial meetings will have to be held indoors next term, which will allow us to have the candle ceremony. We must develop new sides of our work as the dark evenings come on; folk singing and dancing will be suitable, and we will ask Miss Chinchen for further facilities in cooking and housework. I would like, too, that we should do something for some one outside our own circle; we must not grow self-centred. Perhaps we might make and send a box of gifts to poor London children for a Christmas-tree; but we can discuss definite plans when we meet in September. In the meantime you can bear these suggestions in mind. And now it is time to start for home.’

With a parting cheer, the girls sped away into the bushes to change their dresses. They could not all cross the river at once, however, and as they sat waiting on the bank Melda turned to Dorothy Ann.

‘I say, Minnehaha, mayn’t we come to the moors same time as you now?’

Dorothy Ann flushed and laughed. ‘It will be jolly if you will. We can have far more fun. I hope you’ll come.’

Priscilla’s face lit up. ‘Oh, do! I do want to show Berny the moor!’

‘I’m aching to see it! I guess aunty’s plan is just it!’ Bernice said warmly.

‘Miss Tarring!’ Dorothy Ann sat down beside her a little way from the others, as they waited for the punt. ‘You do think I did right not to own up, don’t you?’

‘Yes and no, Minnehaha. Do you know what I mean by that?’

‘No, I don’t! I didn’t think there was anything else to do. I’d promised.’

‘Yes; but what did your aunt really want?’

‘Me not to get into a row, of course.’

‘And if she had understood, wouldn’t she have told you to speak out?’

‘Yes, I know she would. Then do you think I needn’t have waited to ask her leave?’

‘The very best thing to do would have been to obey the spirit rather than the letter of her wish. She would never have wished you to keep silence at such cost to yourself. But I am not blaming you, mind. I think you are perhaps hardly old enough to take that point of view.’

‘But it would have been so much easier!’ Dorothy Ann argued, rather crestfallen. ‘That’s why I couldn’t do it, don’t you see?’

The Guardian laughed. ‘Oh, I quite see that! You would have felt guilty in choosing the easier way, wouldn’t you?’

‘I’d have been afraid I was cheating myself into thinking I ought to do it!’ Miss Tarring nodded. ‘And she didn’t want the girls to know she’d been at home, for her own sake.’

‘But she would have sacrificed her own feelings for you in a moment. However, you did what you felt to be right; you were “true to the truth that is in you,” and that is the most any one can do. And so I say you did rightly, Dorothy Ann. And one thing I do appreciate very warmly is your thought for your aunt and your self-denial in not seizing the first chance to put matters right, for fear of hurting her. It shows more thought than I had given you credit for, and needed courage and resolution too. You have done bravely all through; and, after all, the wisdom to know when to break a promise is a difficult thing to learn.’

But Dorothy Ann was very thoughtful as they went towards the punt.

‘Say, Minnehaha, would it hurt your little aunt if we gave her three cheers as we pass her window?’ Melda asked.

‘No; I think she’d like it.’

‘All right. She’s worth three times three, and I guess we’ll give them to her.’

‘Oh, I say!’ Bernice began to laugh as the punt reached the garden. ‘I’ll have to go back! I’ll catch you up before you’ve gone far. We forgot to dig up the hatchet!’

‘Oh, but you mustn’t dig it up!’ Melda and Dorothy Ann spoke together. ‘It’s buried for good and all!’

‘But it’s Miss Nairn’s chopper; they’ll sure need it to chop wood. I guess it won’t matter so long as you two don’t help. You mustn’t dig it up again, of course.—You come and help, Priscilla!’ and the punt carried them back to the island to find the buried hatchet.

CHAPTER X.
THE PIPE OF PEACE.

It was a large and very noisy party that went north about the middle of August. Miss Tarring and the girls had spent a fortnight sight-seeing in London; they met Dorothy Ann at King’s Cross and Katharine at Harrogate, and all travelled together ‘oop t’ dale,’ as Katharine said.

Priscilla was waiting on the platform, and Melda chuckled at sight of her. ‘My! she’s dressed for the moors, isn’t she?’

Priscilla wore her green school tunic and her old yellow coat, and had plaited her long, thick hair so that she could go bareheaded, as of old; she carried her jumping-pole, and her rucksac was slung at her back. There was a glow in her cheeks which had not been there during her months near London; she had missed the strong air to which she was accustomed, and had lost most of her tan while in the south, but a few days of open-air life had given it back to her.

The carriage door burst open, and Bernice and Katharine, Melda and Dorothy Ann, Leonora and Annabel, sprang upon her. The greetings were a wild confusion of questions and laughter; but Miss Tarring hustled them on, and they were all packed into a big wagonette at last.

Priscilla, on the front-seat, called down a laughing apology for her pole and rucksac. ‘I’ve been shopping, so I came the short way across the moor.’

‘But where is the moor?’ Bernice demanded. ‘I can only see fields and trees.’

‘Oh, we’re still in the dale! The moor’s up on top, you know,’ Priscilla laughed.

At the beginning of a long hill she swung down to walk, and Melda and Bernice, Dorothy Ann and Katharine, joined her. Half-way up the hill Priscilla pointed with her pole to a footpath branching off from the road. ‘That’s the way I go. It’s right across the heather.’

‘Oh, let’s walk by your path! I can’t see any moors yet, though.’

Priscilla laughed. ‘You can’t see over a wall till you get to the top, Berny.’

‘And we’re going up the wall? Guess I’ll wait for the top before I say any more, then.’

They climbed the steep path slowly, until at a sharp turn the moor suddenly came into view.

‘Oh!’ Bernice stood and gazed at the wide purple slopes, rolling back and up to the sky-line. ‘Oh, Priscilla, I do like this!’

‘My! isn’t there a jolly lot of it?’ Melda’s tone was hushed with surprised awe. ‘Does it go on for ever?’

‘The colour of it! Leonora’ll go crazy mad over that purple! And the wind! I could live on that, without anything else!’

‘I couldn’t!’ Melda said promptly. ‘If I don’t get some supper soon I shall eat Dorothy Ann.’

Katharine and Dorothy Ann had been watching them, and enjoying their delight. ‘It’s awfully jolly to be back!’ Katharine sighed contentedly.

Priscilla laughed. ‘I was waiting for it to burst on them. But let’s get home now, or the others will be there before us.’

‘Yes, let’s hustle, and see if we can get there first,’ said Melda. ‘Say, Priscilla, didn’t you feel real bad at leaving all this to go to school?’

‘I did, rather. But I knew I’d come back.’

‘I guess you’ve been mighty home-sick sometimes! There’s such a lot of room up here, and such a glorious wind.’

It was a tight fit to squeeze so many into the farm; and until Miss Tarring left to pay her visits, the girls slept three in a bed, and enjoyed themselves accordingly. Fortunately the weather did not often keep them indoors, and there were always the barns for extra sitting-rooms.

‘I’m quite sorry Miss Tarring’s gone,’ Katharine remarked, as they lay in the heather after seeing her off. ‘Isn’t it queer?’

‘Isn’t what queer? That you’re sorry?’ They all turned on her in surprise.

‘Yes. Just think of having any of the other mistresses with you in the holidays! Think of the Chinaman, or Binky!’

‘Katharine, don’t!’

‘Well, we shouldn’t have a bit a good time. Miss Tarring makes it all the jollier.’

‘I’d quite forgotten she was one of the school people,’ Dorothy Ann confessed. ‘She isn’t like it, somehow. She’s just Berny’s aunt.’

‘She’d say that was a big compliment,’ Bernice laughed.

They built many a picnic camp fire during those weeks, by the Hen and Chickens Rock, on the open moor, in the woods, or on the shore of stream or lake. They all walked forty miles in their first ten days. On wet evenings they were allowed to go into the big kitchen and make cakes and pastry, while Mrs Thwaites looked on in amusement. And it was a joy-day indeed when they took Bernice and Leonora to Fountains; it was their first experience of an old English historical ruin, and they could not find words for their wonder and rapture, all agreeing that it was the finest bit of England they had seen yet, except perhaps the unbroken stretch of purple in whose midst they were living. They went down to Harrogate occasionally, to watch the crowds, hear the band, and have tea and ices at a café; but all preferred the freedom of the moor, where they wore their shortest skirts and strongest boots, ignored the existence of gloves, and wore no hats but knitted caps. Priscilla’s father and mother were quietly interested in their big family; but they left the girls very much to themselves, and never joined them on their long tramps or all-day excursions.

Sitting one hot afternoon in a heathery hollow, waiting for the kettle to boil, they were all lazily busy with work on which they could claim Honours, when Dorothy Ann looked up; she never worked for long at a time.

‘D’you know, you four, we were awfully wild when we heard you were coming to school!—It’s funny to think of it now, isn’t it, Katharine?’

‘It’s funny to think of school without them. It’s just as we said—they’re in everything; but the queer thing is that we’re glad. We couldn’t do without them now.’

‘Why were you wild?’ Bernice asked.

‘Because there were so many of you that there was one for every set in the school. Somehow we never thought we were going to like you, and that things would be jollier because you were in them. I’m jolly glad you came, and I know the others are too.’

‘That’s because we gave you the Camp Fire.’

‘No; I’m glad quite apart from the Camp Fire.’

‘Berny,’ said Priscilla, ‘there’s just one thing I don’t like about the Camp Fire.’

‘What’s that? I thought you liked it all, Priscilla.’

‘I don’t quite like the feeling of getting something for everything you do, even if it’s only beads. It makes you inclined to work only for what you’ll get. If you know you can’t claim Honours for anything, you’re inclined to leave it and do something that will mean beads. It’s mean and kiddy to want rewards for everything you do, and I sometimes think we’re like that with Honours.’

Bernice nodded gravely. ‘But not if you remember the bead is only a symbol; the real thing is the honour of having done or learned something new. It would be kiddy to do things just for beads. No one would care about the beads so much as that; they’re worthless in themselves.’

‘I care about the beads!’ Dorothy Ann said promptly. ‘I’ve seven for Health now—for walking and cycling and swimming; and I’m just wild to get ten, and have one of those jolly gilt Specialist Honours. I shall swank frightfully when I get it!’

The others laughed, and Bernice admitted, ‘There’s something in that, of course. But I don’t see any harm in wearing beads to show what you’ve learned or done, Priscilla. I don’t think any girl would really work just for the beads; even with Dorothy Ann, it’s really the honour behind it she wants. If I gave her three of mine to make up her ten, she wouldn’t take them; they wouldn’t mean anything. But there’s one thing I do feel real strongly about! Seems to me, when a girl’s won Honours for anything and has worn beads for it, she’s in honour bound to use that thing for other people. That time all the maids were sick, now! I’ve had Honours for cooking; wouldn’t it have been real mean if I hadn’t helped? Suppose Dorothy Ann’s had Honours for walking, and your mother asked her to go away across the moor on an errand, wouldn’t she be downright shabby if she said she wouldn’t? She wouldn’t get anything for it, but she ought to do it because of the Honour she’s had already. If a girl’s had Honours for cleaning brasses, or making porridge, or knowing flowers, she ought to be ready to clean brass or make porridge or tell about flowers if she’s asked. It’s only begun when you get your bead. Then you have to begin doing those things for other people. That’s what the Fire-Maker’s Desire means.’

Priscilla looked thoughtful. ‘That’s a jolly idea, Berny; yes, I like that.’

‘I wish we could have a meeting out on the moor!’ Leonora looked up from her drawing. ‘Couldn’t we, Berny? A real meeting, at night, and say the verses, and have the Council Fire? Couldn’t we have one when aunty comes next week?’

‘We haven’t our gowns,’ Dorothy Ann said doubtfully.

‘We could write to school for them!’ Melda said eagerly. ‘Some idea, Leo!—Berny, think how weird and eerie it would be!’

Bernice laughed. ‘The fire would blow out.’

‘There’s always a sheltered side to the Hen and Chickens Rock, and it’s not many minutes from home!’

‘Well, I guess I’d like it too! It wouldn’t be the real thing, of course; that wouldn’t be fair to the others. But we could light a fire and say the verses: we can’t do that too often. I’ll write and ask the Guardian!’

‘And write for our gowns and beads too!’

The Council Fire which was held on the open moor was indeed an eerie experience. Miss Tarring had been amused to find her gown and beads awaiting her, and had consented to take part in the meeting on condition they did not ask for Honours or expect to make decisions for the future. She reserved the right to veto it altogether if there should be rain at the time or during the day before. The sky remained clear, however, and the ground was dry and inviting, even at night.

As dusk was falling a procession set out in Indian file, all wearing ceremonial costume except the Blue Bird, who went skipping ahead down the path between banks of heather, and clambered to the top of the great Hen to lie in a crevice and watch the proceedings. The six Camp Fire maidens and their Guardian sat on the dry heather, a cleared sandy space in the middle.

‘Daughters of the Fire,’ said Iris, ‘as this is a meeting just to please ourselves, we will depart from our usual custom of having a Fire-Maker to lay our fire and a Torch-Bearer to light it. Three of our Wood-Gatherers have never taken part in the ceremony. Mavis, will you gather the wood for the Council Fire?’

The sticks had been prepared during the afternoon. Katharine, very proud of the honour shown her, laid them on the sand, repeating the first ritual verse.

‘Minnehaha, will you lay the fire?’

Dorothy Ann obeyed, propping the sticks lightly together as Melda had taught her, and devoutly hoping they would light.

‘Heather, will you light our fire?’

Priscilla came forward, taper in hand, and lit ‘the Light of Love,’ and Minnehaha sighed in relief as the flames leaped up. Miss Tarring repeated her prayer and benediction, and then they all rose and sang the chant ‘Wohelo for aye.’

As they sat round the fire Catalina handed round cakes which she had made; Estrella produced home-made peppermint-creams; Rosemary had made jam-tarts, and Heather shortbread; and Mavis and Minnehaha had concocted toffee between them. A share of the dainties was handed up to the hungry Blue Bird on the rock, and she was invited to come down and sit in a corner near the fire where she would be warmer.

‘O-o-oh! it’s awful dark and quiet!’ and she snuggled down between Leonora and Katharine.

Darkness had fallen while they were busy, and now the stars were shining. Miss Tarring had given them a Nature talk on these one day at school, and they could all identify Capella in the north and the ruddy Scorpion in the south, and Arcturus and Hercules and the Crown overhead, while Cassiopeia and the Great Bear and Dragon were old friends. The rising wave of moor on every side hid the lights of the farm and the hospital, so that it was easy to think these were very far away.

Katharine glanced over her shoulder into the black depths which closed them in, and her hand crept through Dorothy Ann’s arm for company. ‘Isn’t it weird? It’s so fearfully quiet! I feel as if there might be anything out there, just waiting to jump on us!’

Dorothy Ann shivered enjoyably. ‘That’s what comes of having an imagination. We happen to know there isn’t anything there to jump.’

‘There might be! Things come out at night!’

‘Don’t let Annabel hear you! Or the Guardian, or she’ll send us all home to bed.’

‘Say, Minnehaha!’ Melda called across the fire. ‘I guess you and I have been all right all the holidays? It’s “peace” between us, isn’t it?’

Dorothy Ann laughed. ‘Why, of course! What d’you mean?’

Melda held out something to her. ‘Then smoke this with me. I got it down in Harrogate last Saturday, and Mr Scarsby gave me the tobacco. You needn’t smoke enough to make yourself sick, you know. It’s the Pipe of Peace. Indians always smoke the Pipe of Peace.’

She held out a long-stemmed pipe; and amid the laughter of the Council Fire, Minnehaha solemnly puffed two or three times, then handed it back across the fire. ‘That do?’

‘Irene made me think of it, after that last Council Fire.’ Estrella puffed in her turn. ‘She said we ought to have done it when we buried the hatchet. Now I guess it’s all over and done with!’

‘Mavis,’ Dorothy Ann whispered, while the others talked and laughed, ‘I’ve been thinking about that last Council Fire, and how you stuck to me and wouldn’t go, even to be a Wood-Gatherer.’

‘I couldn’t. Oh, Dan, I am glad it’s all done with!’

‘So am I. But I’m rather glad now it all happened. That’s what I’ve been thinking.’

‘Glad? It was hateful, and you felt awfully bad!’

‘I know. But this is what I really was thinking—if it hadn’t happened I’d never have known quite how jolly you and Priscilla could be, but most of all you. And I shouldn’t have known about Berny and Leonora either. But most of all, I shouldn’t ever have—have liked you quite so much as I do, Katharine.’

It cost Dorothy Ann an effort to express her feelings; she did not often speak out all that was in her heart. It was only the unnatural surroundings, the silence, and the darkness which had made it possible now.

Katharine’s arm tightened round her. ‘Then I’m glad too. Perhaps that’s why horrid things happen to people—so that they’ll find out who are truly their friends. If you’re glad, so am I, Dorothy Ann. It was worth it all!’

THE END.

[End of A School Camp Fire, by Elsie J. Oxenham [Elsie Jeanette Dunkerly]]