"With the envelope in her hand she hesitated and glanced round
guiltily." (See page 128.)

BY

BRENDA PAGE

Author of "Schoolgirl Rivals"

With Four Illustrations in Colour
and Black and White
By ELIZABETH EARNSHAW

CASSELL AND COMPANY, LTD
London, Toronto, Melbourne and Sydney

First published 1928

Printed in Great Britain

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

1. The First Day
2. Enter the Black Sheep
3. An Amazing Confession
4. Allison Interferes
5. The Hockey Shield
6. Nat gets Her Chance
7. "Not Playing the Game!"
8. Thrills for the Fifth
9. While the Cat's Away
10. Lost, Stolen or Strayed?
11. The Telegram
12. Sentence is Delayed
13. A Sensational Paper-chase
14. A Riddle is Solved
15. Allison Tells a Story
16. Nat makes a Discovery

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

"With the envelope in her hand she hesitated and glanced round guiltily" ... Frontispiece

"Everyone gazed at her with unrestrained curiosity"

"'Jumping Jehoshaphat,' exclaimed Madge, 'what have you been doing to your study!'"

"For one horrible moment she hung there suspended by her hands"

Monica and the Fifth

The first day of a new school-year at colleges and boarding-schools is of necessity devoted entirely to the arrival of the boarders, unpacking and settling down. St. Etheldreda's was no exception to this rule. Undoubtedly the busiest girl in the whole school on that important Tuesday—the first day of the autumn term—was Madge Amhurst, late of the Fifth Form, but now promoted to the double dignity of the Sixth and a prefectship. Madge had been selected by the house mistress, Miss Perkins, to receive and take charge of all the new girls, and she was performing her first duty as a prefect with remarkable conscientiousness; not that Madge was always so painstakingly conscientious, but she was the possessor of a fluent and ready tongue and was never so happy as when exercising it well in airing her views. Though liked by her school companions she could not always obtain an audience willing to listen to her; now at last was a splendid opportunity; for the greater part of a day she could hold the stage to her heart's content.

The rule at St. Etheldreda's was that all girls, save in very exceptional circumstances, should be in the school before six-thirty on Tuesday evening. Throughout the afternoon Madge was seen wandering round the building with an ever-lengthening train of small girls at her heels, very much, as Nellie Barthe remarked with a broad grin, like a fussy old hen with a family of newly-hatched chicks, all wearing the forlorn and miserable appearance of newcomers in a strange and unknown world.

By four o'clock, Madge had collected a following of eight or nine youngsters and was still walking them round. She was greeted with broad smiles by girls whom she passed in the various rooms and passages, but seemed quite unperturbed by their amusement at her expense, and looked both busy and business-like with her pencil tucked clerically behind one ear and in her hand the list with which Miss Perkins had provided her. She finally halted her little band in the Blue Dormitory, with another glance at the list she was carrying and then at the watch on her wrist.

"This, my dear children," she remarked with a wave of her hand, "is the Blue Dormitory, so called, as you may guess for yourselves, from the tasteful cream and art-blue scheme of decoration. I think I have already told you that we are now in the Annexe, which has been recently added to the main building, to which it is connected by a covered-in passage. Most of the dormitories are in the Annexe, also the common room, senior studies and assembly hall."

She consulted her list again. "Which of you is Norah Maguire? Sure, and it's you, is it, begorrah? This is the haven where in future you will enjoy your nocturnal slumbers, Norah. In other words, cubicle No. 4 is yours. You are the last on the list, I think. Here is the wardrobe where you will hang your things, and this, of course, is your chest of drawers. I haven't missed anyone out, have I?"

There was a murmured chorus of "Noes."

"A little refreshment will be provided at half-past four," Madge continued pleasantly, "and as the tea-bell will ring shortly I don't think it's much use starting to unpack till afterwards. Now, is there anything you would like to know about your cubicles?"

After a few moments' silence one small, curly-haired girl spoke up.

"Are we allowed to hang any pictures in our cubicles?"

"Why yes, certainly, only you mustn't knock nails into the outside walls. There's a picture rail on the wall, so that difficulty is easily overcome. You can also use drawing-pins. Of course there are certain dormitory rules about lights, talking and so on, but you'll find a list of them hanging just inside the door, also a list of the occupants of the cubicles. Hot water? You get it from the bathrooms when you want it. By the by, you are expected to knock before entering another person's cubicle—a senior's, at any rate. Anything else you want to know, Matty?" tapping the small girl on the head with her pencil.

"My name isn't Matty. It's Margaret."

"Too long," replied Madge cheerfully. "I haven't time for more than two syllables just now."

"Please," inquired another rather timidly, "do we do anything else this evening besides unpack?"

"Yes. I'm to take you to see Miss Julian—the Principal, you know—at six o'clock. Then at half-past six we assemble. It's the usual proceeding. Announcements are made, we are all welcomed back and of course are all exhorted to roll up our sleeves for the year's work and put some elbow grease into it. Also you get a few words for the good of your soul, though fortunately Prinny's sermons are brief and to the point. Of course, you needn't listen, but as you are new kids perhaps it would be wise for you to do so this first time.

"That's all that happens to-night. Prinny may tell you what class you are in, or if you haven't already been to school you may have to sit for tests to-morrow morning. But really, if you're sensible kids you can have an awfully good time here. There are several societies you can join, the dramatic and the indoor games, for instance. The dramatic get up a play every year, and the indoor games play draughts and chess and table-tennis and so on. As for the outdoor games, well—" Madge was warming to her work. "Now that summer term is over I may as well tell you you'll soon have to make a very important decision." Madge's expression grew portentous. "You will have to choose which to join, the hockey club or the netball club."

"Can't you play both?"

"Play both!" Madge was horror-struck. "Indeed no! Not that there's any rule about it, but it simply isn't done. You must choose one or the other. I am secretary of one of the clubs, but I won't tell you which," she added modestly, "as I don't wish to influence you unfairly. Naturally, it is by far the better game of the two. Hark! There's tea bell."

She counted them round to see if all were present, then marshalled them downstairs with a wave of her hand and an encouraging: "Come along. En avant, mes enfants!"

Tea was in the beautiful old dining-room, one of the oldest parts of the original building, a long, lofty room with glorious oak panelling and great worm-eaten oak beams across the ceiling, carefully preserved through several hundred years. No one came to St. Etheldreda's without being impressed by this room, particularly as it had the added advantage of looking out on three sides to green lawns and leafy trees.

From tea till the bell rang again for assembly at six-thirty the school was like a hive of busy bees, swarming and buzzing. The hall where the girls assembled every morning for prayers and every evening for roll-call, and also on state occasions such as Speech Day, was in the Annexe, and had a wide platform at one end and a small gallery at the other.

Madge Amhurst found herself among a little party of Fifth-formers, as she made her way down the corridor.

"Any new girls for the Fifth?" inquired one of them, Irene Eames.

Madge shook her head. "There is only one new senior so far, who I expect will go into the Fourth. There's another who hasn't turned up yet, though. She has the 'flu or something, and will probably be coming next week."

Irene nodded, disappointed. "What a pity! It's rather interesting having new girls in your form and wondering what they'll be like."

"Miss Perkins said she thought this girl who hasn't arrived yet would be put into the Fifth," replied Madge.

Five minutes after the bell had sounded a goodly number of girls had assembled in the hall. St. Etheldreda's was not as big as many of the modern English boarding-schools, nevertheless its numbers were not inconsiderable, averaging between seventy and eighty, all boarders. The lowest age at which a girl could be admitted was ten, for there was neither a kindergarten nor a preparatory department.

After the girls came the mistresses and finally the Principal herself, tall and slight, with hair turning grey rather early, and the possessor of a quiet manner and a voice of peculiar charm, low-toned but very clear and distinct. Standing on the platform at the end of the room she began to speak, saying how pleased she was to see familiar and smiling faces again, but declaring that she would not keep them very long as she knew many had had long journeys and were doubtless beginning already to feel tired. She touched lightly on the work of the coming year, impressing on them the need for a good beginning, followed by steady work throughout the year.

She then read out the list of the new prefects and their chief duties. At this, of course, all heads were turned towards the back row, where stood the five or six new Sixth-formers, who tried hard not to look self-conscious when they heard their names. They came forward to the platform to receive their prefects' stars, which the Principal fastened on the fronts of their dresses, and were heartily clapped by the rest of the school.

When this commotion had subsided Miss Julian continued:

"There is just another little announcement I wish to make. I know how glad you all are to see our last year's Head Girl back among us for yet another year."

Fresh applause, whose sincerity no one could doubt, for Allison Ravenel had been the most popular of all St. Etheldreda's Head Girls and was still the best-liked and most admired girl in the school.

"Unfortunately," Miss Julian went on, "things are not quite the same this year. With very great reluctance Allison has asked me to say that she feels unable to carry out the multitudinous duties of a Head Girl this year. She has returned to study for a university scholarship and as it is a matter of very great importance to her that she should win it if she possibly can, she feels she must devote her whole time and attention to her studies. I have consulted the other prefects and they are extremely anxious that she should not relinquish her position as Head Girl while she is here; they declare that they are ready and willing to undertake her work and to relieve her of most of her duties. I have accepted their kindly offer, and if the rest of the school are willing to back up the prefects in every way I am sure the arrangement will work satisfactorily. Will all those girls who willingly and gladly agree to do so, raise their hands?"

A forest of hands immediately shot up. Miss Julian nodded her satisfaction, then glanced across at the tall, fair-haired, eighteen-year-old Head Girl. "Perhaps Allison wishes to answer you for herself," she suggested.

"I can only say thank you all very much for your kindness," Allison answered. "It was entirely the prefects' idea that I should retain the Head Prefectship. Of course, if at any time they need my help I shall be only too pleased to do anything I can. I did not like trespassing so much on their good nature, but they insisted on it."

Already most of the seniors, at least, knew the reason for Allison's anxiety to win a university scholarship. Her people had recently lost money, and without the scholarship Allison, with several younger brothers and sisters yet to be educated, would be obliged to give up all idea of continuing her education at a university.

A voice came from the back row, the voice of Deirdre Samways, one of the members of the hockey first eleven, saying in anxious tones: "I hope this does not mean that Allison will be giving up games as well. The school cannot afford to lose her services."

Allison answered for herself. "I am resigning the captainship of the hockey club, as I may not be able to attend all the practices and the meetings. But Miss Julian says I should be silly to give up playing, as outdoor exercise is necessary when you are studying hard, so I shall be only too pleased to turn out for matches."

There was a sigh of relief from the hockey enthusiasts, for was not Allison the best centre-half the school had ever possessed and an invaluable pivot for the team?

"And now," the Principal was saying, "as all except the new girls know, it is my custom at the beginning of each school year to present to you a little thought of some kind that may help you in your school life. At the end of the year I generally refer to it again to see if it really has been of any help to us.

"I suppose it is the aim and endeavour of everyone to get as much as possible out of life, and you are all, I am sure, trying to get all you can out of your school life.

"It is right that we should have ambitions. Many girls, I know, are working to win scholastic honours, to do well in the public and school exams or to take home better reports at the end of term; others perhaps are trying to distinguish themselves in one particular subject, their music or in some other branch of art; girls who are already in school teams are anxious to win honour for themselves on the playing fields, and those who have not a place as yet are keen to obtain one; girls who cannot yet swim unaided have perhaps made up their minds to be more successful in the baths this coming season.

"I am always pleased to see such ambitions. But this year I want you not only to think of how much you can get out of school life, but also of how much you can put in—how much of kindliness, consideration for others, service, even small personal sacrifices, to give some instances of what I mean. You girls, living together in what we call a 'community life,' have so many opportunities of 'putting in' as well as 'getting out,' of making our school life here happier and brighter and jollier for us all. I am not going to say any more on that subject, but don't forget the thought I want to give you for this year."

Miss Julian said little more, for, being a woman of wisdom and experience, she was content to press home what she wanted to say and then to leave off before seeing the first fidgety movements that told of weariness or boredom on the part of her youthful audience. The assembly came to a close with a hymn and a brief prayer, and the girls were then dismissed with the injunction that the rest of the evening till supper bell was their own to pass as they wished, but that classes would begin at nine o'clock the next morning as usual.

One afternoon a week later the Fifth commandeered the common room for a special meeting to arrange an impromptu cricket match for the next Wednesday afternoon, the weather being so unusually hot that it was impossible to start winter games in real earnest. They were about to begin the meeting, when an excited exclamation from a girl sitting curled up in a corner of the big settee attracted everyone's attention.

"Oh, I say, girls, just listen to this!" She held up the letter which she had been reading while waiting for the meeting to start.

"Letters already, Glenda?" remarked Ida Preston. "Why, we've only been back a week. Not from home, surely?"

"No," replied Glenda. "This came by the afternoon post and it's from my cousin, who lives at Croftdene. She thinks her news might be of interest to us. It has given me a thrill, anyway."

"Something about St. Etheldreda's?" asked Irene Eames in surprise.

Glenda nodded. She was a tall girl of striking appearance, always beautifully dressed, with dark hair and eyes and a rather dramatic way of talking. She delighted in creating sensations and had a large following among the Fifth. In fact, she and her friend—red-haired, hot-tempered, clever Irene Eames—were the acknowledged leaders of the form.

"I should just think it is," Glenda replied with emphasis. "It's about this new girl who hasn't turned up yet. It seems she's a real bad lot, according to my cousin, who thinks we're in for a lively time."

"Does she know her, then?"

"No, but—well, I'll tell you how it is. A lady named Mrs. Whiddon recently came to live in the old Grange at Croftdene. My aunt and cousin went to call, and before the acquaintance was many weeks old they discovered that Mrs. Whiddon had a niece, who was so naughty and troublesome she didn't know what to do with her. She sent her away to a boarding-school last term, and"—here Glenda paused with great dramatic effect—"she was expelled!"

There were exclamations of incredulous wonder from Glenda's little audience.

"It's quite true, because it comes from the girl's own aunt and guardian," declared Glenda. "At the end of the term—she was only there a term—the Principal wrote and asked Mrs. Whiddon to take her niece away, as she was quite unmanageable and would have a bad influence on the other girls."

"I wonder what she did," breathed Betty Cairns, awestruck. "It must have been something dreadful."

Glenda shook her head. "I don't know. Mrs. Whiddon didn't say. Mustn't she be a bright specimen, though—the niece, I mean!"

"And this girl is coming to St. Etheldreda's," said Irene slowly. "Surely Miss Julian doesn't know what sort of a character she has?"

"But she does!" Glenda retorted triumphantly. "She offered to take the girl into her school—give her a trial, so to speak. It seems her mother was a very dear old friend of Prinny's and she's doing it for her sake, I suppose."

The girls looked at one another, but no one said anything.

"What I think," continued Glenda, "is that it's rather hard lines on us to have a girl of this sort foisted on us. If she's too bad a character for one school to put up with, then she isn't good enough for St. Etheldreda's."

"Hear, hear!" came from one or two listeners.

"Well," said red-haired Irene, the top girl of the form, "we aren't all saints by any means, but I've never yet heard of a girl at St. Etheldreda's who has had to be threatened with expulsion. I don't want to chum up with a girl of that sort."

Glenda held up her letter. "My cousin says it's a good thing for me I am warned in time, as she knows how lacking I am in common sense and a 'sense of balance,' whatever that means. Rather a knock for me, what?" and she joined heartily in the laugh against herself.

"Still, perhaps it is rather fortunate we have got to know about this girl," Muriel Graves observed thoughtfully. "Otherwise we might have had a few shocks."

"Forewarned is forearmed," added Irene. "We shall know how to deal with her—or rather, how to steer clear of her," and there was a murmur of agreement from the others; the rest of the form were apt to be easily swayed by its two strongest characters, Irene and Glenda.

Suddenly a new voice, hitherto unheard, came from the direction of the wide hearth.

"I say, don't you think the fairest thing would be to give the kid a chance?" said Nathalie Sandrich.

All eyes were immediately turned on the new speaker, a rather big girl who had somewhat the appearance of a lanky, ungainly young colt; that is to say, her hands and feet seemed to be too large in proportion to the rest of her, while she did not appear to know quite what to do with her elbows and knees—faults which would probably be remedied when she had finished growing. She had a shock of bright brown hair, irregular features, plentifully besprinkled with freckles during the summer term, and a rather wide mouth which displayed beautifully white, even teeth when she smiled.

Nathalie Sandrich, usually known as Nat, had, as she herself declared, only one talent, a perfect genius for "putting her foot in it."

Strange to relate, when a difficult catch at cricket was muffed—a catch upon which the fate of the match rested—the unhappy fielder was sure to be Nat Sandrich, though Nat was quite a good cricketer. Should it be discovered that one of the girls walking down the church aisle for Sunday morning service was displaying an enormous hole in her stocking, above the heel of her shoe, one took it for granted that the girl would be Nat although, as she pointed out, she did quite as much darning as any other girl in the school. When the position lists of the term examinations were posted up, the name of Nat Sandrich was invariably the very last on the Fifth Form list, though one could not by any means call her a dull or stupid girl. She was unfortunately the member of a Fifth Form unusually diligent and intelligent at their lessons, and suffered in comparison; she also generally managed to lower her chances further by omitting to head one of her papers or number some of her questions, thereby losing marks to which she would otherwise have been entitled. On the whole Nat was popular with her school companions, for she had a cheerful disposition and often amused them, but they were inclined to regard her with a kind of tolerant, good-natured contempt.

All eyes were now on Nat, as she made her suggestion so abruptly.

"What exactly do you mean, Nat?" asked Irene.

"Only that I think you ought to give the kid a chance," repeated Nat, "by treating her as if you'd never heard any of that," pointing to Glenda's letter. "Just imagine she's an ordinary sort of girl and you've never heard anything against her. She may not be so bad after all. Perhaps there was a mistake at the other school. Besides, you can soon judge what sort of a girl she is for yourselves. It isn't fair to her to form a prejudice against her before you see her."

Here was a new point of view. Glenda looked annoyed, for though she was not an unkind or ill-natured girl at heart, she did not like to see the startling effect produced by her news counteracted.

"I hardly see how a mistake could have been made," she said loftily. "Her aunt's opinion of her seemed to coincide with that of the Head Mistress of the school. I don't think it's at all nice of Prinny to plant down such a character in our midst."

But Nat stuck to her guns. "Prinny wants to give her another chance or she would have told us what sort of a girl this new kid was," she insisted. "Besides, don't you think that's the sort of thing she meant when she talked about 'putting in' as well as 'getting out'? It isn't being very kind or considerate."

"Good gracious! It's never Nat preaching!" cried Irene with an amazed expression "What will happen next?"

Nat was crimson to her ears. "I'm not preaching," she denied, with as much indignation as if she had been accused of breaking all the ten commandments at once. "I've never preached in my life. It's only that I don't think it's fair——"

"Good for you, Nat," broke in a clear voice from behind, and everyone looked hurriedly round to see Allison standing just inside the door. She had entered unnoticed in the commotion some few minutes ago and now came forward. "Nat is right," she went on decidedly, "I don't know how you got hold of this tale. Miss Julian was particularly anxious that rumours of this sort should not get about."

The girls were eager to explain the source of their information and were already feeling a little ashamed of themselves, for they were good-hearted girls in the main and even those strong-minded spirits, Irene and Glenda, were anxious to keep the good opinion of the popular Head Girl.

Allison smiled round upon the circle of Fifth-formers.

"Then is it agreed that Nat's idea be adopted, and we all decide to forget what we've just heard in Glenda's letter and give this new girl at least a fair start? Then it won't be our faults if she doesn't take advantage of it."

Everyone agreed, with outward heartiness at any rate. "As a matter of fact," Allison then continued, "it's about the new girl that I came to speak to you. She's just arrived."

Naturally this announcement caused great excitement.

"Is she coming into the Fifth?" asked Irene.

"Yes. Miss Julian is giving her a trial with you, though I believe she is a little below the average age. As a senior she'll be entitled to a study, of course. Which of you will volunteer to take her in?"

There was silence. Everyone looked stealthily at everyone else, but no volunteers were forthcoming.

At last Nat said, with a sigh: "I suppose I ought to, as I'm the only one with a study to myself at present. But I don't want to. I like a peaceful life."

"Oh, you needn't necessarily be the victim," replied Allison. "It can easily be otherwise arranged by somebody changing studies with you."

Still no one moved or spoke.

Allison looked across at Nat. "You'll have to take it on," she said with a twinkle in her eyes. "No one else will."

Nat groaned. "All right," she replied resignedly. "I suppose you can't expect the girls to upset their present study arrangements. But I don't look forward to the prospect."

"If she can't get on with you, Nat, then she won't get on with anyone," Allison said decidedly, adding with another twinkle: "You will have to put up a notice on the board, publicly announcing that you will not hold yourself responsible for any of your partner's debts or misdemeanours. Here she is, I believe," as the door opened and Pamela Preston looked in.

"I've brought her along; Allison," said the prefect. "She's taken her things upstairs to her cubicle and partially unpacked."

"Right-oh!" Allison nodded her thanks. "I'll introduce her to her future form companions and leave her to their tender mercies."

Pamela vanished, leaving her charge standing just inside the door.

Naturally everyone gazed at her with unrestrained curiosity, and rather to their disappointment did not see anything about the new girl that looked at all dreadful or desperately wicked. In fact, there was something rather childish about the solitary figure, in spite of her fifteen years; an impression due to the slightness of her build, her height, which was rather under than above the average, the shortness of her tunic and her straight bobbed hair, black near the roots and ending round her ears in a kind of rusty brown. Like the rest of her figure, her features were small and delicately cut, her complexion olive and her eyes grey-blue, under lashes that were long and dark. She came forward apparently without either shyness or eagerness, as Allison called to her.

"Everyone gazed at her with unrestrained curiosity."

"Your name's Monica, isn't it?" the Head Girl asked with a friendly smile.

"Yes, Monica Carr," was the brief response, but there was no return of Allison's smile.

"Well, these are girls of the Fifth, which will probably be your form. I'll just introduce you to two or three of them, then I'll clear off and leave you to make friends. This is Irene, the top girl. This is Glenda, the shining light of the dramatic society, and here is Ida Preston, the most accurate netball shooter we have ever possessed. Oh, and this is Nat. I mustn't forget Nat, as you are to share studies with her."

The girls, true to their compact, greeted the newcomer with as much naturalness as they could simulate, and Allison, her mind relieved, took her departure.

"'Fraid we shall have to postpone our meeting," observed Glenda. "The tea bell will soon be ringing. We must have it later. Come along to my study about half an hour before supper bell, those who wish, and we'll fix up our match arrangements then."

Nat turned to the girl who stood silently at her side. "Come along and I'll show you our study," she suggested. "Then if you've any books and things you want to keep there you can bring them down."

The new girl followed Nat along the passage which led to the row of senior studies, added to the school accommodation when the Annexe was built. She listened silently as Nat, who was a sociable soul, chatted cheerfully. She was not very responsive, however; not even when Nat, with obvious pride, ushered her into the little room, remarking:

"To a certain extent we are allowed to furnish or decorate our studies as we like. It's rather fun to see the different ideas different girls have. This study is rather bare at present, but the girl who was to share it with me left last term and took her belongings with her, and I haven't had time to hang up my pictures yet. The table, chairs and cupboard are school furniture, but the little bookcase is mine. My youngest brother made it for me, so that accounts for the shelves not fitting properly. Perhaps you would like to suggest things—what colours we should choose for curtains, table-cloth, cushion-covers and so on—or perhaps you have some pictures you would like to put up. I'm afraid I'm not very artistic about that sort of thing."

No gleam of animation or enthusiasm lightened the new girl's face. "I didn't bring anything like that with me," she said, speaking for the first time, in a voice that was low-toned and with a husky note in it. "I didn't know. Besides, I haven't anything, except one or two dressing-table ornaments that will do for my cubicle."

"But perhaps you'll have a few original ideas," persisted Nat. "Then we might look round and buy what we want."

"I don't often get original ideas," was the discouraging reply.

Nat rubbed her nose thoughtfully, reflecting dismally that this was not a very bright beginning and held out few hopes for a jolly future. However, you couldn't always judge new girls from first impressions. Some of them felt very strange and awkward and homesick at first, poor things. She tried again, meaning to be comforting.

"I hope you don't feel homesick, because really there isn't any need. Of course, some of the younger girls are, though we haven't any very young ones. Last year we had a new girl—quite a big girl in the Fourth—who cried and cried every night for a whole week, till her nose was so red the others said it gave her a most disreputable look! Now she cries every time we break up for the holidays."

"Well, I haven't any intention of crying, either now or when we break up. As for being homesick, I haven't a home to be sick for."

"Oh, haven't you? What a shame!" Nat said sympathetically. "Where will you go for the holidays?"

"Oh, I've a house I can go to—my aunt's house. It's very large and comfortable, and you can have everything you want there—but a house isn't a home."

"Haven't you a father or mother?"

"No."

"Nor brothers or sisters?"

"No."

"How horrid for you!" Nat had not been at all attracted by the new girl, but now her ready sympathies were enlisted. No wonder she was so queer and stiff!

"Have you been to many schools?" she continued, with another attempt to be friendly.

"No, I was only at one for a term last year."

"You've had a governess then, I suppose?"

"No."

"Oh!" Nat wondered how a girl was educated, if she neither went to school nor had a governess. "I suppose your people taught you at home?"

"No."

After this brief denial, conversation languished. The new girl volunteered no information about herself and did not seem to want to know anything about her new surroundings, so Nat racked her brains for a further topic of interest.

"Do you play games at all? That always helps at school. Even girls who aren't much good at anything else get awfully popular if they can shine at games."

"No, I can't play any games."

Nat was completely taken aback.

"Not any at all? But surely you must have played something. Not cricket or tennis or netball?"

The new girl shook her head.

"Nor hockey?"

"No, I don't think so. What is hockey like?"

"Oh, it's a topping game. You chase up and down a field and swipe at the ball with your stick whenever you get the chance. You'll have to play something here. Games are compulsory, unless you're excused for medical reasons. You haven't a weak heart or varicose veins, I suppose?"

"I don't think so."

"Then you'll have to learn," declared Nat firmly.

"I don't mind if I do."

Silence fell again. Nat did not like to continue the games topic, for the new girl displayed not the slightest interest or enthusiasm in it. She glanced at the clock. Only five minutes before the tea bell rang. A new thought struck her.

"I say, this is one of the days when you have to speak French at meals. No English is allowed at the senior tables under penalty of a penny fine. Do you know much French?"

"Not a word."

Nat gazed incredulously. "Not really? Honest Injun, you're not pulling my leg?"

"Indeed, no. I was never taught French."

"Never taught French! I forgot you've never been to school nor had a governess."

Nat looked hard at the new girl, but there was no sign of mischievous propensities in her expression; she merely appeared bored at having to answer all these tiresome questions.

"Then I'm afraid it's rather hard lines on you," Nat remarked. "You'll have to sit still and say nothing all tea-time."

The new girl looked up and for the first time spoke with some warmth in her voice and manner.

"I don't mind that at all. But I'm jolly hungry. Suppose I want some sugar in my tea or some more jam or cake, and it isn't within reach, can't I ask for it?"

"Not in English. Only in French."

"But I can't speak French."

Nat scratched her head in perplexity. "We must think of some way out of the difficulty. I'm afraid I couldn't possibly teach you the French names for everything on the tea-table before tea bell goes. I'll tell you what. You must just say: 'Passez-moi cela, s'il vous plait,' and point to what you want."

The new girl put her head on one side and regarded Nat with a flicker of impish mischief in her face.

"But it's rude to point."

"Then you must manage to point without being rude. Jerk your head or make a graceful gesture. That's the best I can do for you, anyway."

"What is it I have to say."

"'Passez-moi cela, s'il vous plait.' It means 'Pass me that, please.' Say it after me ten times, then you'll know it by heart."

A few minutes later Monica was escorted to tea by Nat. The big oak-raftered and panelled room with its long tables covered with snow-white napery was a cheery sight, especially when filled with seventy or eighty hungry schoolgirls and echoing with the chatter of their voices. The new girl sat quiet and silent by Nat's side, subdued by the crowds of strange faces, the buzz of strange voices. Curious glances were cast at her by some of the Fifth Form girls who had heard of her reputation, but on the whole they were too busy satisfying their appetites and racking their brains for French phrases to take much notice of Monica.

At her table Glenda Vaughan, tall and good-looking in her dark, handsome style, was holding everyone's attention with her endeavour to relate a humorous story in French, and her love of dramatic effect was shown in every varying tone of her voice, every flash of her dark eyes.

"Attention, mes enfants," she commenced. "Je vais vous dire une petite conte—une conte très-très drôle," and in somewhat remarkable French she endeavoured to relate how the witty young French guest asked his French hostess a riddle. Why was she like the teapot? Here Glenda paused, gazed round triumphantly, then continued: "Et le jeune homme répondit: 'Parce que vous êtes pleine de bonté.'"

Everyone looked puzzled. No one laughed. As a matter of fact Glenda was the only one at the table who might be said to possess linguistic talent and she was very proud of her French. Besides, she had studied up this little story very carefully in order to make an impression.

Nat, who was steadily working her way through her third slice of bread and butter before embarking on cake, paused in the act of helping herself to raspberry jam. "Mais, quel jeune homme stupide! Quel est le joke?" she demanded. "Je—je ne le vois pas."

Glenda, annoyed, flounderingly tried to explain in a mixture of French and English, disregarding the possibility of a fine. "Que vous êtes bêtises! Pleine de bonté—full of goodness; pleine de bon thé—full of good tea. Comprenez?"

Ida Preston burst out laughing while in the act of drinking from her cup, with the natural result that she choked and fell to coughing violently, much to the delight of her unfeeling table companions.

Miss Moore, the mistress in charge that day, stopped chatting to Allison and glanced severely across at the scene of this sudden commotion.

"Comment donc! Qu'avez-vous, Glenda, Irene? Taisez-vous."

While Glenda was wildly searching for a suitable answer in French, Nat's voice was raised in cheerful explanation.

"C'est Ida, Mademoiselle. Elle est trop pleine de bon thé," and from table number two there came a shout of ribald and unseemly mirth at Nat's ready answer.

The Fifth Form watched the new girl with secret but close interest for the next two or three days, expecting to see some kind of exhibition of the wickedness that had given her such an unenviable reputation. But for the first few days nothing at all startling happened. The new girl seemed quite harmless, as Ida Preston declared to a little circle of Fifth-formers who had gathered in their classroom and were awaiting the arrival of their form mistress, Miss Bennett.

"Sulky thing, I call her," said Betty. "Not a word to anyone, yet doesn't seem at all shy—just sullen. Nat isn't very keen on her as a study-mate, I believe."

"Fancy not knowing any French!" chimed in Nora Miles. "She can't take French with us."

"No. She's going into the Third Form for French," replied Irene. "But she's coming into the Fifth for all the other subjects, so I suppose she can't be such a dud. Wonder if she's clever!" Irene, though she pretended not to care, was secretly very proud of the position she had held as head of the class for the last two or three years, and it would be a severe blow to her were she to find herself in any other place but the top when the class examination list was posted up.

"I tell you what I'm most curious about, girls," said Glenda. "I'd give my last pot of gooseberry jam to know why she was expelled from her school last term."

Glenda's voice was naturally clear and distinct, and in the interest of the subject she had forgotten to speak in low tones. Every word carried quite distinctly to the ears of the very girl they were discussing, for Monica was just entering the classroom in Nat's company. They first became aware of her entry when a voice came in prompt answer to Glenda's speech:

"Would you really like to know? Because I can tell you if you would," and they looked up to find Monica calmly regarding them from the doorway. They gazed back for a moment or two without answering. Monica advanced into the room, her hands twisted in her belt in lieu of pockets, her attitude one of careless defiance. Yet she looked such a slender slip of a girl for her fifteen years. She halted and spoke again, in hard matter-of-fact tones.

"I cheated in the exams. It was the geometry paper in the Cambridge Junior, and I carried a geometry book into the exam room under the front of my tunic. They caught me copying out a theorem which formed one of the questions."

Had she announced that she had committed a murder her listeners would not have been more horror-struck.

"Cheated in a public exam!" gasped Glenda. "What did they do when they found out?"

"Turned me out of the room," replied Monica hardily. "And of course that was the end of the exam for me."

"How awful you must have felt!" said Betty, and Ida inquired, her eyes wide and wondering: "Weren't you awfully sorry afterwards?"

"I should hope so," Irene struck in with something approaching a sneer.

Monica shrugged her shoulders. "No, why should I be sorry? Everyone cheats some time or other. It isn't in cheating you make the mistake, it's doing it so that you are found out."

"If that's how you feel about it," said Glenda with scorn, "I wonder Prinny had the cheek to expect us to associate with a girl of your principles. I said so all along."

"Here comes Miss Bennett," broke in Nat hurriedly from the doorway, and the Fifth hastily sought their desks.

Miss Bennett had been looking forward to the passing-up of her new form, for they had the reputation of being a steady, hard-working lot; "swots" they were dubbed, half in contempt, half in admiration, by some of the other forms. It is true they were also inclined to be self-complacent and rather addicted to pluming themselves on their cleverness, but as Miss Bennett pointed out to Miss Moore, one couldn't have everything and it would be a relief to be in charge of a hard-working form after the previous harum-scarum, happy-go-lucky, hoydenish Fifth. Miss Moore had agreed, adding with a sigh that she was afraid the new Fourth were going to follow in the steps of Miss Bennett's old form.

The first period that morning was devoted to a Scripture lesson, and while the majority of the class conscientiously endeavoured to trace the genealogy of the numerous kings of Israel and Judah, the new girl fidgeted restlessly in her seat, now gazing round the room at the pictures hanging on the walls, now scribbling aimlessly on her desk with her pencil. She certainly did not appear to be giving much attention to the lesson, but Miss Bennett, for some reason or other, chose to take no notice of her. Just as the bell went and Miss Bennett was rising to go out, Monica appeared to wake up. Her hand shot up suddenly and as Miss Bennett, pausing on her way to the door, looked inquiringly at her, she said in a breath: "Please, Miss Bennett, how do we know Solomon was a poor man?"

Miss Bennett frowned. "Don't waste my time, Monica. You must know Solomon was one of the richest of all the Jewish kings," she said sharply and swept from the room.

For a moment there was silence in the room. Then Glenda observed to the class in general: "What on earth is that new kid babbling about?"

The "new kid" looked up from the little holes she was punching in her desk with the point of her pencil and answered for herself. "I thought Miss Bennett ought to know. Solomon must have been either very poor or very mean, or he would have had a bed to himself. Why, we only read this morning that he slept with his fathers."

The Fifth was just digesting this when Miss Andrews arrived on the scene, but by now they had become aware that there certainly was something peculiar about the new girl. Had she really meant to be cheeky to Miss Bennett or was she merely very stupid? They watched her stealthily as the Latin lesson began. Latin, strange to say, was a subject that was disliked by most of Miss Andrews' scholars, who voted it difficult and uninteresting and a horrid grind for examination purposes; there were even some who went so far as to declare it the bugbear of their school life.

Now they were called upon, one after the other, to quote certain lines which they had memorized from their readers, and with a few hesitations most of the class acquitted themselves well. When it came to Monica's turn she rose readily enough in her seat and declaimed what was evidently meant to be:

Cæsar adsum iam forte,
Hannibal adsum adhuc.

but which sounded, as she pronounced it, very like:

Cæsar 'ad some jam for tea,
Hannibal 'ad some 'addock.

The class giggled. Miss Andrews, who had a gentle, peace-loving disposition, looked at her new pupil for a moment, puzzled and undecided what to make of her, then said reprovingly: "I presume you have been taught the old style of pronunciation, Monica. You will have to learn our less antiquated methods as quickly as you can."

The lesson proceeded, the class struggling in the quagmires of the Second Punic War. The passage they were construing was not an easy one. Even Irene found herself hopelessly tied up in knots. Yet another shock was in store for the Fifth that morning, for when Miss Andrews for the first time called upon the new girl to see what she could do, Monica stood up and translated with an unruffled ease and fluency that left the rest of the class gasping; with unerring skill she pounced upon correct tenses and cases; grammatical difficulties that had puzzled the class were solved without hesitation, and the jigsaw pieces slipped smoothly into their proper places. Miss Andrews, delighted at the discovery that her new pupil was proving to be a decided acquisition to the Latin class, let her continue, which Monica did with apparent enjoyment, and had finished the page and was half-way down the next before the relentless bell proclaimed the close of the lesson.

By the end of that week the chief topic of conversation in the Fifth was the newcomer, Monica Carr. The girls could not make up their minds whether to be annoyed and angry at her unexpected ways, or rather thrilled. So far she had done nothing desperately wicked, it is true, though the Fifth were constantly wondering what she would do or say next. They decided that she was clever in a way, in spite of her ignorance of French. Sometimes she was so inattentive in class that she had to be severely reprimanded by the teachers; sometimes she would work as hard as anyone, particularly during Latin lessons, when she earned much praise from the delighted Miss Andrews, who had at last found a pupil who apparently shared her love for that classical language. Not infrequently was she seized with a spirit of devil-may-care mischief, when she would sit in her desk with her arms folded and her legs tucked under her seat and ask all manner of absurd questions of a harassed mistress, setting traps for her, baiting her, pitting her sharp wits against hers, and seemingly quite as impervious to snubs and reprimands as she was to praises. Secretly the girls were a little surprised at the leniency of the mistresses towards the newcomer and her changeable moods.

On one occasion the Fifth had entered their classroom to find the blackboard adorned with the following witticisms on the names of some of the girls:

Q. Why walked Nora Miles?
A. Because Ida Preston.
Q. What gave Lorna Payne?
A. Because she Rhoda Hunter.
Q. Why came Elizabeth Forth?
A. To see Nellie Barthe.

They were in the act of reciting them aloud and laughing loudly over them, when Miss Bennett entered.

Miss Bennett was annoyed, for she was the martinet of the school and her sense of humour was not highly developed. She was still more annoyed when, on turning the blackboard to the other side in the middle of the lesson, there was displayed to view in extremely large printing that hackneyed old saying: "Suffer fools gladly," and she coldly announced that unless the blackboards were cleaned and ready for use when the mistress entered for the first period of morning or afternoon lessons the girls would not be allowed to enter the classroom till a mistress was actually present.

No one discovered the identity of the adorner of blackboards, but the Fifth, though they enjoyed a good laugh in class, were indignant at this threat to curtail their liberty and took care to see that in the future their blackboards were swept, without being garnished.

The Fifth had succeeded in arranging a cricket fixture for Wednesday half-holiday as the weather still continued too warm for hockey and netball, and had challenged the rest of the school. Irene was captaining the Fifth, having pressed nearly the whole of the form into the team in order to complete it. She and Betty Cairns went in to open the batting for the Fifth.

Nat sat on one of the forms near the pavilion with Monica by her side, with the laudable intention of initiating her into the science of the noble game. Monica, needless to say, had not been asked to play and seemed rather relieved when she heard that her services would not be required.

"Now," said Nat in explanatory tones, "those two girls you see at the wickets are going to bat."

Monica gazed across the green field. "Yes, I suppose so, as they appear to be holding bats," she remarked with a touch of irony, then added with a genuine attempt to appear interested: "Which one is playing for your side and which for the other side?"

Nat looked puzzled. "I don't quite see what you mean. Our form is playing a school eleven, as there aren't enough girls in the Sixth to make up an eleven of their own."

"Yes, but what I meant was, which girl is batting for the Fifth and which for the school?"

Nat burst out laughing. "Why, both batsmen are on one side, of course."

"And all those other girls?"

"Oh, they are all on the other side and trying to get the batsmen out. There is the bowler; the wicket-keeper—the girl with the pads on—and the rest are fielding."

It was Monica's turn to look astonished. "What, two against one, two, three—ten, eleven! I don't call that a bit fair."

Nat chuckled, and some of the other girls who were sitting around watching and who had overheard, joined in the laughter. Prudence Preston of the Fourth, and the third of the Preston sisters—the three were known at St. Etheldreda's as the "Milestones"—jumped eagerly to her feet. She was a very keen netball player and a dashing little centre. Her eldest sister Pam was the netball captain and goal defender, and both were always on the alert for new recruits for their side.

"Has the new girl decided which games club she is joining, Nat?" she inquired.

Nat shook her head. "She says she knows nothing about either game. But of course, she'll play hockey. Anyone with any sense knows it's the better game."

Prue fired up at once. "Not a bit of it! Netball is a far superior game."

Nat looked supremely incredulous. "How do you make that out? Netball is tame compared with hockey."

"Hockey makes you round-shouldered, so a famous doctor once said."

"Netball's a soft game," Nat countered, adding conclusively: "Look at Allison's black eye last year and the time when Madge Amhurst had a front tooth knocked out. Whoever heard of anyone getting a black eye or black-and-blue ankles at netball! Anyone can last through a thirty minutes' netball match, but you've got to be up to form to last to the end of seventy minutes' gruelling hockey."

Prudence brought up her reserves. "All the same, netball's a superior game. It's more hy-hygienic." She brought out the last word with a visible effort.

Nat's face assumed a perplexed expression. "More—what was the word you used?"

"Hy-hygienic."

Nat shook her head. "Never heard of it." She turned gravely to Glenda, who was standing behind. "You don't happen to have a dictionary with you, Glenda? This Fourth Form youngster is using such extraordinary words."

"Not on the cricket field," Glenda replied, grinning broadly.

Prudence wriggled uneasily. "I'm sure that's the word," she said, though there was a shade of hesitation in her tone. "It means—it means a thing is good for you, keeps you healthy and all that."

Nat shook her head again, then as if seized with a sudden inspiration: "I know what you're trying to say. You mean 'hypothetical,' not 'hygienic.'"

Whether Prue was convinced or not can never be known, for just at that moment there was a shout from the field and Glenda said hurriedly:

"Betty's wicket's down. You're in next, Nat. Hurry up and get your pads on."

Monica did not stay with the spectators long after Nat's departure. Already rumours of the new girl's wicked record had leaked out in the school, and as she sat there alone she was conscious of curious glances cast at her by many of the younger girls, who were also onlookers of the game—of sly nudgings and whisperings in their ranks, whisperings which she knew were about herself. No one spoke to her or came near her, though they all stared hard enough. She had made no friends in her own form during her first week at the school and even her relations with her own study-mate, awkward, blundering Nat, whom she regarded with some contempt since she had discovered her to be the occupant of the lowest seat in the class, did not progress very much; though that, she admitted, was chiefly her own fault.

There wasn't anything very exciting to watch on the cricket field; privately she thought it decidedly slow. Getting abruptly to her feet she strolled off and, fetching a book from her study, sought out a quiet spot in the summer-house by the now deserted tennis lawn and settled down to read in undisturbed tranquillity.

She was not, however, the only one who sought solitude that September afternoon. She had not been reading many minutes before there was the sound of a footstep outside, a shadow darkened the entrance and Allison entered with her book under her arm, intent upon a couple of hours' hard "swotting."

She stopped when she saw the summer-house already occupied.

"Oh, I didn't know there was someone here," she exclaimed. "I thought all the school would be on the field or out for a walk this lovely afternoon. I shall have to find another lonely nook."

There was no response, although any other girl in the school would have at once jumped to her feet and offered to go instead. Allison knew it, but made no remark as she turned to walk away. Then she altered her mind and turned back suddenly, with a quick, keen look at the slight figure of the girl who sat on the seat, with her legs curled under her, and her dark, short hair tumbling about her forehead as she bent again over her book.

"You are the new girl I introduced to the Fifth, Monica Carr, aren't you?"

Monica looked up in surprise at being addressed and a wary look crossed her face. This was the senior girl of the school, she knew. What had she got to say to her? If she was going to begin to preach to her——

"How do you like the Fifth?" Allison asked in quite a friendly tone.

"I haven't thought much about them. They seem very pleased with themselves always," replied Monica calmly.

Allison laughed. "Oh, they are quite a nice lot really, but they've always been looked upon as a model form because they do their lessons conscientiously, so they've become rather self-satisfied. How do you like Nathalie?"

"Nathalie?" Monica stared uncomprehendingly.

"Nat Sandrich. Nathalie's her real name, you know, but it doesn't fit very well."

"All right," replied Monica indifferently.

Now Allison, chancing to meet Nat that morning, had asked her a similar question—how was she getting on with her new study-chum?—and Nat had confessed ruefully that the new girl didn't seem to have the least wish to be really friendly with her.

Allison's next question was rather more unexpected. "And now you've told me what you think of the Fifth, I'm rather anxious to know what the Fifth thinks of you."

"As to that," said Monica in a hard tone, "they had made up their minds about me long before they saw or heard me. My aunt took good care to let the Principal know what a naughty, unmanageable creature I was, so that the girls might have due warning to beware of the dog."

Allison propped her back against the door-post and decided that she could very well spare ten minutes or so from the study of advanced mathematics.

"Yes, I believe it is true that your aunt made no attempt to hide from Miss Julian the fact that you had already been expelled from one school. She could hardly do otherwise. But it is also quite true that Miss Julian did not wish this to be known by the girls themselves and that she wanted you to have a fair opportunity to make a fresh start. It was pure chance that led to the publication of your lurid past. One of the Fifth Form girls had a letter from relatives who had made the acquaintance of your aunt, and from whom they received their information."

Allison paused and once again looked hard at Monica.

"It doesn't matter much how they got their information, does it?" said Monica, flushing up suddenly. "They were ready enough to condemn me before they had even seen me."

"No, you are wrong there," replied Allison with energy. "Of course, they were a bit heated over it at first and not unnaturally objected to a girl with such a bad reputation becoming one of their companions, joining their hitherto select little circle. But Nathalie Sandrich spoke up and said she thought it only sporting to give you a fair chance and to judge you by their own impressions of you, without prejudice. I had come into the room unnoticed and I heard all she said. I think she had in mind a few words Miss Julian said to us the first evening, words which she wanted us to take for our motto this year," and very briefly Allison outlined the Principal's speech. "The rest of the form soon came round to Nat's point of view and agreed to her proposal that they should make no mention of their knowledge of your past when you came, receiving you like any other new girl. It isn't altogether their fault if you snubbed their attempts at making friends and gave them a bad impression of you before you had been here a couple of weeks."

Monica stirred restlessly. "I don't want their friendship," she muttered, then added after a pause: "Besides, from what you say they were all ready to be nasty to me when I arrived—except Nat."

"Well, Nat spoke up for you," said Allison sharply. She went on in a gentler tone: "Nat's a nice kid, even if she does miss important catches at cricket and turn up at school parties with one stocking inside out. You won't come to much harm through her, if she's your friend."

Monica lifted her head with a jerk from the close inspection of the toe she was rubbing into the ground. "If she were my friend I shouldn't care if she turned up at school parties with no stockings on at all," she flared suddenly, and picking up her book she walked out of the summer-house.

Allison looked after her thoughtfully. "Funny kid! I wonder what she meant by that last outburst? Well, I've done my best to square things a bit for Nat, but from the way in which I've heard she plays up in class I don't envy Nat her study-mate."

When Nat came into her study to do her prep that evening—the two senior forms being entrusted with the privilege of doing their prep in their own studies and at their own time—she found Monica seated at the table with exercise-books, ink and pens spread out in front of her, apparently already hard at work.

Nat stared.

"Hallo! Why this unusual industry?" she demanded. "'Tisn't Latin prep to-night and that's the only prep I've seen you tackle in real earnest so far."

Monica looked up. "I have made a resolution," she declared. "At least, I've a new ambition."

"What's that?"

"I'm not going to waste any more time. I'm going to swot hard and I'm coming out top in the next term exam."

Nat sank limply into a chair, overcome with amazement. "Whatever made you think of that?"

"Well," replied Monica, "when I first came I didn't care a toss how long I stayed. I shouldn't have minded if I had been expelled the first day. But I've got a new idea for getting my own back on the sanctimonious Fifth. I'm going to give them a nasty little jolt by beating them all at their own game, so to speak. Nothing I could possibly do will annoy Irene Eames, for instance, as much as being beaten by me."

Nat gazed at Monica in wonder. "That's true enough," she said slowly. "I can't think how you can find out such things so quickly."

"Haven't you any ambitions then?" asked Monica. It was the first time she had sought the other girl's confidence.

"Oh yes, only I don't aim as high as you," Nat admitted ruefully. "I've three ambitions at present. First, to come out anywhere above bottom place in a school exam. I'm so tired of being twitted at home by the boys when my report arrives. It's developed into a sort of family joke. Secondly, to get a place in the hockey first eleven before I leave school. And thirdly, never to darn another stocking in my life."

Monica burst out laughing for the first time since Nat had known her. "Well, they are modest enough," she commented. "I should say the first rests with yourself. As for the second, I don't know anything about hockey. But the last is easy enough. You can pay one of the maids to keep your stockings mended for you, I expect. Now let me get on with my prep. I've quite made up my mind about seeing my name heading the exam list," and nodding her head decisively she bent over her books once more.

The Sixth and Fifth were holding a meeting in the former's classroom. Madge Amhurst was in the chair—that is to say, she occupied the mistress's dais—-and the rest of the girls found seats at desks or window-sills or on hot-water pipes. The subject under discussion was, they considered, of great importance. Should St. Etheldreda's compete this year for the Secondary and High Schools' Hockey Shield or should they not? The competition was open to any schools in the county, but till now St. Etheldreda's had not entered for it, chiefly because they did not consider themselves capable of raising a team good enough to justify their competing. Madge, who as usual had a good deal to say, was stating the case in favour of entering. Madge, of course, was one of the hockey players.

"It's like this," she was explaining. "Last year most of the Sixth played netball and had no interest at all in the hockey, and we had to draw chiefly on the younger girls for an eleven. It isn't much good putting in a team of youngsters when it's a case of playing some of the best elevens in the county. Nobody minds being beaten in a sporting game, of course, but we didn't want to make sillies of ourselves—expose ourselves to ridicule and all that. But this year the school is in a very different position as regards hockey. The present Sixth, with the exception of Pam, all play hockey and so do a good many of the Fifth. There are also several very promising players in the Fourth. Personally I think we could get up a team good enough to play any other school in the county."

"What does Allison say about it?" asked Deirdre Samways, one of the prefects.

"Allison thinks we've a very good chance. She's in favour of entering."

"Yes, but would she play herself?" asked Glenda. "Everyone knows Allison is far and away the best player we've got, and her presence in the eleven would make all the difference."

"Yes, she said she would love to play, and also promised to turn out to the practices beforehand and help in pulling the team together."

"Let us see what sort of a team we could put in the field," suggested Irene sensibly, for as the school had not yet played any hockey matches with outside teams this term, the membership of the new first eleven had not been finally decided.

Madge, aided by various suggestions from the rest of the assembly, drew up a probable team, and after a good deal of argument it was universally agreed that the team really consisted of first-rate material, every position being filled satisfactorily with one exception, that of goalkeeper.

"That's the weak spot," said Madge ruefully. "Two reliable backs and the best centre-half in the county, but not a single candidate for goalkeeper."

"Who was goalkeeper last season?" asked Pam Preston.

"Ethel Denham, till she left. Then, as no one else would volunteer to fill the vacancy we played three backs. That wouldn't do here."

"Who's the second eleven goalkeeper?"

"A Fourth-former, but she isn't any good except for junior games. She hasn't much idea of clearing quickly or of stopping anything really fast."

The girls looked at one another in perplexity till Deirdre Samways said slowly: "I suppose Pam wouldn't consider playing in goal for the hockey eleven? Don't you remember last year, when the netball pitch was under water, Pam joined us in hockey practices and kicked the ball out for us as if she'd done it all her life? She's our best wicket-keeper too."

All eyes were turned to Pam. Here was an idea!

"If Pam could keep goal at hockey anything like she does at netball!" exclaimed Glenda. "She is as quick as lightning."

"That's all very well," Pam interrupted. "But what about netball matches? If they happened to clash with yours I couldn't be in two places at once."

"Oh, bother the netball!" Madge exclaimed impatiently. "I think it ought to be made a junior game for the smaller ones. Everyone knows it's you Prestons who keep it going. There wouldn't be a team worth calling a team if it weren't for you three."

Here a voice from somewhere behind was heard as a head bobbed up from one of the back row desks. "I've joined the netball team, let me tell you," said Monica loudly.

Nat pulled her down into her seat with a violent jerk at her skirt, saying in a fierce whisper, "Sit down, whippersnapper! Everyone knows you joined the netball club out of sheer contrariness, because practically all the Fifth play hockey."

The Sixth-formers ignored this unseemly interruption as beneath their notice. Several of them were imploring Pam to "think it over."

"Well, I won't refuse right out," said Pam reluctantly at last. "But I won't make any promises. You must give me a day or two to consider."

The meeting finally adjourned upon the decision to enter St. Etheldreda's as a competitor for the shield and it was left to Deirdre Samways, the new captain, to arrange practices with the help of Madge, the club secretary. Madge, beaming with satisfaction, clambered down from her high seat and was in the act of turning to follow Deirdre out of the room when a voice murmured just behind her:

"Excuse me, but is this your handkerchief or is it the blackboard duster?" and Madge turned hastily to behold a slight, dark-haired girl holding out a handkerchief towards her.

"Er-thanks," she replied dryly. "Yes, it is my handkerchief and not the other article you mentioned. I must have dropped it."

She departed with Deirdre, chuckling. "Cheeky little thing, that new girl," she confided to Deirdre, "in spite of her childish look. I wish our pattern Fifth joy of her."

Deirdre pinned upon the notice-board a list of the schools who had entered for the shield, and Nat, with Monica, stopped behind to read the list.

"That's the school at present holding the shield," remarked Nat, pointing to one of the names. "They have won it two years in succession and are entitled to keep it if they win it this year. I believe they are awfully hot stuff."

"Fairhurst Priory," Monica read aloud. "Why, that's the school I was at last term."

"Really!" said Nat, "the school you were ex—Of course, you didn't see them play hockey," she hurriedly altered her sentence. "It was the summer term. Oh dear, I suppose there is prep to be done. I think I'll trot round first and see Ida about the book she's going to lend me."

"Please, not now," said Monica. "I want you to hear me say my Dick II first. I can always learn by heart better when I've someone to hear me say it."

"Bother you and your wretched lessons," grumbled Nat, but nevertheless she followed Monica into their study.

Since Monica's resolution to win the top position she had given little trouble in class and had proved to be the most zealous of pupils during the last fortnight. Miss Andrews, indeed, would have forgiven her a good deal for the sake of her prowess at Latin. Some of the girls wondered how long this enthusiasm for work would last, and if the new girl were really as clever as she intended them to believe—apart from her knowledge of Latin, in which she had evidently been well grounded. Glenda Vaughan shook her head darkly and said: "Wait and see."

Monica had not, however, kept an entirely unblemished conduct sheet, having fallen from grace and scandalized the entire school the previous Sunday. It happened in this way. Personal possessions were not allowed to be left about in the common room and passages under pain of confiscation, and it was one of Madge's prefectorial duties to confiscate any property she found left about in these public places after supper bell had rung. The careless owners, after a preliminary warning, were punished by the exaction of a penny fine from their pocket money, the fines being collected by Madge and placed in the offertory bag at Sunday service.

The girl who had most property confiscated was allotted the task of taking the money to church and placing it in the bag during collection, to make the impression of her forgetfulness deeper, so to speak. This rule had been made to check carelessness and slovenly habits and continual complaints of lost property—though the idea of allotting the task of placing the money in the bag to the chief offender had long ago originated with the prefects themselves.

Sometimes several weeks would pass without a single fine, but this particular week there seemed to have been a perfect epidemic of forgetfulness, and Madge had collected one and twopence in penny fines and handed the money over to Monica on Sunday morning. Monica had dutifully carried the money to church and, on receiving the bag from the girl next to her, had held it in her left hand while she proceeded very deliberately to drop fourteen pennies into it, one at a time. She was among the last to receive the collection bag, and the hymn being a short one, the organist was very softly extemporizing till the collection was finished. Thus the sound of each penny falling with a musical chink into the bag was heard all over the church. There were rustlings and scrapings, as all heads were turned and all eyes focussed on that one particular corner of the congregation, while the girls around had difficulty in restraining their titters as Monica solemnly continued dropping her pennies till the last was safely in. The sidesman at the other end of the row gazed in a kind of mesmerized trance from which he did not arouse himself till Prue, very red in the face, handed the weighty bag back to him.

Until the last girl had filed out of the porch, the school continued to be the centre of attraction to the congregation, who stared at them with far more attention, I am sorry to say, than was given to the retiring choir and clergy. Monica had succeeded in making St. Etheldreda's very conspicuous that day.

Nat, who had been sitting in another row, hastened to place herself at Monica's side when they formed up outside the church for the return journey.

"What you want is a keeper," she said darkly. "I shall never dare trust you away from my side after this. If I had been next to you, you wouldn't have held the bag long enough to drop many pennies in, I can assure you. Prinny will be wild. You'll have to face the music."

Monica made no reply, merely humming aggravatingly a line from Chu Chin Chow, which sounded something like this:

"Chinking, clinking, clinking, chinking,
        clinking on the ground.
Forty thousand pieces——"

"You'll be crying, not singing, by the time Prinny has rolled you in the dust and sat on you," Nat warned her.

"Well, I might have done worse," replied Monica blithely. "I might have made it halfpennies instead of pennies."

After tea the next day Monica was duly sent for by the Principal, and returned a little later to her study. Much to Nat's relief there were no traces of tears.

"What did she say?" she inquired. Monica seized hold of her prep books and, dropping them on the table, sat down.

"Oh, not much after all," she replied briefly. "Now don't talk, there's a good fellow. I want to do an extra French exercise, besides prep."

Nat sighed. "Oh dear, I wish you wouldn't swot so much! You make me feel so lazy," she said.

St. Etheldreda's played their first match for the shield on their own ground a couple of weeks later. As there were quite a number of schools competing and the county was rather a straggling one, the competitors had been divided into two groups, North and South. A defeated team dropped out of the competition, and the two surviving teams—one from each group—met in the Final. It was hoped to finish the tournament before the Christmas vacation, so the matches were hurried on as fast as possible.

St. Etheldreda's had had a good practice the day before the match and Deirdre Samways, having put another player into her place, was watching the team critically and felt really satisfied at the progress the first eleven had made in so short a time. She was still watching the play with close attention when a voice at her elbow remarked in calm, critical tones:

"Your wing player—Irene—isn't bad, but she isn't nearly as good as one of the other Fifth-formers."

Deirdre glanced round. The voice came from a slightly-built girl clad in a brown coat, wearing no hat and with the look of some stray elf or fay, who was standing by her side apparently taking the greatest interest in the play. For a moment Deirdre could not think who she was, then she remembered the queer new girl whose disturbing ways had caused so much talk in the Fifth.

"Whom do you mean?" she asked curiously.

"Nat Sandrich," replied Monica. "She's tremendously fast, and clever too. I can't think how it is she hasn't got a place in the first eleven."

Deirdre was not at all a clever girl. Her interests were chiefly in outdoor pursuits, particularly games, a subject on which she was always willing to talk.

"Why, what do you know about it?" she demanded.

"You see, I'm rather interested in hockey, though I don't play much myself," was the airy reply. "As for the girl I was telling you about—Nat—lots of these crack players I've seen in county matches weren't much better than her."

"County matches?" queried Deirdre eagerly. "What county matches have you seen?"

"Oh, several. And last year at that International game at—let me see, what was the name of the place?"

"Merton Abbey perhaps," interjected the hockey captain.

"Yes, that was it. As I was saying, I really can't think why you overlooked one of the best players in the school," and Monica, shaking her head wonderingly, sauntered off down the field, her hands in her coat pockets, still gazing critically at the twenty-two perspiring players rushing frantically up and down the ground. Deirdre, somewhat impressed, repeated the conversation between herself and Monica Carr to Madge and Pam Preston as they went off together at the end of the practice. (Pam had been persuaded into promising to play for the hockey club in the shield matches.)

Madge burst into a roar of laughter.

"International matches! County matches!" she gasped. "Why, Nat herself told me that the new kid didn't know a hockey stick from a cricket bat and had never bothered to watch a game of hockey in her life. I don't suppose she's even seen Nat play. I'm afraid she was just pulling your leg, Deirdre. She seems the sort that's up to anything."

"Even to cheating in a public exam," added Pam. "Or there was a rumour in the school to that effect at one time. Still, perhaps there wasn't any truth in it."

Deirdre, who was the possessor of an even, placid disposition, only smiled. "But perhaps Nat really is a good player," she said. "She's pretty good at most games, isn't she?"

"Yes, quite," replied Pam. "Only she's generally an unlucky sort of player—falls down or something just at the critical moment."

"Yes," added Madge. "Don't you remember last sports day, how she led all through the obstacle race and at the very last obstacle, when everybody thought she was bound to win, she got stuck while crawling between the rungs of the ladder and could move neither forwards nor backwards? They had to get a hatchet to knock out the spokes before they could release her."

"Of course I remember," replied Deirdre, "especially Nat's face when they appeared with an enormous hatchet. Till then she had been rather pleased at the sensation she was creating," and the three prefects went off laughing at the recollection.

St. Etheldreda's was jubilant at the result of their first match. They gained a victory by three goals to two over a large High School from a neighbouring town of some size. Allison was particularly pleased for, as she pointed out to the other Sixth-formers in the eleven, this early triumph would give the team both enthusiasm and confidence. She also declared it was her belief that this was the best team the school had ever produced.

The only fly in the ointment was the attitude of the netball partisans, many of whom were very indignant at Pam's inclusion in the team, and although they themselves had had no match that afternoon they had shown their resentment by refusing to appear on the field as spectators and supporters.

A week after this match Nat was alone in her study busily writing letters when there came a tap on the door and Madge, who was accompanied by Allison, looked in.

"There you are, Nat," she said. "I just called to say that you are down as reserve for the match next Saturday. We are playing away, you know. It will be all right for you, won't it?"

Nat nodded. "Yes, I can come, of course," she replied. It was not the first time she had been picked for the rather unenviable position of reserve in first eleven matches.

"Thanks," said Madge. Then, her glance wandering round the room, she exclaimed: "Jumping Jehoshaphat, what have you been doing to your study!"

"'Jumping Jehosaphat,' exclaimed Madge, 'what have you been
doing to your study!'"

Her curiosity aroused by Madge's exclamation, Allison also entered and gazed around. All the walls were covered with what appeared to be large notices, the words of which were printed in big, clear lettering, so that even a short-sighted person could not fail to read them easily. Madge turned from one wall to the other, reading aloud:

"After the gerundive the agent or doer is expressed by the dative case."

"When the English verbal noun is intransitive it is translated by the Latin gerund, when transitive by the gerundive."

"To is à before a town, en before a country."

"Verbs which take an infinitive without a preposition—aller, désirer, daigner——"

She broke off her reading to exclaim: "My goodness! What's the idea, Nat? Is this what they call the Montessori system? I didn't know you were as keen as this on educating yourself."

"It isn't me at all," replied Nat lugubriously and ungrammatically. "You don't imagine I should decorate the place in this way, do you? It's my new study-mate, Monica Carr. She spends all her odd minutes writing out these rules and hints, and when they've been up about a week a fresh lot takes their place. She says she's bound to learn them when she's always staring at them. The trouble is I've got to stare at them too. Sometimes I sit here for half an hour at a time with my eyes shut."

"And you are trying to write home too, aren't you?" sympathized Madge. "You'll be putting isosceles for sausage, and parallel for pudding, and tangent for tangerine, and ending up 'Cordialement à vous' instead of 'Heaps of love'!"

Allison was smiling. "So it's the new girl, then, that's so keen on learning?" she said.

"Well, you see, she's made up her mind she's coming out top of the exams this term. She wants to crow over the Fifth, and she seems a person who can be very obstinate when she gets an idea into her mind. There's French and Latin on one wall, as you see, and maths on the second. That's the last theorem we've learnt, also the formula for arithmetical progression or something of that sort. The third wall is devoted to history and geography. Everywhere I go now I see '1832, the Reform Bill' dancing before my eyes, and when I shut them it's even plainer."

"You poor soul!"

"Yes," continued Nat, who seemed to find it a relief to air her grievances. "She took down my pictures, and when I protested she said that she wouldn't have done so if they had been Raphaels or Rubens, but as they were only pictures of dogs, and extremely ugly ones at that, it didn't matter much. I had three very nice ones, a St. Bernard, a bulldog and a bloodhound."

Madge shuddered. "I shouldn't think it's very jolly to sit looking at the picture of a bloodhound all the evening, either," she murmured.

"The other girls have nicknamed this study the Chamber of Horrors," continued Nat, "and wherever I go they sympathize with me. I'm getting so tired of it. But A. A. doesn't mind in the least."

"A. A.?" questioned Allison.

"That's Monica's new nickname. The Ablative Absolute they call her, because she's such a dab at Latin and picks out ablative absolutes with unerring instinct. Sometimes when we're about together they call us 'Accusative and Infinitive.' I object very strongly to being called an Infinitive."

"You'll survive it," said Madge consolingly, and Allison remarked: "I hope you don't find her too unbearable?"

"Oh no. We're not really bad friends at all. I can't say I liked her at first; she was so hard and unfriendly. But somehow we get on better now. I suppose we've got used to each other. At times I really find myself quite liking her."

"Then she can't be such a desperate character after all," declared Madge. "Only bad in spots perhaps."

"Like the rest of us," added Allison. "Come along, Madge. We really must be going." She nodded good-bye to Nat. "I'm so glad you two are on better terms. Only don't follow her example and work too hard, Nat."

"Couldn't if I tried," replied Nat as the two seniors departed.

Five minutes later Monica came in.

"There's a netball match on Saturday," she announced, "and I'm playing in the team. Centre-attack—though I'm not quite sure where that is. Pam's playing hockey and two others of the team are laid up with very bad colds, so they are rather hard up for players. They don't want to have a team composed entirely of youngsters, so they've called upon me to assist them in their difficulty."

"They must be in a bad way," was Nat's unflattering comment.

"That's what I told them. But Ida, who is captaining the team in Pam's absence, said I was quick and could jump, and that was pretty well all that was necessary in netball. She and Prue are awfully wild with Pam for deserting them, as they call it. What about you? Have they asked you to captain the team on Saturday?"

"No," sadly, "I'm not in it. Still, they've put me down as reserve, so I shall be able to go with the team and see the match. You also get a free tea. I know this school—last year they gave us doughnuts and cream buns."

"Well now," said Monica disgustedly, "and after all the fibs I told Deirdre Samways! My imagination strained to its furthest capacity for nothing!"

"What do you mean?"

"Never mind. You'd be shocked at all the stories I told on your behalf. Will you hear me say this theorem, to see if I can truthfully put Q.E.D. at the end, please?" and the discussion on netball and hockey was dropped for more serious subjects.

Saturday turned out cold and dry, an ideal day for hockey. The St. Etheldreda's eleven, feeling thoroughly fit and keen, set out in good time to catch the train that was to carry them to the field of action. As Irene and Glenda, two of the last to leave, were walking down the drive towards the gates, a hurrying, panting figure emerged from the house and caught them up before they were out of the school premises. It was Monica.

"Oh, Irene!" she gasped. "Miss Bennett—wants to see you—about something rather important—won't keep you—two minutes."

Irene turned round in surprise. "Whatever does Benny want me for?" she said. "Doesn't she know I'm catching this train?"

"Yes. But she said she wouldn't keep you more than two minutes," the messenger repeated.

"Right-oh! Suppose I must go. You walk on, Glenda, and I'll catch you up afterwards. Luckily we've plenty of time."

Glenda nodded. "Don't run it too close," she warned. "You don't want to miss the train."

"Pas de danger," replied Irene as she turned and hurried back into the school. Monica preceded her into the corridor that led to the Annexe. "This way," she said. "Benny came to your study to look for you, and when I told her you'd just left for the station and offered to run after you she said she'd wait for you there to save time. She didn't want to run any risk of your missing the train."

As she finished they arrived at the door of the study which Irene shared with Glenda, and without pausing Irene hurriedly pushed it open and entered.

She gazed round in anger and astonishment. "Why, she isn't here!" Barely had the words left her lips before there was the slam of a door behind her, and though she sprang round like a flash, the key turned in the lock a second before she could seize the handle and wrench the door open. In vain she tugged and shook it.

"Let me out, you little wretch!" she cried furiously. "This is one of your abominable tricks, I suppose."

There was a chuckle from the other side of the door. "'Will you come into my parlour?' said the spider to the fly," Monica sang softly and aggravatingly.

Irene banged upon the door and even kicked it in a most unladylike manner, "What have you done this for?" she demanded hotly. "Let me out at once or I shall never catch my train."

Again came that aggravating chuckle. "That's exactly what I don't want you to do," Monica replied. "Then Nat will get a look in. Don't you think it clever of us to work it out so beautifully? It isn't a bit of good banging on the door or shouting from the window. There's no one anywhere about. I looked to see before I came after you. The girls have all gone out to hockey or netball or for walks, and Miss Cazalet, the only mistress whose room is near, has gone with the hockey team, as you know. As for the window, it overlooks the kitchen garden and I'm sure there's nobody there now."

Irene glanced round in despair. According to the little clock ticking loudly on the mantel-piece it would take her all her time to catch the train even if she were released immediately. She went to the window and shouted, but there was no one in sight; her cry was apparently heard only by a few straggling cabbages below, so she returned to the door and resumed her fruitless pounding. There was no response to her calls and bangings. Evidently Monica had gone.

More than half an hour elapsed before Irene escaped from her prison.

A Second Form youngster on an errand to one of the dormitories heard her and, greatly surprised, released her by turning the kev which was in the lock on the outside.

Irene had the traditional quick temper which accompanies red hair. On being released she made a bee-line for Monica's study, but, as was to be expected, it was empty. For a minute or so she stood in the middle of the little room, struggling to control the wave of anger and indignation that shook her. Her gaze travelled slowly round the room, passed over the dreadful notices that covered the walls, and finally rested on a letter lying on the mantelpiece and addressed in very black square handwriting to Miss M. Carr.

Irene picked it up and turned it over. The envelope had been torn open and she could catch a glimpse of the letter inside, written in the same black, square caligraphy. Till now, Irene, though of a hot-tempered, rather jealous disposition, sometimes doing and saying things in the heat of the moment which she afterwards regretted, had never been tempted to do anything actually dishonest. She hesitated as she turned the envelope over, but the temptation was overwhelming. In another moment she had pulled out the letter, opened it and was swiftly scanning the written lines:

"Dear Monica (it ran),

"You mustn't be surprised to hear from me, for I promised when you left I would write, and when I heard you were at St. Etheldreda's from one of the girls who has a young cousin there I just made up my mind I would write straight away.

"How on earth did you get into a school like St. Etheldreda's? This girl who has a cousin there says they are a dreadfully goody-goody lot. Did they know you were expelled from Fairhurst? Couldn't have done, I suppose. What a joke on them! Do write and tell me about it. You ought, you know, for I was the only girl here who would chum up with you. We were the two black sheep together, weren't we, though I would never dare do half the naughty things you did quite openly, for fear of being found out. Secretly I admired your audacity and defiance enormously. I am in the Lower Fifth now, so I have to be a lot more sedate and proper. People will soon begin to think I am quite a model character. What form are you in?

"Do you realize we are still in the same county, and what is more our schools are both competing for the Hockey Shield? If we both knock out all the teams in our respective districts we may meet in the Final. Doesn't that make you smile? I think St. Etheldreda's stands a very good chance of winning that shield. You defeated Stavely High School, I saw, and they are as good as any school in this county. We played them in a friendly game a fortnight ago and only drew.

"Do you still hate rules and regulations and persons in authority as much as ever? If you are the same as you were here, don't you think it would be fun to put a little spoke in their wheel—I mean, in St. Etheldreda's hopes of winning the shield? I know how clever you are and how full of ideas always. I should love to see if you could pull it off—I know I couldn't.

"Write and tell me what you think of this idea. Also please write soon.

"Your one-time friend,
            "Lilian."

Irene sniffed audibly as she finished reading. "What a precious pair of correspondents!" she thought. Then once again temptation seized her. Wasn't this document worth keeping? By showing it she could also show up Monica Carr's character pretty thoroughly, should it ever be necessary. As for its being a mean trick, hadn't Monica just played the meanest of tricks upon her! Again the temptation proved overwhelming. Irene slipped both the envelope and the letter into her pocket and walked out of the room.

It was evening before the hockey team returned. When Nat pushed open her study door, Monica was ensconsed comfortably in the wicker easy-chair, for once neglecting her lesson books. She looked up as Nat entered, threw her book on the table and inquired eagerly: "Well, how did you get on? Did you win?"

Nat shut the door behind her and leaned her back against it. She looked very big and strong in her sports' tunic. After a moment she demanded in uncompromising tones: "Why did you lock Irene in her study, so that she missed her train?"

Monica tossed back her short locks with a little defiant gesture that was characteristic of her.

"To prevent her playing in the match, of course. I wanted you to get a chance of playing, as you were the reserve. Did you play?"

"Yes, I played," replied Nat slowly, adding in a tone Monica had never yet heard from her: "Did you expect me to thank you?"

Monica looked at her, startled. Never before had she seen easy-going, sweet-tempered Nat look so coldly scornful and indignant.

"We wondered what on earth Miss Bennett wanted to see her for," Nat continued. "We thought it such a shame when the train arrived and there was still no sign of Irene, and we had to go on without her. Deirdre told me I should have to play in her place. Naturally I was pleased. Here was my opportunity at last, and I told myself I meant to make the most of it. I played up with all my might and for once I didn't distinguish myself by doing anything silly. We won three—one, and two of our goals were scored by Madge off my centres.

"When it was over Allison told me that I had played up splendidly and you can't think how pleased I was. I was patting myself on the back all the way home. Then, when we got back to St. Etheldreda's there was Irene ever so angry, with the story of being locked in by a trick. She even thought, from something you said, that it was planned between us so that I could get into the eleven. Luckily, Allison and most of the others believed me when I said I knew nothing about it.

"Do you think I felt so jubilant after that? Do you really think I wanted to win a place in the eleven by making use of a mean trick like that? I would rather a hundred times never have played. It wasn't playing the game at all," Nat finished up, with a final outburst of indignation.

Monica had made no attempt to interrupt her, nor did she speak when Nat finished. She merely went slowly to the bookshelf and, taking down several books and a bottle of ink, placed them on the table. Her small, delicately-cut features were set in a hard, frozen look. Nat's temper flared up in a final spurt.

"And I'm not going to hear you say your Latin verbs nor your Dick II, so you needn't waste your breath asking me. I'm going to finish my prep in Ida's study," and collecting the books she required, she stumped out of the room with the air of one shaking its dust off her feet. Left alone, Monica stared immovably at her lesson books for quite five minutes; then, pushing them on one side, she returned to her easy-chair.

The Fifth did not quite know whether they were enjoying themselves or not. Last year's Fifth Form would have had no doubts at all about the matter, but the present Fifth were on the whole a law-abiding set. Thrilled, however, they certainly were.

The morning had commenced with Latin. The girls appeared tired and little inclined to rouse themselves to great efforts; probably they were still feeling the effects of the recent strenuous match and the celebrations which followed the victory. Glenda, who had no great love for Latin in her best moments, was frequently occupied in tenderly rubbing a painful bruise on her left leg and consequently missed a good deal of Miss Andrews' exposition on semi-deponent verbs. Miss Andrews had no sympathy whatever with hockey and its after effects; but her gentle, dreamy temperament often found it difficult to be as severe and strict as she thought necessary.

"Really, girls," she remonstrated, as one after another failed to grapple successfully with the examples and exercises in their books. "You seem to have left your brains still asleep on your pillow when you got up this morning. Monica," calling upon her favourite Latin pupil, "show the rest of the class what can be done by means of a little concentration."

Monica picked up her book and with the most careless air imaginable made an even worse attempt than any of the previous ones. Poor Miss Andrews stared in bewilderment as her model pupil stammered and hesitated, making the wildest and most ludicrous guesses.

"That will do, Monica," she said stiffly. "I do not think you are trying in the least. This exercise must be done again by the class to-night, as returned work."

The Fifth sighed with relief when the bell announced the end of the period. They aroused themselves to pay better attention to Miss Moore's English lesson, which came next and which luckily presented no great difficulties. When the last period arrived Miss Bennett, the energetic, announced that she would give them an impromptu test on their history preparation and the Fifth, with rough note-books and pencils in front of them, settled down to write brief answers to the questions hurled at them in quick succession. Then books were exchanged and the girls corrected each other's answers, afterwards handing back the books to their owners. In order of form, the girls then called out the results of their work. These proved to be fairly satisfactory till it was the last girl's turn, and the Fifth held their breath as Monica said calmly: "None, Miss Bennett."

Miss Bennett looked as if she could hardly believe her ears. Never in al her experience had a senior girl failed to answer a single question in a test on prepared work.

"Bring your rough book to me, Monica," she ordered and as Monica obeyed, Glenda, who had marked it, turned red to the tips of her ears. The page which Monica presented to Miss Bennett was destitute of anything in the way of history answers, but was decorated instead with a sketch representing a grim-looking female with turned-down mouth, clad in academic gown and seated at a desk, and possibly, though there wasn't much facial resemblance, intended to be Miss Bennett herself. Underneath was printed an inscription, which ran as follows:

"Elle est plaine de bong tay."

Miss Bennett was a very different person to deal with from the meek, dreamy Miss Andrews. She ignored the drawing and asked sternly:

"Why did you not attempt to answer the questions?"

"I couldn't do them," Monica replied.

"Why couldn't you do them? The questions were on work set for your preparation."

"I didn't do the preparation."

Miss Bennett tapped impatiently on the desk with her fingers. "But why didn't you do the preparation? If you were unwell, or had any other reasonable excuse, why didn't you come to me and tell me so?"

Monica gazed doggedly at the floor. "I hadn't an excuse," she muttered. "I didn't do the prep because I didn't want to."

Miss Bennett looked again at the paper on her desk, and perhaps it was the sight of the sketch that hardened her heart. "Go to your study, Monica," she said sharply, "and stay there till you are told you may leave. Take your history book and learn the work which you have not prepared."

When Monica had departed Miss Bennett turned to the class. "Which girl shares Monica's study?"

"I do, Miss Bennett," replied Nat.

"Will you please find room in one of the other studies for the time being, Nathalie? I do not wish any girl to hold communication with Monica for the present. Of course, if you have books or anything in the study which you require, you may fetch them."

The bell at twelve-thirty announced the end of the morning's lessons.

"What a gay morning we have had!" said Ida. "It isn't much good trying to play Benny up, is it?"

"I thought all that industry was too great to last," observed Glenda sagely. "Even poor Miss Andrews had a shock. Monica Carr won't get to the top of the class if she refuses to do her prep when she thinks it too much trouble."

Irene said nothing, but she knew that she was hoping Monica would remain long in this difficult mood of defiance, so that her work might suffer. Secretly, Irene had already begun to feel that this new girl, who seemed so quick and ready in many ways, was a rival to be feared; one who might possibly succeed in wrenching the coveted laurels from her. She thought of the purloined letter upstairs, locked in her own writing-case, and wondered if Monica had sought for it very long.

"What was on the page that made Benny look so sour, Glenda?" someone was asking, and at Glenda's description of the drawing and inscription the Fifth went out chuckling. It certainly was rather funny, they decided.

Probably the most uncomfortable girl in the Fifth that day was Nat, though she could not have accounted for this strange feeling. It was not entirely because she was shut out of her own study. During the dinner hour she did not go near the room, neither did Monica appear at the dinner table. Her dinner was sent to her, so evidently she ate her meal in silent loneliness.

That evening, however, Nat and the Fifth had other things to think of besides their own particular black sheep and her delinquencies. Miss Julian and Miss Bennett were taking them to a large neighbouring town, where a good-class travelling company were giving a performance of one of the Shakespearean plays that the Fifth and Sixth were studying that year—"A Midsummer Night's Dream." Monica would have gone with the rest had she behaved herself that day, but now she was left behind. Considering this a sufficient punishment for her misdemeanours, Miss Bennett informed Monica just before the party set out that she was at liberty to leave the study and follow her ordinary pursuits.

After Miss Bennett had gone Monica still sat reading, but by half-past seven she had finished her book. It was an exciting story, and for a little while she had lost herself in its contents. Now she put it aside, and gazing round the study she realized suddenly and overwhelmingly how quiet and lonely it was. For some minutes she sat brooding, but the silence and loneliness became more than she could bear, and springing to her feet she hurried out into the passage. How quiet it was in that part of the house; not a single sound could be heard from any of the studies, not a single crack of light shone from under their doors!

Very soon, Monica reflected, the Fifth and Sixth would be enjoying themselves at the theatre, laughing at the funny antics of Bottom and his fellow-artisans. Well, she, Monica, could make her own fun. Walking to the end of the corridor she heard the sound of voices in the common room. It would be the lower forms, just released from prep in their classrooms. During the winter months their prep hours were from five-thirty to seven-thirty, and from then till half-past eight they were free to do what they pleased. She would join them. The Fourth were a lively set, not nearly as stodgy as the conscientious Fifth.

It appeared that the netball champions of the Fourth and Third had called a meeting of their supporters. Pam's two independent younger sisters had never approved of their sister's inclusion in the hockey eleven—especially Prue, the youngest. She was particularly indignant just now because the netball club had arranged their most important fixture for a date in the near future, and Pam had informed them that she would be unable to play, as St. Etheldreda's would be engaged in their third shield match on that very same day. Prue and the other netballites considered that they had just cause for grievance.

As Monica quietly entered the room and took a seat, Prue was in the act of declaiming loudly: "No Preston was ever content to sit down with folded arms and, like Mr. Micawber, wait for something to turn up. Words are of no use. Have we not protested in vain? No, we have got to show them how much we resent it."

Monica's eyes brightened. The evening need not be so dull, after all! The opportunity for a little fun was there in front of her. She had only to grasp it. She rose to her feet and walked forward.

"As one of netball's most enthusiastic exponents," she interrupted—this was hardly true, but Prue and her friends were too much impressed by the long words to trouble about their accuracy—"may I address a few words to the meeting?"

Prue hesitated. The new girl was reputed to be a bit "queer." But, after all, she had joined the netball club in spite of the fact that practically all the Fifth played hockey. She had also played in the last netball match and had not acquitted herself badly, beyond breaking most of the rules in the game through ignorance or over-excitement. Prue mentally recalled Monica's part in the match. Yes, she had certainly been pulled up by the referee for running with the ball once or twice, for holding it longer than three seconds, for getting offside and once for inadvertently kicking the ball. On the other hand she had been extremely quick in running and jumping to intercept the ball, had held her passes well, and passed quite accurately herself, and had seemed to enjoy the game thoroughly once she had got into it.

"Right you are," said Prue, jumping down from the chair on which she was standing. "Fire away."

"I don't want to say much—just two or three words," replied Monica modestly, then lowering her voice she added in grave tones: "Has it ever occurred to you what is the real object of the seniors?"

Her audience stared at Monica in perplexity.

"No. What do you mean?" from Prue.

"Well, being a senior myself," Monica continued solemnly, "I naturally hear more about their point of view than you girls in lower forms. I think they are working with the idea of making netball entirely subsidiary to hockey—just a form of exercise for the very youngest girls in the school—or even to abolish it altogether. They intend to make hockey the winter game of the school, and everybody above, say, the Second Form will be compelled to play it."

The netballites looked at each other in horror. Prue shook with indignation. "I shouldn't be surprised in the least if you are right," she declared. "All the more reason why we should do something to show we are not going to be put down so easily. Can anyone suggest a plan?"

No one could, though all agreed emphatically—if vaguely—that something ought to be done. After a short silence a few tentative suggestions were put forward, but rejected as not being suitable or feasible. Finally the meeting came to an end with the resolution that another should be called in a day or two's time to see if fresh ideas were forthcoming—the members to rack their brains well in the meanwhile.

Prue left the room arm-in-arm with her chief friend, lively Meggie Mellows. Monica caught them up outside, laying her hand on Prue's shoulder.

"I say, Prue, I have an idea. Would you like to hear it?"

Prue nodded eagerly.

"Suppose we were to take all their hockey sticks and hide them," was Monica's suggestion. "Think what a stew they would all be in! If the sticks didn't turn up before match day we could promise to find them on condition that Pam played in the netball match, instead of the hockey match. It is quite easy to get hold of the sticks. They are all kept in the gym room."

Prue's eyes began to sparkle. Then her face fell. "Yes, but where could we hide them so they couldn't be found? Short of digging a hole in the garden and burying them—and for that we've neither the time nor the tools—where could we put them? They'll search everywhere, every nook and corner."

Monica bent forward and whispered earnestly in the ears of the other two girls. When she had finished, Meggie was giggling and Prue smiling broadly.

"It might work," Prue admitted. "They might not think of looking there. Anyway, it's rather a lark."

"Who's going to do it?" asked Meggie. "One alone can't carry all the sticks."

"I should think we three would be sufficient," replied Monica. "The fewer in the secret the better. I shouldn't tell the other girls. A secret shared by so many would cease to be a secret, you know."

"That's true," agreed Prue. "I'll go and get the key while the staff are still at dinner. I know just where it hangs in Miss Cazalet's room, 'cause I've fetched it for her more than once. You can skirmish around and see that there's no one hanging about near the gym room. With all the Fifth and Sixth away it's an opportunity we shan't get again."

The gym room, which was situated at the back of the building, was plunged in darkness Meggie switched on the light at one end, and by the time Prue had joined them, holding up the key in triumph, she and Monica had noiselessly piled all the hockey sticks and pads they could find into three heaps on the floor. Meggie had also found three balls, one used for practices, the other two kept for matches. Each burdened with a heavy load, the three conspirators slipped out of the door that led from the gym room into the garden behind and vanished in the shadows. Ten minutes later they reappeared, and joining the girls who belonged to the indoor games club, played draughts or ludo in the library with serene and innocent faces till the supper bell rang.

While this dark deed was being planned and carried out at school, the innocent victims were enjoying themselves thoroughly at the theatre. The only one whose thoughts were not given wholly to the play was Nat, and though she laughed as heartily as the rest when Bottom was "translated" into an ass, she could not keep herself from constantly wondering how the black sheep of the form was spending her lonely evening. The part of Puck was taken by a young girl, and somehow the slight, graceful little figure darting to and fro in the dimness of the stage, bent on impish mischief, reminded Nat of Monica. Many times she had seen the cold, unfriendly expression of her little face soften and sparkle with just that look of impish roguery. She pictured her sitting alone in the study all the evening, with the hard, bored look on her small features, little dreaming that while the real Puck was busy laying traps for unsuspecting mortals on the stage, the other was similarly occupied at school.

The curtain descended on the happily united lovers, rose again for the "tedious brief scene" of young Pyramus and his love Thisbe, and descended for the last time on Puck's good night to his audience. Laughing and chattering, blinking and yawning, the party of schoolgirls caught the last train home, and by the time they entered the gates of St. Etheldreda's the clock in the steeple of the parish church was striking half-past eleven—an extraordinary time for St. Etheldreda's girls to be out of their beds.

"Hot cocoa and sandwiches will be served in the library, girls," said Miss Julian, smiling at all the bright, happy faces round her, as they trooped into the hall. "Then I shall expect you all to get to bed and to sleep as quickly and with as little noise or commotion as possible. No chattering in the dormitories, mind."

There was a chorus of promises of obedience to the Principal's wishes; and when the cocoa and sandwiches had been disposed of round the still glowing fire in the library there was a general movement for bed. As Nat was on her way upstairs she slipped into the passage on to which the studies opened, intending to fetch a pair of indoor shoes which she had left in her room. To her amazement a shaft of light shone beneath the door. Had Monica forgotten to switch off the light before leaving? Had it been overlooked by the mistress who made her nightly round to see that no lights were left burning? Hurriedly she pushed open the door, and gave a gasp of amazement to find the room occupied.

Monica sat there, huddled up in a chair, with her elbows propped on her knees and her chin in her hands, staring fixedly at the opposite wall and apparently lost in thought—or dreams. On the table in front of her lay what looked like an oblong piece of cardboard, but at second glance proved to be a picture or photograph.

"Whatever are you doing here?" exclaimed Nat. "Why aren't you in bed?"

As Nat spoke Monica turned the photograph over, so that it lay face downwards.

"I did go up when bed bell went," she explained. "I was the only one in the dormitory, and it seemed so queer and lonely that after Miss Moore had come round and put out the lights I crept down here again, and read until I heard you come in. I was just going upstairs again."

"It was rather a shame, being the only one left out of it," Nat agreed. Then, touched by Monica's forlorn words and look, she added impulsively: "I say, I'm sorry I made such a fuss over that business about Irene and the hockey match. I expect I sounded an awful prig. Let's forget it, shall we? I'd much rather be in my own study with you—even with all those horrible things on the walls—than pushing myself in with other girls who don't really want me, nice though they are about it, and where there isn't room for my big feet."

Monica made no reply. She had picked up the piece of cardboard from the table and was unconsciously twisting and turning it between her fingers, her head lowered so that her face could not be seen. In the bright electric light Nat saw a tear splash on the polished surface of the little table.

"I say," she exclaimed, alarmed. "You're never crying, are you? Don't you feel well, or something?"

Monica looked up, blew her nose vigorously and laughed, though her eyelashes were wet. "No, I'm not crying," she averred, "and I don't feel in the least ill. All the same, I'm glad I shall have somebody to talk to to-morrow. It was miserable sitting here alone all day."

"That's all right then," said Nat cheerfully, "and now hurry up and come along to bed, or we'll get into a row." She switched off the light and in another minute they had gained the dormitory, where the rest of its occupants, tired and sleepy, were already tumbling into bed. Nat saw Monica into her cubicle, then nodded a cheery good-night and pulled back the curtains over the entrance. Monica drew out the photograph she had tucked under her arm, looked at it and sighed. Then she dropped it into one of her drawers, pulled off her clothes and slipped into bed a second before Miss Bennett looked in at the dormitory door, said, "Good-night all," and switched off the light. In spite of that sigh, Monica dropped off to sleep almost as soon as her head touched the pillow. The pleasant recollection of Nat's cheerful face and wide smile as she pulled back the curtain was her last mental vision before she lost consciousness.

Nat was not so lucky. A tiresome knot in a string delayed her nearly five minutes, with the result that she had to finish undressing in the dark, finally falling to sleep blissfully unaware that the stockings she had pulled off and aimed at the chair at random had, instead of finding their true destination, dropped with uncanny precision into the water jug and its liquid contents.

The next day was wet, so that the girls were obliged to amuse themselves indoors in their recreation time. Consequently there was no hockey practice, but it was not long before someone noticed the absence of the sticks from their accustomed place in the corner of the gym, half a dozen girls of the Fifth and Sixth, who were considered old enough to use the apparatus without the supervision of a mistress, having enjoyed themselves there that afternoon.

When it was realized that the sticks really had been spirited away by some mysterious agency and that nobody had the least idea where they were, there was a considerable sensation in the ranks of the hockey club members.

"Can it be burglars?" one Fourth-former suggested. "They might have broken into the school during the night."

"Burglars? Nonsense!" replied Madge briskly. "What burglar would bother to break into a place just to steal a pile of old hockey sticks! No, somebody has hidden them for a lark."

"But who?" demanded Deirdre. "And where?"

The group of girls in the gym room looked at each other in perplexity.

"It's my opinion," Irene said shrewdly, "that some of the netball girls have done it to annoy us. You know how indignant they were because Pam consented to play for us."

This was voted the most sensible suggestion yet proffered.

"If that's so, then Prue Preston knows something about it," Deirdre declared. "She's the ringleader of the Fourth."

"Yes," added Irene, "and it was done while all the seniors were at the play, depend upon it."

Some of the girls departed to see if they could learn anything from the Fourth or Third, while the rest scattered far and wide to search every spot where the sticks might possibly be hidden. Half an hour later they drifted back to the gym room to report failure in every direction. The Fourth and Third Forms, not to mention the Second, had stoutly denied all knowledge of the missing sticks, and seemed as genuinely surprised at their disappearance as the seniors themselves, though the netball players seemed amused at the news. As for Prue Preston, everybody affirmed that she had been with the rest of the Fourth all the evening after prep time, first in the common room at a meeting and then playing draughts with the indoor games club. Monica Carr had also been with them.

Tea bell put an end to the search, but it is to be feared that the prep of many of the Sixth and Fifth suffered that night from lack of the usual time and care bestowed upon it. Girls gathered in groups in each other's studies, still discussing the mystery and suggesting hiding-places, but all efforts proved fruitless. One or two lucky girls, who had not put their sticks back in their proper places after the last game, still retained possession of them, but two people alone could not play hockey and until the rest of the sticks turned up there could be neither practice nor match.

The second day was also wet, and Madge and Deirdre organized a thorough search of the whole premises, resolving that should the sticks be anywhere within the school bounds they should be unearthed.

The end of the search found a hot, dusty, tired and short-tempered band of hunters. No success had rewarded their efforts, and to add to their humiliation, numbers of smiling netball players had followed them everywhere, offering various absurd suggestions and displaying obvious delight in their quandary.

"I don't believe they are hidden in the school," Madge declared. "Is there any place we haven't searched? Of course, we can't go poking our noses into mistresses' rooms—but then, they can't be there. Did you search the boxrooms thoroughly?"

Two exceedingly grubby and dusty Fifth-formers stoutly affirmed that they had looked into every box and trunk—even the hatboxes—and that not a spider nor a cobweb had escaped their sharp eyes. Glenda, Irene and several others had searched all the dormitories, examining wardrobes and doors and peering under the beds. Madge had even inquired of the kitchen staff if they had seen any traces of the sticks in their domains, and had been informed with cheerful smiles that no one had seen them since the gym room had last been swept.

"I hope," Madge added, with a gallant attempt to be frivolous, "the cook didn't think I was accusing her of having designs on our sticks for firewood, or even for serving up in the stews!"

No one laughed, however. The matter was too serious.

"What annoys me most," said Glenda stormily, "is that crowd of netballites following us round with broad grins on their faces. I'm quite sure they know something about it, in spite of their denials. I searched their cubicles well, but with no results. After all, you can't hide a score of hockey sticks in any nook or cranny—or even one stick, for that matter."

Nat and Monica were there, both having been as indefatigable in the search as anyone. Monica was humming a tune from the Mikado under her breath, and now and again breaking into words:

"Here's a how-de-do,
Here's a pretty state of things!"

Then Deirdre arrived on the scene and reported that she had bearded the lion in his den—the lion being the head gardener and groundsman, a particularly surly and cross-grained person—and had even persuaded him to unlock the gardener's shed and allow her to go inside.

"We looked in the bicycle shed," concluded Deirdre. "As for the garden, they weren't hidden under the winter greens, which are about all there is growing in it this time of the year, and Baines got quite annoyed when I suggested they had been buried in the soil, and said nobody had been digging in his garden unbeknown to him and we needn't look forward to a spring crop of hockey sticks!"

"The flowers that bloom in the spring, tra-la,
Have nothing to do with the case!"

hummed Monica, breaking into a new tune. Nat seized her by the arm and pulled her into the passage.

"Look here, you imp of mischief," she said in a fierce whisper. "I believe you're at the bottom of the whole affair. You were here while we went to the play. Tell me, where have you hidden them?"

"Nowhere," retorted Monica, "they aren't hidden, at all." Pulling her arm away she walked off, singing softly: "Beautiful Mabel, would if I could, but I am not able," and leaving Nat to stare after her and rub her nose in greater perplexity than ever.

During the whole of that October week it rained continuously—as it not unfrequently does in October—and the girls were obliged to remain indoors most of the time. In addition to this, Miss Cazalet, the games and drill mistress, was confined to her room with an attack of influenza. So the members of the staff were not surprised at there being no hockey practices and were not aware of the mysterious disappearance of the hockey sticks; while the girls, both because they preferred to tackle their own problems and also because they did not like to be made to look ridiculous, did not carry any complaints to them about it.

They knew now that it was the work of the netball players, or some of them, for the morning following the search, Madge had found in her study a dirty, begrimed sheet of paper, with the following message inscribed on it in straggling, printed characters:

IF THE NETBALL KAPTANE WILL PROMISS TO PLAY FOR HER TEEM IN THE NEXT MACHE THE MISSING ARTIKLES WILL BE FOUND.

SINED—ONE WHO NOES.

P.S. SHE MUST RITE HER NAME IN THE TEEM ON THE NOTISS-BORD.

The Fifth and Sixth surveyed this illiterate epistle with disgust.

"It's positively childish, writing such nonsense to us," declared Madge. "Anyone would think we were kids in the Second Form, whose favourite recreation was playing at Red Indians. I am convinced this is the work of that harum-scarum young sister of yours, Pam."

Pam herself, who in her time had been one of the biggest pickles in the school and who even now, when she had attained the dignity of the Sixth, regarded life more or less as a joke, chuckled delightedly.

"Shouldn't be surprised. She's just like I was when I was her age. Mischievous lot of young imps!"

That week was decidedly a trying one for all those in authority. Never had the Fifth prepared their work in such a careless, slovenly manner; never had the Third and Fourth been more restless and inattentive and brimming over with mischief. Even the select little band of Sixth-formers, never noted for over-working themselves, seemed to have caught some of the prevailing atmosphere of restlessness. Miss Bennett, who was not very interested in the girls, beyond seeing that they worked well and adhered rigidly to the school rules, put it down to the incessantly wet weather. Miss Cazalet, who took more interest in the girls' pursuits outside lesson hours than any of the other mistresses, was still in bed.

Punishments were more numerous that week than usual. The prefects found it difficult to maintain their dignity and authority in the face of the smiles and giggles of the younger girls; by the end of the week tempers were becoming frayed, especially when, at the prefects' weekly meeting, the Principal observed that some of the girls in the school seemed to have got a little out of hand that week and gently suggested that the prefects should use every effort to get things running more smoothly. Madge was greatly tempted to explain the reason for all the disturbance, but refrained; for during recent years it had been the prefects' unwritten law never to take their troubles to the Principal unless they had failed entirely to master them themselves. When Miss Julian had dismissed the meeting, they held a gathering of their own in the study shared by Madge and Deirdre.

"A silly sort of mess we're in," the usually placid-tempered Deirdre declared disgustedly. "This is Friday and the match is next Wednesday, and still we can only muster a couple of sticks between the lot of us. Not only that, but those juniors are getting a good deal too big for their boots—positively cheeky this last week."

"If we give in to them now," said Madge tragically, "our prestige is gone for ever."

"All for nothing too," said Pam, still more amused than annoyed. "I've just had a letter by the afternoon post, cancelling the netball match. Our opponents can't play next Wednesday after all, and their secretary suggests another date—the following Saturday or Wednesday."

At this point in the discussion there came a knock at the door and in walked Allison.

"I've left the swotting for a bit," she explained with her cheerful smile. "I heard Prinny had given you a wigging at the prefects' meeting, so I simply had to come along and see if I could be of any use. Otherwise, it's sheer farce calling myself the Head Girl."

"We didn't want to disturb you, knowing how busy you are with your scholarship work," said Madge ruefully. "You know we promised you at the beginning of the term we would take everything off your shoulders."

"Yes, but when things aren't going very smoothly I couldn't stand outside, not for fifty scholarships," Allison declared with energy. She perched on the edge of the table. "What's the trouble? Haven't those missing sticks turned up yet?"

"No," replied Madge and explained the recent developments, showing Allison with rather a sheepish air the document sent by the "one who noes."

Allison could not help chuckling as she read it.

"They're holding hostages for you, Pam," she said, then her expression becoming more thoughtful she added: "Did you say the netball match is postponed?"

Pam nodded and showed Allison the letter she had received from the opposing netball secretary. Allison again looked at the mysterious epistle from the "one who noes."

She gave a little laugh. "It's simple enough," she said. "Accept their proposal as gracefully as possible. As the netball match is postponed, Pam can turn out for both teams without upsetting anyone. They on their side must keep their bargain and return the sticks if Pam promises to play in the 'next netball match'—as it says here. Then I hope it will be a case of all's well that end's well."

"Why, of course that's the way out!" cried Madge. "What muffs we were not to think of it ourselves!"

"Well, I think you were," said Allison candidly. "Perhaps Pam had better not mention at first that the netball match has been postponed, then their disappointment will be greater when they find they haven't got their own way entirely and Pam is still playing for the hockey team."

Already faces were brightening.

"Thanks awfully for your help, Allison," said Deirdre. "You are a brick."

"No," replied Allison, "not a bit of it. It's you who are the bricks for not wanting to worry me with prefects' affairs. I do appreciate it, I can tell you. Suppose you all come along to my study and have a cup of tea. I've a cake just sent from home, and I think I can persuade Ethel to let me have the tea on a tray from the kitchen." The prefects accepted the invitation with alacrity.

Before the day was ended a list appeared upon the notice-board, headed: "Team chosen to play in the netball match against St. Margaret's," and against the position of goal-defender appeared Pam Preston's name. There was great excitement in the group of netball players who had gathered round to read it.

"Pam's playing," Prue declared excitedly to Meggie. "They've given in."

Though Prue had followed Monica's advice and had not divulged the hiding-place of the sticks to any of her other followers, of course they all knew by now that she was one of the instigators of the plot. There was no need for any more secrecy. Very soon the facts would be known to the whole school, so she and Meggie lost no time in satisfying the curiosity of their companions and related the story to an admiring and appreciative audience—and with a considerable amount of complacency on the part of the narrators.

Going to their study directly after breakfast the next morning Madge and Deirdre found another sheet of dirty notepaper lying conspicuously on the table, and quickly read the following message:

ALLTHO THE SWIMING BARF IS CLOSED AT THE END OF SEPT. NO DOUT MOST OF THE HOKKEY XI ARE IN NEAD OF A GOOD WASHE.

ONE HOO NOES.

Madge's face was a study. The slower-witted Deirdre merely looked dazed.

"Well, if we aren't a set of prize idiots!" spluttered Madge at last. "No one ever thought of looking in the swimming-bath. That's where our sticks are. Just because it's been closed and locked up for the winter, we didn't give it a thought. Besides, who would dream of hiding anything in a swimming-bath! And we went so near—we searched the gardeners' shed and looked under all the cabbages!" For a moment conflicting emotions struggled for the mastery, then her sense of humour prevailed and she burst into a roar of laughter. Deirdre, recovering from her bewilderment, followed her companion's example, for nothing is more infectious than laughter; and the two girls sat and rocked till the tears rolled down their cheeks.

"How are we going to get them?" asked Deirdre, wiping the tears from her eyes. "The baths are locked up now."

"Miss Cazalet has the key," Madge replied. "She is better and is getting up to-day. We'll ask her for the key and tell her the whole story. She'll enjoy the joke immensely, I know. To think how we searched every impossible chink and cranny in the building, where one couldn't hide a pencil, let alone a hockey stick!" And Madge went off into a fresh gale of laughter.

The swimming-bath, which was situated in the farthest corner of the grounds and certainly in rather a remote spot, was duly entered—and there were all the missing sticks, lying just as they had been dropped in the deepest end of the white-tiled tank. Each owner seized her own particular stick with a delightful feeling of familiarity at holding a much-tried and well-known weapon in her hands once again. The grey rain clouds had lifted, the rain had stopped and the rays of the sun were flooding the watery fields with pale but welcome light. With joyous cheers, and feeling as if they had been let out of prison, the girls made a bee-line for the hockey field and, unhindered by the fact that the rain had long since washed out all the marks, were soon waging a pitched battle with tremendous enthusiasm and energy.

"I thought all along you had a hand in it," Nat declared that evening, as she and Monica were hard at work. "But you said the sticks weren't hidden anywhere."

"No more they were. No one who walked into the baths could fail to see them."

"I'm all the more convinced that I daren't let you out of my sight. You see what invariably happens when I do! The other girls in the Fifth don't know whether to be annoyed with you or not."

"Irene does," replied Monica. "She still doesn't like me at all." She critically surveyed the latest notice she was printing for the study wall with her head on one side and added happily: "Wait till I come out top. She'll dislike me still more then."

"Did you hear about Allison going to the prefects' meeting to help them?" asked Nat eagerly, and when Monica shook her head she related the incident, quoting Allison's words about not standing outside when things were going wrong, not for fifty scholarships. Nat spoke with a glowing face and eyes alight with hero-worship. "That's just like Allison. It's true, too. That's why we would do anything for her when she was Head Girl last year and worked so hard for the school; why we think so much of her now."

Peace and harmony reigned supreme at St. Etheldreda's during the next few weeks, for the girls simply had no time to get into mischief, every minute of the day being fully occupied. Work, of course, came first, and the term examinations, which took place the second week in December, loomed appreciably nearer. Girls who had slacked at the beginning of the term decided that it behoved them to work harder if they did not wish to take home a poor report at Christmas. The Dramatic Society, with Glenda as its shining star—Glenda, who had set her heart on becoming a Silver Medallist that year—was busy preparing various scenes from Shakespeare which they hoped to perform on Speech Day. With the improvement in the weather, out-of-door pursuits were booming; groups of girls took long country walks, while games were in full swing.

There were no more quarrels between the netball and hockey clubs. The latter's hopes of gaining the shield were high, for should they win their next match they would be entitled to meet the victors in the other section—Fairhurst Priory, the present holders—in the Final.

On Friday morning—the day before the match—the postman was rather earlier than usual and Irene happened to be the only girl near the door to see him arrive, though usually he was accosted by an expectant crowd. She seized hold of the bundle of letters to take them into the hall, where they were spread on the table for their owners to claim. On the top of the bundle was a letter addressed to Miss M. Carr in extremely black, square handwriting, that set a chord of remembrance vibrating in Irene's mind. In a flash she recollected where she had seen it before. Here was another letter to Monica from the girl Lilian at Fairhurst Priory School.

Before Irene had finished spreading the letters on the table it was surrounded by a crowd of girls eagerly searching for their own names, while from others, who were unable to get close enough to see there came a chorus of inquiry.

One thought only was running like a flame through Irene's mind. Could she by any chance get a glimpse of the contents of Monica's letter? She waited by the table till most of the crowd had dispersed. At last she saw Monica, one of the late comers, saunter into the hall with Nat and, at a cry of "Letter for you, Monica. Aren't you going to claim it?" fetch her letter from the table. As she did so the prayer bell rang and Monica and Nat, with Irene close behind, joined the stream of girls hastening towards the assembly room.

Prayer bell rang at five to nine in order to give everyone time to be in her place for nine o'clock prayers. Then the girls filed off to their various classrooms and Irene watched Monica as, seated at her desk waiting for the entry of the mistress who was to take them for their first lesson, she tore open the envelope, hurriedly read the letter and, on Miss Moore's entry, thrust it inside her desk—the present style of frocks rarely provides anything in the way of pocket accommodation!

When the bell rang for the fifteen minutes' interval all the form left the room in groups of twos and threes, some to practise passing or shooting outside with a netball, some to stroll round the grounds chatting, many to partake of hot milk and biscuits. Irene stayed behind, under pretence of hunting for a mislaid book. Now, when the room was deserted by all except herself, was her chance. She opened Monica's desk, and after a hasty search found the letter thrust between two books. With the envelope in her hand she hesitated and glanced around guiltily, half inclined to put it back unread. Then came the insidious whisper that she owed it to the other girls, to the school, to read the letter and discover if the black sheep of St. Etheldreda's was plotting some fresh mischief against her fellow scholars. Spurred on by this thought she inserted her fingers in the envelope and drew out the letter. This time its contents were disappointing. They were brief and written very hurriedly:

"Dear Monica,

"Please excuse me for being so long in acknowledging your letter. Your idea about the telegram is really clever though quite simple. I shall be curious to see how it works. I suppose St. Etheldreda's girls are hoping to win the shield. So are our girls. Well, time will show!

"Supper bell, so I must finish. I will write a longer letter next time. The news may be more interesting then.

"With best wishes from,

"Lilian."

When she had finished reading this apparently quite harmless little letter Irene was conscious of a fervent wish that she had not meddled with it at all. She thrust it back into Monica's desk, and with cheeks that burned for some time afterward, slipped out of the classroom and rejoined her friends, who were partaking of milk and biscuits.

That evening the atmosphere in Nat's study was particularly serene. No clouds disturbed Nat's horizon, for once again her name had appeared in the team for the shield match—not, it is true, in Irene's place, but instead of the other wing, whose play Deirdre and the hockey committee now considered inferior to Nat's. As this was the second time she had been chosen to represent the school Nat now cherished the hope that her permanent place in the team was assured. She was doing her prep with prodigious pains, anxious to run no risk of getting a returned lesson or lines the next morning. So blissful was her state of mind that she even assisted Monica to hang a fresh set of recently-taught data upon the walls, and afterwards volunteered to hear her construe her Latin paragraph. Monica, too, seemed to be in a blithe and happy mood, for she made numerous jokes and witticisms as she worked, without any traces of the old sullen, defiant expression. When in a laughing, happy frame of mind, she really was quite an attractive girl, Nat thought to herself. What a pity it was she was prone to those queer moods and tempers.

Lessons went well and smoothly next morning. Even Miss Bennett wore a beaming smile as she dismissed the Fifth, when the final bell rang, with her best wishes for their success that afternoon. Then there came a general scramble for the dormitories and a hasty change into sports' rig-out, for the team and the girls who had obtained permission to accompany them as spectators were to depart by train as soon as dinner was over.

Allison was changing in her cubicle when Pam tapped and poked her head inside. "Prinny wants you Allison," she said. "A telegram has just arrived for you."

Allison looked up, surprised. "A telegram! Who from, I wonder? I'm not expecting any important tidings."

"Not bad news, I hope," said Pam sympathetically, as Allison hurried out.

Miss Julian was in her room. "Oh, there you are, Allison," she said. "A telegram has just come for you," and she picked it up from the table. Allison took it and tore it open quickly. Miss Julian at once noticed the change in her expression. "Is it bad news, Allison?" she inquired with concern.

Allison nodded. "I'm afraid so," she replied in a low voice and she handed the telegram to the Principal, who read the brief message: "Mother taken ill suddenly. Come at once. Will meet you at Victoria next train—Father."

"This is very sudden, Allison," said Miss Julian gravely. "You have had no previous apprehensions concerning your mother's health, have you?"

"No," replied Allison, her voice shaking a little. "When I last heard from home, mother was perfectly well. I may go, may I not, Miss Julian?"

The Principal was already turning over the leaves of her time-table. "Yes, of course, Allison," she replied, "and we will hope that things may turn out less serious than might be imagined from this telegram. The next train for London leaves at a quarter to two. There will just be time for you to have your dinner, pack a few necessities for the night and catch the train. Do not trouble about packing much. We can soon send on anything you may require later."

"Thank you, Miss Julian," replied Allison gratefully, and still feeling stunned at the suddenness and vagueness of the news contained in the telegram, she hurried back to her cubicle to pull off her tunic, resume her ordinary frock, and throw a few things she would need into a small hand-case. She then sought out Deirdre and told her of her urgent and immediate summons to London.

"Oh, I am so sorry," said Deirdre at once. "Can't I do anything—help you pack?"

"No, thanks all the same. I'm not taking much with me. Only just got time to swallow some dinner—Prinny insists on it—then rush for my train. Sorry I have to let the team down like this," and Allison was gone, leaving the dismayed hockey captain to dash round the school, hunting out another recruit for the team. At length she ran down one of the Fourth Form players.

"Get into your tunic, Olive, will you?" she said peremptorily. "I want you to come as reserve. Lorna, who is down as reserve, will be playing after all."

Bad tidings travel quickly. In a very few minutes an excited little group of hockey players, who had gathered in the hall to await the dinner bell, were discussing the bad news in dismay.

"Oh dear!" said Glenda, as Madge gave them the details. "What hard luck for Allison! I do hope her mother's illness isn't serious! Rotten luck for us, too, though, of course, we shan't mind if things come right for Allison. I'm afraid it means losing the match to-day. Allison at centre-half is as good as half a dozen ordinary players, and we've no one to put in her place."

The girls nodded with grave faces. Allison's presence in the team did indeed make all the difference, for she was a tower of strength in the defence, her judgment in popping up just where the ball was coming being positively uncanny; her passes to her forwards were generally inspired, as Deirdre once said, and the fiercer the opposition the higher the level of play Allison seemed able to attain. Last, but by no means least, her presence in the team acted as a kind of moral support to the rest of the players. With these thoughts in their minds the girls looked at each other in dismayed silence. It was indeed hard luck—just when they had begun to believe that their dreams of seeing the shield the property of St. Etheldreda's had an excellent chance of becoming a reality.

Glenda was suddenly recalled to the present by a fierce and decidedly painful grip on her arm.

"Ow!" she gasped. "Who's pinching me?" and turned round to behold Irene standing at her elbow and wearing such a transformed expression—her face white with emotion, her eyes blazing with excitement—that she exclaimed in astonishment: "What's the matter, Irene? Have you just seen a ghost, or what?"

"The t—telegram!" stuttered Irene, speaking with a visible effort. "I've just remembered that the l—letter m—mentioned a telegram."

"What telegram? What letter? You're speaking in riddles."

Irene still seemed in the grip of some great emotion. "Wait here, all of you," she cried. "Don't move till I come back. I'll explain then," and with that she dashed off like a mad creature into the Annexe and along to her study, seized her writing-case and recklessly tossed out its contents till her fingers closed on the object of her search, the letter she had taken from Monica's study on the memorable afternoon when she had been locked in her own room. With the letter firmly clutched in her hand, she tore back to her mystified audience.

"It's one of Monica's letters," she explained, jerkily. "I—I found it weeks ago and—I read it by mistake, and because I thought it sounded so suspicious and because we all know what sort of a girl she is, I—I thought I was justified in keeping it. Listen, and I'll read it out," and while the girls were still trying to grasp what she had just said, she read the letter in a voice that shook both with emotion and lack of breath.

"But—surely——" Madge, who had joined the group with Deirdre, began doubtfully, as Irene stopped reading.

"Wait till I've finished," Irene interrupted. "That isn't all. Yesterday, I saw another letter of Monica's in the same handwriting lying about, and—oh, I don't care what you think of me for doing it!—but I read that one too. I can only say I thought it might be for the best. I was ashamed then, now I am glad I did. As nearly as I can remember, it said this," and Irene, who was gifted with a good memory, repeated the gist of the contents of the second letter.

"Don't you see—they were plotting to knock St. Etheldreda's out of the running for the shield! Monica Carr would love to spite the school like that. She hates us all, and she doesn't know what it means to be sporting. She was clever enough to realize that our chance of winning would be a poor one without Allison and so she planned to entice her away by a bogus telegram; the telegram referred to in the second letter is the telegram Allison has just received."

Madge looked incredulous. "But it can't be! It sounds like an old-fashioned melodrama. Besides—where was that telegram handed in?"

Deirdre shook her head. "Somewhere in London, I believe. But you don't really think Irene's idea is true, Madge?"

Madge glanced again at the letter Irene had handed her. "I don't know what to think," she confessed vexedly. "If it does happen to be a bogus telegram then we shall be made fools of—and Allison will have suffered all this anxiety for nothing. On the other hand, Allison must go if there's a chance of it's being genuine. She daren't risk it. The fact that her mother may be seriously ill means more to her than all the hockey in the world. Oh, bother! There's the dinner bell. What shall we do?"

"I think it's a case for Miss Julian," said Deirdre decidedly, and there were murmurs of relieved acquiescence from the other girls.

"You're right," cried Madge. "Come along with me, Irene, and Miss Julian will advise us what to do. Dinner must wait for once."

Irene followed her willingly, for to do her justice, she was ready enough to own up to the ignominy of prying into another girl's correspondence if by doing so she might prevent them all from walking into a trap carefully laid for them. Nat and Glenda, too anxious to trouble about breaking the rules of punctuality at meals, followed them instead of making for the dining-hall, and waited in the passage while they entered the Principal's sanctum.

Miss Julian listened patiently as Irene repeated her story, and though she was doubtless very much amazed at hearing such an extraordinary tale she showed few signs of it in her quiet face, and quickly grasped the essential points of the case from Irene's sketchy and incoherent narrative.

"Allison must go unless we can verify beyond any doubt the falsity of the summons," she said with decision, as soon as Irene had finished. "However, I expect I can learn the truth from Monica herself. Will you fetch her, Madge? But no, wait one moment. Do you know if Allison's people are on the 'phone?"

Madge started forward, her eyes lighting up. "Why, yes, Miss Julian, I am sure they are. I never thought of the 'phone."

Miss Julian smiled as she lifted down her telephone directory, and her fingers swiftly turned over the pages. "It is the most obvious and the simplest expedients that usually are overlooked, Madge," she remarked, "especially by highly intellectual people. Yes, I have the number." She turned to the telephone by the wall. "Irene, find Allison and bring her here, please. Should the telegram prove genuine, there will still be time for her to catch her train, if the telephone exchange do not keep us waiting too long."

Irene ran off. Five slow minutes ticked by while the two in the room waited, Miss Julian in undisturbed calm—outwardly, at any rate—Madge in a fever of impatience which she could hardly control. At last the telephone bell rang sharply and Miss Julian picked up the receiver with a murmured: "We are fortunate, after all." Just then Irene burst with scant ceremony into the room, to halt and stand in silence as the Principal began to speak into the mouthpiece.

"This is the Principal of St. Etheldreda's. Who am I addressing? No, you need not disturb him. I only wish to know how Mrs. Ravenel is... Ah, yes... You see, Allison has received a telegram summoning her at once to London, on account of her mother's sudden illness... Yes, this morning, handed in at Victoria... Yes, we had reason to believe it a bogus telegram... No, but I think it will be easy to find out... Then there is no need for Allison to come?... Ah, thank you, that is all I wanted to know. Perhaps Allison can ring you up for herself later on. Good morning."

As she finished she wheeled round sharply. "You were right, Irene. Allison's people have no knowledge of the telegram. Where is Allison? Has she gone?"

"Yes, Miss Julian," Irene hastened to say. "She had just left the dining-room when I got there. I hurried to her study and her cubicle, but she wasn't there. Then one of the maids told me she had already set off for the station."

"We must stop her from going if possible," said Miss Julian. "It will save her a useless journey, as well as unnecessary anxiety."

"Glenda and Nat are outside," interposed Irene eagerly. "They both have bicycles in use. Shall I tell them to cycle to the station and stop Allison?"

Miss Julian nodded approval without inquiring what Nat and Glenda were doing outside in the passage when they should have been at dinner, and two minutes later both girls, hatless and gloveless, having stopped only to snatch their coats, were wheeling their machines out of the bicycle shed. In another two minutes they were pedalling furiously down the road that led to the station.

The school was perhaps a mile and a half from the station and fortunately the road, even when it passed through the town, was not much frequented by traffic; for Nat and Glenda paused for nothing their headlong career and did not slacken speed for a second till they jammed on their brakes and flung themselves off before the station entry.

"It's all right," gasped Nat, pointing to the station clock. "Five minutes yet before the train is due. My, didn't we scorch! I bet we could have given Jehu himself a start and then beaten him."

Allison was standing at the ticket office in the act of asking for her ticket when both her arms were seized from behind and she was violently dragged away, to the astonishment of the booking-clerk.

Jerking herself round, she beheld the crimson but familiar faces of the two St. Etheldreda's girls.

"No need to take a ticket, Allison!" cried Glenda. "That telegram was a fake. Prinny 'phoned through to your home. There's nothing whatever the matter with your mother."

The worried, anxious look vanished from Allison's face and was replaced by a dawning expression of joy and relief. "Are you sure?" she demanded.

"Absolutely sure," replied Nat. "Prinny sent us after you post-haste to stop you from starting. You're coming the other way with us—to the hockey match."

"The team will be here before long," added Glenda. "No sense in going back. We may as well wait at the station."

The three girls paced up and down the platform, talking eagerly.

"I was in such an awful hurry and so worried, I didn't think of anything but the fact that mother was ill and I must catch this next train at all costs," Allison confessed. "But as I was trying to swallow a mouthful of food and nearly choking in the attempt, it did cross my mind to wonder why dad didn't 'phone. I put it down to the 'phone being out of order. It was, the last time I was home. Fortunately Prinny thought of it."

"Yes, but not until we put it into her head to suspect the genuineness of the telegram," said Glenda.

"What do you mean? What made you suspect it wasn't genuine? I can't think who on earth played such a mean trick. It gave me a pretty bad half-hour, I can tell you."

"Wasn't it a beastly, low-down thing to do!" cried Glenda vehemently. "It was Irene who found it out. I don't quite know how—something about a letter she saw, a letter written to Monica Carr by one of the Fairhurst Priory girls. It's that girl Monica Carr who is at the bottom of this, of course. There'll always be trouble in the school as long as she's allowed to stay here."

Allison looked greatly disturbed. "I hope we are mistaken in thinking so. I should hate to think one of our own girls was responsible for this."

"Not much room for a mistake. And we can't call Monica Carr one of our own girls exactly. She's never fitted in with the rest of us."

"What do you think, Nat?" asked Allison, for Nat had not yet spoken. "I thought you and Monica were getting on pretty well together lately."

"So we were," replied Nat unhappily. "I was beginning to fancy she might perhaps be quite a jolly little soul when she forgot her queer moods and tantrums. Of course, I don't know anything about this. She's never mentioned it to me. But you can't exactly account for what she's going to do next."

"Evidently not," Alison agreed, a little dryly.

A few minutes later Miss Cazalet arrived, accompanied by Madge, Deirdre and half a dozen others, while many more were close behind. Quite a large number of girls were going to the match as spectators.

Deirdre welcomed Allison with heartfelt relief.

"Thank goodness! I've been wondering all the way how on earth I could fill your place without disorganizing the team too hopelessly, supposing Glenda and Nat had not been in time. However, it's all right now."

"And for once in my life," added Madge, "my scatterbrains have functioned properly. I've remembered to bring your stick and your pads, also your hockey kit, which I found flung in an untidy heap on your cubicle floor. Two other girls are bringing along your sticks, Glenda and Nat."

When the train steamed into the station there was a general scramble for empty carriages. Miss Cazalet, Madge, Deirdre, Pam, Allison and Nat crowded into one compartment with several other members of the team. While in the act of scrambling in, Nat recollected with dismay that the previous evening Monica had suddenly and inexplicably announced her intention of putting her name on the list of those who wished to accompany the team to the match, and she hung out of the window to see if there were any signs of her. Yes, there she was, getting into a carriage with several other girls. Nat withdrew her head hastily as the train began to move.

There were only two members of the team in the party who occupied Monica's carriage, Olive James—the girl who had come in as reserve when it was thought Allison would not be playing—and Lorna Payne, the original reserve, who played inside-right. Of course, as things had turned out, it was probable that neither would be called upon to play. Among the others were Prue and Meggie, who had forgotten their animosity against the hockey club when there was a chance of a day's outing. Prue had an extraordinary nose for scandal or a lively story of any description and seemed able to smell one a mile off, as her sister Pam was wont to say rather unkindly. Therefore no one was surprised when, the moment they were all seated, Prue turned to Lorna and Olive and demanded:

"Hey, what's this we hear about someone sending a bogus telegram to entice Allison away? I heard Madge and Deirdre say something about it."

"You would," returned Lorna sarcastically, while Olive piped in: "All I know is that, just before dinner, Deirdre grabbed me in an awful stew and told me I should be going as reserve and Lorna would be playing, as Allison had had bad news from home and wouldn't be able to come."

Lorna was one of those girls who had been present when Irene told her tale. "The story comes from Irene," she explained. "She accused Monica of plotting with one of the girls at her old school, Fairhurst Priory, to entice Allison away with a sham telegram in order to spoil our chances of winning the shield."

Monica, who occupied a corner seat and had been gazing out of the window, turned round with a start as she heard her name mentioned. "What do you mean?" she demanded. "What does Irene say about me?"

"She read one of your letters by mistake, the letter this Fairhurst girl sent you. Irene kept the letter. In fact, she showed it to us."

Great commotion amongst the listeners!

Prue pretended to fan herself vigorously, overcome with horror. "Tell it me again," she exclaimed, "my poor wits won't grasp it."

Lorna, with a glance of contempt at Monica, repeated Irene's story. Prue listened attentively and Meggie cried indignantly:

"What a mean trick! Fancy having a real, live traitor in the school."

"It seems," said Prue with equal indignation, "that we have been nourishing a viper in our bosoms. What have you to say for yourself, miss?" addressing the culprit.

Monica seemed to shrink back in her seat.

"Nothing," she replied sullenly. "I haven't anything to say. I didn't send the telegram, though."

"We don't suppose you did," retorted Lorna with sarcasm, "seeing that it was sent from London. No doubt you got someone to send it for you."

"Don't argue with her, girls," advised Olive. "She isn't worth it. Just ignore her. If this is true, there are plenty who will see the matter isn't overlooked."

"Prinny for one," stated Lorna. "Madge and Irene went to tell her all about it."

Another sensation!

"My gracious!" said Meggie solemnly. "Prinny will soon get to the bottom of it. I wouldn't be in Monica Carr's shoes for anything. This will mean expulsion for her, girls, mark my words."

Monica turned her face to the window again and continued to gaze out as if absorbed in the scenery, and for the rest of the short journey her fellow-travellers ignored her completely.

"Now, Monica," said Nat firmly, as she closed the study door upon the outer world. "I want to know all about it. Did you send that telegram, and if so, why? I thought I had successfully managed to keep my eye upon you since the last upset," she added reproachfully.

Monica sat down in the nearest chair with a tired sigh. "Oh, what does it matter? You won, after all. I think I'm glad you did now. As for me, the girls in the train said they expected Prinny would expel me. Do you think I shall be expelled, Nat?"

"It's within the bounds of possibility," replied Nat severely, for she felt that Monica deserved a good fright. "But you don't seem to mind about that sort of thing."

"I shouldn't have minded a bit when I first came," confessed Monica, "but it's different now. I don't want to be expelled now."

She had such a forlorn look that Nat's susceptible heart was touched. She recalled how all the girls, at the match and on the return journey, had pointedly cut Monica, and she herself had been the only one who would speak to her.

"Your best chance will be to confess all you know about it," she said sensibly, "and tell Prinny you are sorry. She's not half a bad sort really. I'd rather tell her anything than—than Miss Bennett, for instance."

"I didn't send the telegram," Monica said, "that's true. But I'm responsible for having it sent. It was my idea, so I suppose I'm chiefly to blame." She looked inquiringly at Nat.

"If you mean, is the person who plans a wrong just as bad as the person who carries it out, I'd certainly say yes, she is," Nat answered. "But you still haven't told me much about it."

Before Monica could speak again there was a tap at the door and Pam looked in. "Prinny wants to see Monica in her room at once," she said briefly.

The dread summons had come. Monica moved reluctantly towards the door, then turned and came back. "I say, Nat." There was earnest appeal in the eyes she raised to Nat's face. "Truly, I'm glad the telegram plan wasn't successful and that the school won. You do believe me, don't you?" and Nat heard herself replying quite heartily: "Of course I do, if you say so."

Monica's interview with the Principal was not at all reassuring. Miss Julian looked so very stern and severe that Monica found it too difficult a matter to follow Nat's advice and confess the story in all its details, and fell back upon brief and reluctant answers to the Principal's questions.

"Are you responsible for having this telegram sent, Monica?" the Principal began, pointing to the fateful document which lay on the table.

Monica hesitated, wondering how to answer without telling a deliberate untruth. She could feel her knees shaking beneath her.

"I did not send it, Miss Julian," she answered at last. "I did not even know it had been sent till I heard the other girls talking about it."

"Do you know who sent it?"

"I—I think so."

"Who was it, then?"

Monica was silent.

"A girl in this school?"

Monica shook her head.

"Was it one of the Fairhurst Priory girls? This girl with whom you correspond?"

Again Monica was silent.

"Come, Monica," said Miss Julian. "I must know the truth. I shall be obliged to think the worst of you if you don't speak up frankly. Can you explain why this girl wrote such a letter to you?" and she picked up from the table the letter Irene had purloined. "Do you think this is a very nice kind of letter to receive from a girl in another school? Listen to this, for instance: 'Do you still hate rules and regulations and persons in authority? ... Don't you think it would be fun to put a little spoke in their wheels, I mean in St. Etheldreda's hopes of winning the shield? I know how clever you are and how full of ideas. I should love to see if you could pull it off.' That does not sound very loyal to your school, does it?"

Monica looked shamefacedly at the floor, but still remained dumb. It was harder than ever to speak up. Miss Julian continued her questions.

"Have you the other letter Irene saw?"

"No. I tore it up afterwards."

"Is it true that it said: 'Your idea about the telegram is clever, though simple. I shall be curious to see how it works?'"

"Y—yes. Something like that," Monica replied faintly.

"Did she have the telegram sent or did you?"

"She did."

"But you planned it? It was your idea?"

"Yes."

"But why didn't you want the school to win, Monica? Besides, apart from that, didn't you realize what a cruel trick it was to play on Allison; what hours of anxiety and suspense it would cause her?"

The Principal's voice was very stern, so stern that Monica dared not lift her glance from the carpet pattern she was so desperately studying. Yet a few months before she had stood and listened with an attitude of hard defiance when told that she would not be allowed to return to her first school after the holidays.

When Miss Julian spoke again, Monica was astonished at the sudden change from severity to gentleness.

"You know, of course, Monica, that you came to St. Etheldreda's with a poor character. I was told that at your last school you were naughty, stubborn and unmanageable, finally bringing disgrace upon yourself and the school by bare-faced cheating in a public exam, for which behaviour you were quite unashamed and unrepentant. The Head Mistress's statement was confirmed by your aunt. Because I knew both your parents, and knew what splendid people they were, it was hard for me to believe that their only child should be so deficient in moral stability. I wrote also to your old nurse, under whose care you lived for many years after your parents' death, and she declared that though highly strung and sometimes full of mischief you had never been a bad girl, never unmanageable, dishonest or untruthful.

"For the sake of the great friendship between your mother and myself I resolved to give you another chance here on equal terms with the rest of my girls. So far I have not been unduly disappointed. At first I received reports that you did not always settle down in class as well as you should and were sometimes troublesome to the mistresses. I asked the mistresses to take into account the fact that you were not used to school ways and school routine like the rest of our girls. On one occasion Miss Bennett had to punish you severely for neglecting your preparation, but since then reports on your work have been mainly good and Miss Andrews in particular is highly delighted with your Latin. I had hoped such progress was going to continue till the end of the term, but this trick you have tried to play on Allison is one I cannot overlook. You should have broken with this girl on leaving your last school and not have continued your friendship with her when you realized it was proving a bad influence. Cannot you tell me all about it, Monica? You have told me very little except the bare facts."

"There isn't anything else to tell," Monica murmured, still wondering miserably if the Principal was going to expel her. How gladly she would have denied her share in the matter! But she could not.

"Then I shall leave the matter where it is for a few days' consideration," the Principal replied. "Perhaps by then you will be willing to tell me why you planned this unkind trick. I shall speak to you again about it later, probably in about a week's time."

The astonished Monica was dismissed, still ignorant of her fate. A reprieve of a week! What was really in the Principal's mind? She wished she knew. This uncertainty was far worse than the actual punishment.

For a few days Monica and the sham telegram formed the chief topic of conversation at St. Etheldreda's. Whatever room you entered, at whatever time of the day—save actual lesson hours—you might be sure to hear somebody discussing the affair. For indeed, schoolgirls, like everybody else, must have something to talk about and a sensational story like this was pounced upon with avidity. Everyone wondered why the Principal delayed in pronouncing sentence, and though the Fifth and Sixth, unlike the lower forms, had never believed it to be an offence calling for the extreme punishment, they certainly did not think Monica should escape altogether.

After about three days the outburst of feeling began to die a natural death, though it was not forgotten entirely. For a while the Fifth vigorously sent Monica to Coventry, but as she had never been on friendly or intimate terms with her form companions, this was not such a great hardship as it sounds. Glenda and one or two others had tried hard to persuade Nat also to ostracize Monica, but in vain.

Nat's attitude towards her study-mate was a curious one; and in truth, Nat herself could not account for her own feelings in the matter. She was the sort of girl who scorned sentimentality of any kind and yet had a very soft spot for helpless creatures in distress, particularly dumb animals. During her first year at St. Etheldreda's, when a girl of eleven in the Second Form, she had broken the school ranks while on an afternoon's walk to rush to the rescue of a miserable, bedraggled cat some boys were teasing, attacking them with fists and feet till the mistress in charge came to the rescue. The cat was old and mangy and evil-smelling and should have been painlessly chloroformed, but Nat had begged to be allowed to take it to school and give it a saucer of milk, after which it had been placed, dirt and all, upon the best silk cushion in front of the library fire. Had Monica continued to show the same sullen, defiant front as she had done during her first week or two in the study, Nat would probably have condemned her as severely as any of the Fifth, perhaps more severely; but something in Monica's plea that Nat should believe she regretted the telegram trick, and in her shrinking fear of being expelled again, touched the soft spot in Nat's heart in the same way as the bedraggled, mangy cat had done.

Besides, Monica showed a certain courage in the way she patiently ignored the scornful looks and sneers that came from some of the girls, and Nat admired pluck. Nat wouldn't have had the least sympathy with a girl who cried and made an unnecessary fuss at receiving a blow on the hockey or cricket field, though she would have been one of the first to run to help her.

By the end of a week the girls had certainly forgotten their first bitter animosity. They had been busy with term examinations for several days, and when they met together after lesson hours now, it was to compare answers and discuss the difficulty or otherwise of the various papers. Everyone was glad when Tuesday evening arrived, for the next morning would see the last of the examination papers, and after that they would be able to take things more easily—lessons, that is, for there was still Speech Day to prepare for, a fortnight hence, and the hockey Final to be played.

On Tuesday evening the Fifth were full of a suggested paper-chase for Wednesday half-day. It was the weather that was chiefly responsible for the idea. It had turned very cold, and violent exertion was necessary to keep oneself warm. The ground was quite hard, the air clear and frosty, and there was no wind: simply ideal weather for a paper-chase. Besides, it was very good training for their hockey Final and they would find it a relief to "let off steam" after the strain of the examinations.

It was decided that the paper-chase should be a really good one, not a half-and-half affair, as Glenda put it, but five or six miles over the country. Most of the Fifth, with the exception of a few of the less physically energetic whose spirits quailed at the thought of those five or six miles, agreed to join in. Many of the Fourth were eager to participate, and Pam and Deirdre of the Sixth also announced that they would like to share the fun. The Fifth had already selected Nat as hare, for two reasons. Firstly, she was one of the quickest and most tireless runners in the school, and secondly, in the summer months she was so fond of taking long walks and cycling expeditions in search of flowers or botanical specimens for the nature-study competition, that she had an extensive and detailed knowledge of the surrounding country, and could be relied upon to choose a suitable and interesting route. Following their usual custom, they left it to Nat to select a girl to accompany her as second hare.

While most of the Fourth and Fifth were busily engaged in the common room, tearing up paper into small pieces, Nat, who was nothing if not practical, declared her intention of running five or six times round the garden to see how long it would take to get her "second wind." As she slipped out of the back door she became aware that Monica had followed her.

"Hullo, what do you want?" she asked, in surprise. "Are you going to join in the paper-chase or do you consider it waste of time and energy?"

"Take me with you as the other hare," was Monica's amazing proposal. "I am sure I should make a good hare."

Nat gasped. "But—but do you really mean it?" she stuttered.

"Yes, of course I do. I can run fast, though I've never learnt any of your games. I used to run about for miles in the country where I lived, and never get tired."

Nat surveyed the slight but alert figure beside her.

"Well, you are certainly light and skinny rather than fat," she admitted, "and you look as if you could run. Come on round with me and let's see how long you can last."

Nat started off with a burst of speed, but glancing round after covering two or three hundred yards she found that Monica was only a few feet behind her. "Yes, you can run quite fast," she jerked out, then dropped into a jog-trot. When they had circled the garden several times, Nat pulled up, breathing deeply; Monica was still a few feet behind her, red in the face and panting, but showing no signs of wanting to give up yet.

"I really believe you could do it," Nat declared. "Well, I'll try to work it for you, but I don't know if the rest of the girls will be willing, particularly the Fifth."

When Nat announced that she had chosen Monica as her fellow-hare, there was a general chorus of disapproval.

"But why not?" Nat persisted. "What's your objection? She's quite a good runner or I wouldn't have chosen her."

"You know why not," replied Glenda coldly. "We object to having a girl like that sharing in our pastimes."

"But why do you object?"

"You know why, well enough. Because of what happened a week ago."

"But are you going on punishing her for that for the rest of her life at school? She's done nothing else so desperately wicked. Besides, she hasn't really been proved guilty yet. Prinny said she was going to wait a few days before making any decision. Time enough for us to follow suit when Prinny sets the example."

Some of the more peace-loving, milder-tempered girls looked at each other, obviously impressed by Nat's arguments. After all, you couldn't keep the hymn of hate going for ever.

Nat saw the impression she had made and hastened to deepen it.

"Has Allison, the one most injured, said or done anything to Monica? You know she hasn't. She's been content to leave the matter in Prinny's hands. It isn't like Allison to hit anyone who's down. Besides, Monica's sorry for it now. She told me so."

Even Glenda, who was by no means an ill-natured girl, began to waver. "Well—if Deirdre and Pam don't mind, I don't suppose it really matters very much who goes with you," she said weakly.

There was still one dissentient voice.

"I think it matters very much," Irene interjected sharply. "Personally I refuse to take part if Monica Carr does. She can't play fair."

Nat answered smartly. "I don't see that you have any right to criticize anyone for not playing fair. Do you call it playing fair to pry into and purloin another girl's private correspondence?"

Irene subsided with flaming cheeks and a look on her face that was half anger, half shame.

So Nat got her way in the end. Punctually at a quarter to two the next afternoon a large crowd of girls assembled at the school gates. Nat and Monica, the former looking like a large man o' war with a small craft in tow, and each with a couple of bags bursting with paper scent slung across her shoulder, stood by the gates in readiness for the start. They set off down the road at a brisk pace as the church clock struck the quarter. The rest of the girls skipped and jumped about impatiently till, a quarter of an hour later, Miss Cazalet gave the signal to start and they all streamed into the road after the thin trail of paper scent.

The hunt had begun.

Nat set a brisk pace for the first part of the paper-chase, declaring that she liked to get well out of sight of the hounds as soon as possible. She led the way across fields and through copses, over a stream by whose banks each year meadowsweet and herb-willow grew profusely; several times they climbed gates, and once they laid a trail along the bottom of a dry ditch, scrambling through a hole in the hedge at the end. Here Monica accidently brushed by a bed of stinging nettles, but though they must have stung her legs, her companion noticed with satisfaction that she made no complaint, and when Nat chose to set a very hard pace she kept up with dogged determination.

At length they came out upon a stretch of rough common land, where Nat explained that her scheme was to lay a trail right through the Haunted Farm, and thence to make their way back to the school gates as fast as they could. They were walking quickly up a rather steep slope that led to a collection of not very extensive and decidedly dilapidated farm buildings. Monica pricked up her ears.

"Did you say haunted?" she inquired with interest.

"It's only a name," replied Nat with contempt. "It has been unoccupied for the last half-dozen years or more, so of course, folk say no one will live there because it is haunted. The truth is that the land has been bought by a neighbouring farm and these buildings aren't required. Besides, the soil just here is poor and not of great value for farming purposes."

She led the way through the farm gate that hung by one hinge, across a muddy yard, then clambered through a paneless side-window.

The two girls found themselves in a house where dust lay inches thick everywhere and where bats, birds and mice found a pleasant abode. The farmhouse itself was only a cottage, and after passing through two empty rooms they let themselves out by the back door, which was bolted from the inside but not locked.

"Come along," said Nat, "straight down this slope; not too fast, as the grass is rather slippery. Then we'll make tracks for home as quickly as we can. My bag is getting rather light."

"So's mine," said Monica, then added, pointing: "What is that down in the little hollow? Looks like a square fence."

"It's an old well, supposed to be very historical. It's called the Saxons' well, because, when the Saxon army, fighting against the Danish invaders, was encamped behind the earthworks on the hill yonder, it is said they used to steal down and get their water from this well. Whether that is true or not I can't say, but the well is certainly very old. People also say it is so deep no one has ever yet touched the bottom, but I expect that's all rubbish. I've never been right up to it."

"Let us just have a glance at it," suggested Monica. "It's not an ordinary common or garden well, you know."

"Well, just a peep," replied Nat, as they came abreast of the fencing that bordered the well-mouth. Monica pointed to the rusty but stout windlass that was erected over it.

"Is that what the Saxons used to draw up their water?"

"Don't be silly! I suppose the last occupants of the farm used it for watering their cattle." As Nat spoke she slipped through the bars of the fence and, crouching down, tried to peer over the edge of the well, around which the grass grew in thick, coarse tufts. From outside the fence you could only see the outline of the wide, gaping mouth.

"Be careful!" Monica said anxiously, and though she also slipped through the fence, which stood several feet away from the well itself, she was careful to remain standing close beside it with a firm hold on the top bar. She had not Nat's utter contempt of physical danger; moreover, her more vivid imagination was apt to see danger where Nat never thought of looking for it.

How the accident happened neither girl could clearly explain afterwards, but it was probably due to the fact that the high grass and soil around the unusually wide mouth of the well hung treacherously far over the edge. By the irony of fate Nat was just saying: "I should like to know how deep it is. I can't see down it without bending right over——" when her words broke off abruptly as the soil and clumps of grass at the edge gave way under her. She made a desperate but futile effort to recover her balance, then disappeared over the edge amid a shower of dirt and small stones. Monica made one frantic clutch after her and actually succeeded in grasping her sleeve, but the material was torn out of her hand in the same second.

For one awful instant Monica stood rooted to the spot with terror, clutching frantically at the fence. Then, flinging herself flat on the ground, she lay as near the edge of the well as she dared and shouted: "Nat! Nat!" as loudly as she could.

But there was no answer to her frenzied calls. Springing to her feet again she stared wildly round. Not a soul was in sight, nor could she see any signs of habitation. So ignorant was she of this countryside that she did not even know in what direction to search for the nearest house. She might waste a long time wandering vainly about. The hounds were nowhere in view; it might be twenty minutes or more before any of them arrived at this spot. If Nat were injured she would even now be drowning in the well water. What—oh, what could she do?

All these thoughts flashed through Monica's mind in a few fleeting seconds. Then her glance fell upon the windlass and the rope hanging over the well-mouth, falling into the depths below. It was only six years, Nat had said, since the farm had been occupied and the well used. Holding the windlass with one hand she bent forward and, catching the rope with the other, gave it a strong tug. The rope was a stout one, and although frayed on the outside by the weather seemed sound enough.

Monica had already learned to climb the ropes in the gymnasium with confidence, and clutching this rope frenziedly with both hands she swung herself over the well-mouth. For one horrible moment she hung there suspended by her hands; the next she had found and gripped the rope firmly between her feet and was sliding down in a series of jerks, hand over hand. Four—five—six—she counted them to herself, and now her head was considerably below the edge of the well-mouth; then her heart gave a jump of horror, as her feet failed to grip the rope and she realized that she had now come to the end of it before reaching the surface of the water.

"For one horrible moment she hung there suspended by her hands."

Till then she had purposely refrained from looking below, for the very thought of that gloomy depth turned her sick and giddy. But now, clutching the rope despairingly, she essayed a hasty glance down. In the dim light, about six feet below, she caught the glimmer of water. Again half a dozen thoughts flashed through her mind in one lightning second of time. Should she climb up again or should she drop into the water? If Nat were still alive she might hold her up till the girls traced them to the well. She was a good swimmer and had been accustomed to the water from childhood, but it was the numbing cold she feared—and the water would be very cold indeed this winter day. She dared not waste a precious second in hesitation. With a quick sobbing breath she slid to the very end of the rope and dropped, prepared for an almost instantaneous plunge into icy water.

There was no plunge of any sort, however. Instead, she alighted on her feet quite unhurt in some three or four inches of soft mud and water, and almost before she had recovered from her astonishment a voice, which seemed to come from a spot close to her feet, said in faint tones: "Hallo, is that you, Monica?" and Nat herself rose up in much the same way as did the apparition of the Crowned Child in Macbeth—or so it seemed to Monica.

She heard herself laughing shakily. "Then you're not dead after all, Nat! I—I thought you were, as you didn't answer when I called."

Nat, leaning against the chalky side of the well, put her hand up to her head very gingerly. "My head is ringing like—like anything. There's a bump as big as an egg on one side. I suppose I must have struck it against the side when I fell. Probably it stunned me, for I don't remember anything very clearly till you dropped from the skies. How long have I been down here?"

"I don't know. It seems hours since you disappeared over the edge, but I suppose it's really only a minute or two."

"How on earth did you get here? You didn't fall too?"

Monica pointed upwards. "I came down the rope. But it wasn't long enough, so I had to drop. I—I thought perhaps you were hurt." There was a sob in her voice.

"Well, it was a fortunate chance you didn't drop on me, as you might very well have done. There isn't much area space down here. Isn't that rope-end tantalizing, dangling just out of reach! Do you think you could grab it if I lifted you up, or you stood on my back?"

Their united efforts to reach the rope, however, proved unavailing; the end still dangled a few inches too high.

"Oh dear!" said Monica. "I hope we shan't have to wait here much longer. It's so dirty and unpleasant. How long do you think the girls will be? Supposing they lose the trail and fail to track us here!"

It was Nat's philosophy to look on the bright side. "Not they," she replied confidently. "Besides, having come so far they would guess I was making for this point. You can't exactly wander over the country how you like; too many hedges and barbed wire fences about. And if I know Pam and Deirdre and one or two others, they won't be very far behind, either. You know, we wasted several minutes stopping to look at the well. We must shout."

They shouted as loudly as they could, but there was no response.

"Anyway, we know now how deep the well is," remarked Nat, still endeavouring to be cheerful. "Not a bit deep, really, so you can't believe all the exaggerated stories you hear. I wish it were quite dry, though this mud was certainly soft to fall on. I wonder there aren't some stones here. It seems such a fascinating occupation—I mean, throwing stones down wells to hear the splash."

"It's more fascinating than throwing yourself down," sighed Monica, on whose more highly strung nerves the strain of their unpleasant situation was beginning to tell. In response Nat shouted again, but still there was no answer to their cries for help. At last even Nat, whose head was throbbing violently, began to lose heart.

"I feel like Alice in Wonderland," she said dismally. "Only I'm sure she didn't find falling down a rabbit-hole nearly as unpleasant as falling down a well."

Monica giggled a little hysterically. "Or the Dormouse's treacle well," she suggested. "How long do you think we've been down here, Nat? Half an hour?"

"Ten minutes, more likely. Come on, we'd better keep shouting now. It would be awful if they passed us by and left us here."

"They won't do that. I left my bag of scent on the top. They are sure to notice it."

"And I brought mine down with me," said Nat ruefully. "What an ass I was to get so near an overhanging edge like that!"

They kept up their shouts for perhaps another five minutes and at last were rewarded by hearing the confused sounds of many voices from somewhere above; then quite distinctly came Pam's voice.

"My goodness! I believe they are down the old Saxon well. Hang on to my legs, someone. I don't want to slip over," and a head appeared over the edge, peering cautiously down.

"Coo-ee!" sang Nat, and once again came Pam's voice in accents of alarm and astonishment. "Someone's certainly down here. Who is it?"

"It's us," called Nat. "Monica and I."

"Good gracious!" once more ejaculated Pam. "It's both of them. Whatever are you doing down there?"

"Picking daisies," retorted Nat with pardonable exasperation.

"You aren't hurt, I hope?" Pam inquired anxiously.

"Nothing to speak of, but for goodness' sake hurry up and get us out."

"Can't you climb up the rope?"

"No, it's just out of reach. If you can lengthen it by any means, I expect we'd manage it, or you could haul us up."

"Right-oh! We'll soon have you out," Pam promised, and her head disappeared from view as she turned to explain what had happened to the alarmed group of girls who clustered round the fence. There was no time to waste wondering how both girls had managed to get themselves into such an extraordinary predicament.

"Off with your girdles," said Deirdre briskly, "and join them together. Somebody pull up that rope. Be careful how you knot the girdles; no grannies, mind!"

In a very short time they had knotted their tunic girdles firmly together and by this means had lengthened the rope. Then, not without a few decidedly difficult moments, they managed to haul the girls safely to the surface.

Both Monica and Nat, though not seriously injured, were white-faced and shaken, their shoes and stockings were caked with mud and their tunics stained and torn. It was not the time for long explanations, as Deirdre saw at once.

"Let us make our way to the high road as quickly as possible," she said decisively. "Then perhaps we can get a lift. I think we ought to get Monica and Nat back to school as soon as we can.

"Well, I suppose the paper-chase is at an end and we must consider ourselves caught," Nat admitted resignedly.

When they arrived at St. Etheldreda's Nat and Monica were handed into the charge of Miss Perkins, the house mistress, Nat to have her many bruises well rubbed with embrocation and her scratches bathed. Strange to say, she appeared to be the better man of the two in spite of her fall and the blow which had temporarily stunned her, and declared that save for a headache and the soreness of her bruises she felt little the worse. At her own request she was allowed to spend the evening in her study, on condition that she rested and did not talk or excite herself too much.

On the other hand Monica, though she managed to keep a firm hold on herself till they reached the school, partially collapsed afterwards from nervous strain, and Miss Perkins put her to bed in the sick-room, declaring that a good rest was probably all she needed and that doubtless she would be herself again in the morning.

The juniors, and the seniors too, were so excited over this sensational end to the paper-chase that they simply had to spend a considerable time in the common room talking it well over. Meggie, who had seen Miss Perkins taking Monica to the sick-room, was listened to with close attention as she described the incident with relish, concluding: "She wasn't hurt at all—hardly at all, anyway. It was just her nerves, Miss Perkins said. She was very white, and kind of shaking all over."

"What seems so queer to me," remarked Prue, "is how they both managed to get down there. You can understand one slipping over—though that seems rather extraordinary—but not both of them."

Here Olive chimed in. "I heard Glenda say it was Nat who fell in. Monica climbed down the rope after her, but as it wasn't long enough they couldn't get out again."

"Whatever did Monica do that for?" demanded Prue. "I should have thought the most sensible thing to do would be to run to the nearest house for help, or to turn back for the girls who were following them."

Olive shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know what her idea was. Lost her head, I expect, and hardly knew what she was doing."

"Still," said Prue reflectively, "it took a little pluck to slide down that rope. An old well isn't a nice thing to lower oneself into, even if it isn't deep. And I saw that rope, too. It hadn't been used for some years and might easily have been more rotten with age and exposure to the weather than it proved to be," and the other girls agreed that, whatever her faults, the black sheep had pluck.

"Isn't it just like Nat to spoil a good paper-chase by falling into a well!" cried Meggie. "Like her, too, to bob up out of it practically unhurt," and the discussion ended in a general laugh.

The next day went by very quietly. Monica did not appear. She had passed a restless night and the Principal agreed with Miss Perkins that it would be best to continue to keep her in absolute quiet in the sick-room for another day or two.

Everyone was looking forward to Friday morning with mixed feelings, among which apprehension played a large part; for the exam results were to be read out at prayers. At St. Etheldreda's term exam lists were not published till the exams were over and all papers marked. Then it was the Principal's custom to read out the position lists at prayers one morning, and make any comments she thought necessary.

The Fifth were particularly interested in their own results that term. All remembered the boasts of the new girl that she could and would wrest Irene's position from her and occupy it herself, and it was common knowledge that in her zeal for swotting she had decorated the walls of her study with useful tit-bits of information. Someone had pointed out that good though Monica's Latin and English subjects were, her maths were very shaky, while she had only attained a Third Form standard in French. When the exam began, however, it was ascertained that the French difficulty would be no hindrance to Monica, for she would take the Third Form paper, and the marks she obtained for it would be included in her total. As for her weakness at maths, in her zeal for her friend's cause Glenda was unkind enough to suggest that she would probably resort to her previous method of overcoming this difficulty and smuggle a book of theorems into the geometry examination. But, though several girls had watched her closely, no one had detected her cheating this time.

"She has learnt her lesson," Glenda observed cynically.

Girls nudged each other meaningly as Miss Julian entered the assembly hall for prayers, carrying sheets of foolscap under her arm. Irene was observed to be looking a little pale and strained. Had this new girl really been in earnest over her boasting, or was it merely a great game of bluff she was putting up to scare them all? Nat was gloomily resigned to her fate and had even ceased trying to remember whether she had or had not headed that last page of her history paper.

The short Sixth Form position list was soon finished. The Sixth, without exception, smiled cheerily from beginning to end of the reading. No one in the Sixth took exams with great seriousness; as long as they pulled through comfortably they were content. They all knew that Madge would be top—her fluent flow of English would secure this position for her; Pam was intelligent, but careless and happy-go-lucky; Deirdre and the other three were not in the least "brainy."

Now it was the Fifth Form's turn. At Miss Julian's first words the tension left Irene's face and a sigh of relief passed her lips. How hard she had studied this last month! Now came her reward. In her mind the Principal's words still rang joyously.

"Irene has maintained her position at the top. I must congratulate her, especially as the mistresses report that she has been working very hard. If she continues in the same way I am sure she will bring honour to the school when the Oxford Senior results are announced. Lorna is second with seventy per cent, two per cent behind Irene, and Glenda and Ida are bracketed third."

The Fifth Stole stealthy and amazed glances at each other as name after name fell from the Principal's lips and still Monica Carr's was not among them. When the list was finished the girls looked at each other with stunned incredulity. Monica's name came last, actually the very last! Nat was fourth from bottom, a feat which left her wondering all through the proceedings which followed how she had possibly achieved it. By the time Miss Julian had finished with the lowest form Nat had decided that she could not, after all, have omitted to head that last page of the history paper.

The Principal did not attempt to read out the lists of the separate subjects, but the head girl of each form was called out to receive them, so that she might pin them up in the classrooms. There the girls were allowed a good ten minutes' grace before the entry of the mistress, to read the lists.

Hubbub reigned in the Fifth formroom. No one appeared to be bothering much over their own marks; all were chiefly concerned with those of the absent Monica, and all seemed to be talking at once.

"Just fancy! I never thought for a minute she would be top, but it's rather a come-down to find herself at the bottom!"

"Great was the fall thereof, n'est-ce pas, likewise nicht-wahr! That's what comes of boasting!"

"Nonsense! In my opinion she knew she hadn't the slightest chance of being top. It was just bluff, to annoy us all—particularly Irene."

"As if she could beat our top girl!"

"Look at her marks, girls—failures in all the maths papers, algebra, geometry and arithmetic. I expect she copied most of her maths prep from Nat. She's done badly in French too, though I suppose that isn't surprising as this was her first term at it. I thought she'd do better in English, though."

"And Latin. Everyone made sure the Ablative Absolute would be top and she's only third. Miss Andrews will look blue."

Here Nat, coming out of an absorbed perusal of her marks to see where she had gained her unexpected rise, thought it time someone spoke a word in defence of the absent victim.

"Monica isn't as stupid as that list makes out," she declared firmly. "She's quite intelligent really, but you can't expect her to do good work after the worrying time she's had. Wondering during exams whether she was going to be expelled or not, cut by the rest of the form—how could you expect anyone to do herself justice, to have her mind on her work sufficiently to obtain good results!"

The majority of the form were willing to agree that there was something in this argument, and if they were rather unsettled for the rest of the day, the mistresses made allowances. Two girls at least passed the time in blissful anticipation of the moment when they should present their reports to their people at home. Both had attained their ambitions, Irene in maintaining her place at the top, Nat in escaping at last the teasing jeers and laughter which hitherto had fallen to her lot.

Miss Julian was talking to Allison in the Principal's room. During periods when she was not taking a class, the Principal often sent for Allison to give her special coaching and to correct and set her studies. This Friday afternoon, however, the Principal was not discussing lessons. Her first words to Allison explained her purpose in sending for the Head Girl.

"Sit down, Allison, I wanted to speak to you about Monica."

"The subject's rather an interesting one, Miss Julian," replied Allison, smiling. "Is she better?"

"Yes, practically herself now. She is a highly strung, imaginative type of child, though, apt to exaggerate and to take things very much to heart. That has largely been the cause of the trouble, I believe."

"Has anything fresh come to light about that telegram, Miss Julian?"

The Principal nodded. "Yes. I was not in the least satisfied with my interview with the girl a week or so ago. She made no attempt to deny her part in the affair—confessed it quite frankly, in fact—but beyond a few bald statements I could get nothing out of her. I did not consider I knew enough either to condemn or acquit, and in order to get to the bottom of it I wrote a letter to the Principal of Fairhurst Priory School."

"What a splendid idea!" cried Allison, who was deeply interested and listening with close attention. "Have you had an answer yet?"

"Last Wednesday, by the afternoon post. The other girl, whose name is Lilian Dredge, confessed everything when taxed by her Principal. It appears that she is by no means the best type of girl we have in our schools. She professed to admire a girl like Monica, who openly defied authority, but she lacked the courage to follow her example except in little underhand ways that would not be judged with much severity even if discovered. She was the only girl willing to be friendly with Monica during her short stay at the school, the others shunning her because of her unfriendly, hostile disposition. Monica accepted this girl's professed friendship without caring in the least about it, and knowing perfectly well that it would last only as long as Lilian thought it to her advantage."

"Then it wasn't really friendship at all?"

"No, not really. Lilian is evidently the kind of girl—and there are such to be found in our schools, though happily they are rare—who takes little interest in anything belonging to school life except the games, and even though she cares for games she seems to lack the spirit of good sportsmanship which they are supposed to develop. She is a good hockey player, a member of the school eleven that had already won the shield two years in succession, and was able to make use of this skill of hers in courting a certain measure of popularity among the other girls. She was anxious for her team to win the shield this year, and after St. Etheldreda's defeated Stavely High School she regarded us as their most dangerous opponents and the only team the Priory really had to fear."

"That accounts for her letter, then?" interrupted Allison eagerly.

"Yes, she wrote that first letter to Monica, claiming her friendship and making flattering remarks about her clever ideas. I don't think Lilian had any crystallized plans—she was only fishing, as we say."

"And how did Monica reply?"

"At first she did not intend to reply at all. She had no desire to renew this semblance of a friendship that meant nothing to either girl. Later on, however, something happened; there was some sort of a quarrel between her and her study-mate, Nathalie Sandrich. I gather that Nathalie was angry and annoyed with her, and in the heat of the moment made some scathing remarks which Monica took very much to heart. As a result her preparation was neglected, leading to trouble next morning with Miss Bennett. In the bitterness of her spirit Monica employed the time which should have been spent at preparation in answering Lilian's letter. She relieved her feelings by saying in her reply that it would be an easy matter to spoil St. Etheldreda's chances by decoying you—Allison—away from the next match, by means of a bogus telegram summoning you home to London on account of illness. Everyone said that without you in the team St. Etheldreda's would fall to pieces. A feather in your cap, Allison!"

Allison blushed and laughed. "Oh, that's all nonsense!" she declared, then added: "Monica's idea wasn't very original, was it? It's been done so many times. Besides, she forgot there is such a thing as the telephone."

"Monica never really thought about it at all. She just put down the first thing that came into her head, with the idea of proving to Lilian what a simple task it was to anyone with brains."

Allison nodded. "I understand. Monica was just feeling sore and miserable, and not in a mood to care much what she said."

"That was it. However, it wasn't long before she and Nathalie made up their quarrel, and Monica thought no more of Lilian till she received an answer to her letter. Lilian was pleased at the idea of Monica 'putting a spoke in our wheel.' So much the better for her own team's chances, though she did not put it like that to Monica. The important point, as far as I am concerned, is that Monica was now settling down happily into our ways and getting quite keen on her school winning the shield. She promptly wrote back to Lilian to say that she was sorry if she had misled her, but she hadn't the least intention of interfering with the hockey team and, in fact, wished them all success. She had been silly enough to write that other letter when she had been in a miserable and 'don't-care' mood. The Principal enclosed this letter for me to read, for fortunately Lilian had not destroyed it. To do her justice, I think Lilian was rather ashamed when she heard that another girl had got into serious trouble through her own misdeeds."

"Then Lilian alone was responsible for that telegram?"

"Yes. She says she got a cousin who lived in London to send it."

"But why didn't Monica explain all this?" asked Allison, perplexed.

"Ah! that is harder to understand. As I said before, I could get little out of her beside a few bald answers to direct questions. Some people find it very hard to unburden themselves, you know—especially children. I think it was chiefly because Monica felt that the responsibility was partly hers, since she had deliberately put the idea into the other girl's mind, and was therefore equally to blame. An extraordinary point of view to take, of course, but that was how she regarded it."

"Anyway," Allison commented, "it shows pretty plainly that she isn't without a conscience or a sense of right and wrong."

"On the contrary, those qualities seem to be highly developed in Monica for a girl of her age."

"Then I suppose that ends the telegram affair?"

"Yes. I am glad we have got to the bottom of it so successfully. By the by, you did not join in the paper-chase last Wednesday, did you, Allison?"

"No, I did not like to spare the time, Miss Julian. It was very fortunate the well was not deep and was practically dry, wasn't it?"

"Yes, indeed. I shudder to think of what might have happened otherwise. As it was, it was remarkable that Nathalie escaped almost scot-free. I don't think anyone yet realizes the part Monica played there."

"The part Monica played?" repeated Allison inquiringly.

"Yes. I wanted to tell you of that also."

"But I thought we knew all about it?"

"Apparently not. Yesterday morning Miss Perkins came to me and told me Monica had passed a restless night. Evidently she had her previous day's experiences on her mind, for several times she cried out and muttered in her sleep, and each time about the water in the well and how cold it would be. Miss Perkins said she seemed to have a horror of falling into cold water."

"But the well was dry," interjected Allison.

"Yes, but Miss Perkins was sure that was what she kept saying. I saw Monica later in the day and told her I had received an answer to an inquiry I had sent to the Priory School. I was more successful at this attempt," Miss Julian smiled, "and in a short time I managed to win her confidence and learnt what I have just been telling you. I also gathered further details of Wednesday's misadventure; how Nat slipped into the well and how Monica slid down the rope after her almost immediately, in the belief that there was deep water below and that if Nat were injured by the fall she would quickly drown."

"I see!" cried Allison. "It was really an attempt on her part to save Nat's life."

"Yes. The rope was only a few yards long, and when she came to the end she had to make up her mind what to do. For the first time she dared to glance down and saw what she thought to be the glimmer of water below, though we know it was only the soft wet mud at the bottom. She was a good swimmer, but did not know if she would be strong enough to hold Nat up till help arrived. But it was the only chance of saving Nat—so she thought—and desperately frightened though she was, she let go of the rope and dropped, expecting to plunge into icy cold water."

Allison leaned forwards her eyes glowing. "That was a very plucky thing to do, Miss Julian, believing what she did."

"It was, indeed; the more so as she was extremely frightened. I am quite convinced that there is a good deal of splendid material in a girl who can behave like that."

"It seems as if she thinks rather a lot of Nat," Allison ventured.

"Yes. Nathalie seems to be the only girl in her form she cares anything at all about. She said to me quite frankly that if it had been anyone else but Nat in the well she doesn't think she would have had sufficient courage to drop from the rope."

Allison was silent, wondering if her words to Monica that September afternoon in the summer-house had helped to change Monica's opinion of Nat. But aloud she only said: "Monica wouldn't chum up with any of the girls in the Fifth at first. But Nat's a nice girl—and I think one of the finest characters in the Fifth, though she doesn't shine there very much. When she volunteered to have Monica in her study I said to myself that if this new girl couldn't get on with Nat she couldn't get on with anybody. I suppose there is no doubt about her behaviour at Fairhurst before she came here?"

"Oh no, none at all. She was absolutely defiant and seemed quite hardened."

"But why should she be? She hasn't been so here; unapproachable and moody, yes, and sometimes mischievous, but nothing worse."

"That was what I could not understand. Now that I know the cause it seems hardly credible that a child should be affected in such a peculiar way," and again Allison settled herself down in her chair to listen as the Principal went on talking.

When tea was over the Fifth, surprised by the news that Allison wished to speak to them in the common room before they settled down to their evening's prep, made their way thither in groups of twos and threes. Monica was among the company, having left the sick-room that afternoon, though excused from school work till the following morning. Everyone was standing about in groups, wondering what Allison had to say to them, when the Head Girl herself entered the room as brisk and cheerful as ever.

"You all seem to be here, I see. Let's settle down round the fire. Pull out the hassocks, some of you. I've brought some chestnuts mother sent me yesterday, and you can roast them while you listen to what I've got to tell you."

"It isn't a lecture, is it?" asked Ida apprehensively, as they all scrambled to secure seats round the fire.

"Lecture? Oh, no. I'm merely going to tell you a little story. Prinny was going to tell it to you, then she suggested you might like to hear it from me instead and I just jumped at the chance. I love telling stories and this is a true one. Only you must all promise not to interrupt till I've quite finished, or you'll make me lose the thread of it."

"Yes, we promise. Go on, please," came in an eager chorus, for everybody there knew that Allison had quite a genius for telling stories.

So Allison began:

"Well, this is a story about a girl like yourselves. Her name? We'll call her Alice. Unfortunately, Alice's parents died when she was quite young and she was left in the charge of her uncle, who was made her guardian. He was a soldier and was abroad a good deal, so Alice couldn't live with him. Instead, she lived in the country, in charge of her nurse. Alice led rather a lonely life, for she never went to school but had lessons instead at the Rectory, where the Rector taught her and several delicate little boys who were not robust enough to go to preparatory boarding-schools."

"What a rotten time she must have had!" remarked Glenda. "Didn't she know any other children?"

"Well, sometimes she visited the other children who lived near, but very often she had to make her own amusements and formed the habit of reading a great deal and dreaming over the books she read. The red-letter days in her life were her uncle's visits. Other children had mothers and fathers, it is true, but very few had for a guardian an officer in the British Army who wore rows of medals for brave and gallant deeds, and who could tell you breathless stories of daring and heroic actions, who was always kind to you and who made you want to grow up as brave and generous as he was."

"I'd rather have a mother and father," observed Ida, selecting a chestnut from the hearth and peeling off the shell. "However, I suppose he was the next best thing."

"Anyway," Allison went on, "Alice thought the world of him, and like many other young people she cherished a passionate hero-worship for this idol of hers—who, she felt, possessed all the virtues of nobility, gallantry, honesty and courage. You may guess how delighted she was when she heard that he had resigned his commission and had settled down to live in England, and that she was to make her home with him and his sister in the future. But a dreadful blow fell before she experienced this new happiness——"

"What blow?" demanded Ida, pausing in the act of popping the chestnut into her mouth. She hadn't been very interested in Alice up to that point, but now the story began to be more exciting.

"I warned you not to interrupt," Allison said severely. "I'm just going to tell you. Alice's nurse received the news, but kept it from her charge, and in answer to Alice's constant inquiries, 'When is uncle coming to fetch me?' she could only shake her head sadly. But her aunt came to fetch her at last, and Alice's sensitive spirit was chilled by her cold, unloving greeting. She soon learnt the truth. Her uncle and guardian had become involved in money difficulties and had fled the country secretly, taking with him the little fortune which Alice's parents had left in his charge for their child."

"What a shame!" cried several girls together. "Whatever did Alice do?" added Glenda. "I suppose she had nothing at all after that."

"For a little while after she heard the news she had a sort of lost, bewildered feeling as if she could feel no solid ground under her feet," continued Allison. "If her uncle could do this thing, then it seemed as if there was no honour, nor honesty, nor kindliness in the world. The lost, lonely feeling changed and hardened into a spirit of sullen resentment, which grew worse under her aunt's treatment of her. Her aunt, unfortunately, hadn't a very loving disposition and did not care for young people; but being very conscientious, she regarded it as her duty to look after the child her brother had robbed and deserted, though she made it quite plain to Alice that the duty was an unpleasant one. Alice, I suppose, argued that if people in this world had no scruples and were all selfish, why should she bother either? You can understand how she felt, can't you?"

The listeners, now really interested, nodded, and Glenda remarked feelingly: "I guess I should have felt rather like it myself."

"In a very short time," Allison went on, "her aunt despatched her to a boarding-school, still a rebel, and there Alice had a brief but hectic career, which ended in her being expelled for cheating. Everybody cheated in this life when it served their purpose, Alice had decided, so why shouldn't she? As for being expelled, nobody wanted her at the school, so what did it matter?"

At this point in Allison's story the girls, who were now listening with close attention, began to steal glances at each other, then to look round the room as if in search of someone. Monica, who had been sitting in the farther-most corner, near the door, flushed and stirred uncomfortably.

"I say, this girl Alice——" Glenda was beginning, but Allison broke in peremptorily.

"Now, Glenda. You know you promised not to interrupt. Fill your mouth with a chestnut instead."

"Sorry, Allison," said Glenda meekly. "I won't transgress again. Hurry up and tell us what happened to Alice after that."

"Let me see, I had just got to where Alice left her first school. Well, her aunt was naturally extremely annoyed, and I don't quite know what would have happened to Alice if a former great friend of her mother's had not offered to have her at the school of which she was Principal. This lady wanted Alice to have a fair and square start at her school"—here someone was heard to murmur "St. Etheldreda's" under her breath, but Allison took no notice and went on as if she had not heard—"so she purposely ignored the aunt's warnings that her niece must be dealt with very firmly indeed or she would be quite unmanageable. She told no one that Alice had been sent away from one school, only asked the other mistresses to make allowances for her at first, because she had not been accustomed to school life and school rules. Unfortunately, the story leaked out——"

"Glenda had a letter," Ida interjected, hastily, but at Allison's frown she apologized quickly: "Sorry, Allison. I forgot."

"The story, as I said, leaked out, and Alice, who by this time was beginning to feel that perhaps she had made a mistake in judging everybody by the actions of her uncle, and that there were plenty of people in the world who were kind and generous and honourable, learnt straight away that she was not to be given another chance and that all the girls, as she thought, had been carefully warned against her. Once again she felt hurt and sore, and in that 'don't-care-a-hang' mood."

Allison paused, looked round her little circle of listeners to see if they were following her, then added impressively:

"You know yourselves how much you are sometimes affected by quite little things. It was quite a little thing that restored Alice's lost faith in mankind. Or perhaps"—here Allison's expression lost some of its solemnity and her eyes twinkled mischievously—"I oughtn't really to call Nat little, because she's rather big—especially her hands and feet. But——"

Nat jumped visibly at the unexpected sound of her own name, and her serene, placid expression changed to one of confused amazement.

"I?" she stuttered. "What—what had I got to do with it?"

"Only that later on Mon—I mean Alice, heard how one girl in her form had stood up for her and pleaded that she should be given a chance to make a fair start. And afterwards that girl treated her—well, just as she would have treated any other girl of her acquaintance. In return Alice tried to show her gratitude, but her first venture was not very successful. She locked up one of the members of the hockey team, with the sole idea of giving her friend a chance of achieving her ambition and playing in the first eleven. But the friend was angry at the methods she used and quarrelled with her."

Then Allison related the story of the telegram in much the same words that the Principal had used in telling it to her, and when she had finished she went straight on with the adventure of the well from Monica's point of view, which, up till then, had never occurred to anyone.

When Allison had concluded there was silence for just a few minutes—the chestnuts, forgotten, burned unnoticed on the bars of the grate—then Glenda looked round the room.

"By the by, where is Monica?—for of course that's whom you mean, though you called her Alice."

But Monica had disappeared; the place which she had occupied on the outskirts of the group was vacant.

"She was here a minute ago," said someone. "She must have slipped out while we were listening to Allison," Ida suggested.

Allison rose leisurely to her feet, smoothing down the creases in her dress.

"And that's my story, girls. After all, you see, Alice wasn't the desperately wicked character we thought her at first. Certainly she had some funny ideas in her head at one time, but I think she had pretty well got rid of them before she had been here a couple of months. As for the telegram business, the Principal will make a short public announcement at prayers to-morrow to put the responsibility of the dark deed on the real culprit. Thank goodness, we've no girls like that at St. Etheldreda's."

The Fifth looked at each other, much impressed.

"Really, perhaps we weren't as nice to Monica as we might have been," murmured Glenda pensively, as if the thought had just occurred to her.

"Take my advice," said Allison, "and treat her like any other ordinary schoolgirl, and you'll find she'll soon be one."

Irene's cheeks were burning—and it wasn't the fire, though she was quite close to it.

"Anyway," she burst out with explosive suddenness, "this'll be a lesson to me never to go prying into other people's correspondence again."

"To think," said Nat sadly, "that Monica believed she was risking her life to save a clumsy elephant like me, and I've never even said thank'ee for it."

"Plenty of time yet, Nat," said Allison cheerfully. "Well, I mustn't linger any longer. Virgil calls me. Thanks for listening so patiently. Good-bye, everybody."

"Good-bye, Allison," came in an answering chorus.

"Isn't Allison a brick?" said Ida impulsively as the door closed behind the Head Girl. "She might have pointed out what a mean, self-opinionated lot we've been—all, that is, except Nat—but she never said a word. As for Nat, I guess she's the only one of us who's 'put in' much kindness or consideration this term. You remember what Miss Julian said on first day?"

"Oh, rot!" protested Nat with scarlet cheeks.

"No, there's no Head Girl like ours," agreed Glenda, "and I think you're right about Nat, too. Well, I must begin to see about prep, or there'll be wigs on the green tomorrow." She hurried off and the rest of the girls, also with thoughts of the prep that was waiting, reluctantly dispersed.

Allison, however, had not quite completed her mission. On leaving the common room she set out in quest of the missing Monica and speedily ran her to earth in her cubicle.

"Just the person I wanted to see," she declared, as Monica looked up, startled, when she appeared in the doorway. "What made you run away in the middle of my story? Weren't you interested in Alice?"

"I——" stammered Monica, and stopped.

"Well, never mind now," said Allison cheerfully. "I finished the story without you, as it happened. What I've come to tell you now is that Prinny wants to see you in her room. Nothing dreadful," as Monica looked rather apprehensive, "only something she intended to ask you about before, but forgot."

"Am I to go now?"

"Yes. Run along." Allison's smile was both kind and cheery, and Monica went off feeling reassured. When she knocked at the Principal's door and went inside, Miss Julian was still looking as kind as she had done during Monica's last interview with her in the sick-room.

"Allison said you wished to see me." Monica explained her appearance.

"Yes. Sit down, Monica. It is nothing to do with what we were talking about before, but I want you to answer me just as frankly. It is about your exams. How came you to have such a low position? I have had some really good reports about your work and intelligence from some of the mistresses and I know you are capable of doing much better. You did not do your best, did you, Monica?"

Monica wriggled uneasily.

"No, Miss Julian," she confessed, truthfully.

"Why not?"

"Must I tell you?" asked Monica in a low voice, but this time she lifted her eyes frankly to Miss Julian's face. "I will, if you insist, but I would rather not. It is nothing disgraceful," she added hurriedly, "and I promise that I will try to be nearer the top than the bottom next term."

Miss Julian hesitated a moment. She felt sure that Monica was speaking the truth when she denied any discreditable intentions, and from the very clear idea she had now formed of Monica's character, she shrewdly guessed at some queer quixotic motive underlying her act. Quickly she made up her mind.

"No, you need not tell me this time," she replied. "I am going to take your word for it when you say there was nothing discreditable about it. But I shall expect you to keep your promise and do better next term. Now run along and find your form companions. I am sure that you will soon find out that they are ready to be friends, if you are."

So Monica left the Principal's study and made her way towards her own room with a light step that now and again degenerated into a little dancing skip, and with the idea firmly rooted in her mind, and growing stronger every minute, that she was going to find plenty of happiness in her future life at St. Etheldreda's.

Monica was seated in her chair, absorbed in her favourite occupation of reading, when Nat entered. Nat had intended to say a few well-chosen words expressing her gratitude and thanks, but unfortunately emotion with Nat was generally accompanied by inarticulation, and all she achieved was a casual "Hello!"

Monica glanced up, said: "Hello!" in reply, then returned to her book.

Nat stood in the middle of the room, surveying its walls, her brow corrugated with thought. Suddenly she seemed to come to a decision, for she shook herself, moved towards the nearest wall with an air of great firmness, and proceeded deliberately and methodically to take down all the notices pinned there, piling them neatly on the table. Monica watched her in silence. When the walls were quite bare Nat spoke, in firm decisive tones to match her manner.

"If you don't want these papers, Monica, I'm going to put them in the rubbish bin. I've quite made up my mind that this room is no longer going to be called the Chamber of Horrors. Next term there will be no more of these—these atrocities. The walls will be devoted to decorative and artistic purposes. You can have two for your Raphaels and Rubens and I'll have the other two for my dogs."

"I don't mind," Monica replied with amazing indifference. "No, I don't want them. Burn them if you like."

Nat scooped up a bundle of papers and departed with them in her arms, returning a minute later to remark in tones of satisfaction: "There, thank goodness I shan't be staring at Pythagoras' Theorem all next week. Good riddance to the horrible things!"

"De mortuis—speak no evil of the departed," admonished Monica gently. "After all, they have served their purpose."

"I say," said Nat, blushing a little. "I'm sorry you—er—didn't come out very well in the exams. Of course, I know you could have done a lot better if you hadn't been so worried, and all that."

"Oh, I didn't mind," replied Monica cheerfully. "I'm afraid I'm not really a proper schoolgirl yet, for I don't seem to care in the least whether I come out top or bottom. I don't see that it matters much. But perhaps it's because I've no real home to take a report to. That must make a difference."

"Yes, I suppose you value it more for your people's sake and what they think of you than for your own," agreed Nat sympathetically. "I'm going to write home this week-end and ask mother if you can come to our place for the Christmas vacation."

"That's awfully good of you, I should love to come."

"We always fill the house up at holiday times. My brothers often bring their friends home," said Nat.

She went towards the cupboard, then suddenly stopped half-way, as if struck by an entirely new idea. She turned and came slowly back towards Monica, conflicting expressions chasing each other across her face.

"What's up?" asked Monica. "Garter busted?"

Nat ignored the question; in fact, she did not seem to hear it.

"Don't tell me I'm more of a blockhead than I already knew I was," she said slowly. "Look here, Monica, for whose benefit was all that stuff put on the walls, yours or mine?"

"What bee have you got in your bonnet now?"

"Please answer my question," said Nat.

Monica made no reply, only put her head on one side and twinkled in her impish, Puck-like way.

"You need not answer," Nat continued. "You've given yourself away. I remember telling you that one of my three ambitions was—not to be bottom of the form. Only you'd already said you intended to be top. Didn't you mean it?"

Monica burst out laughing.

"I only said it for fun; just to make a little commotion among the self-satisfied Fifth. I never cared a brass farthing about it."

"All the same, you are cleverer than most of the girls in the Fifth," Nat persisted. "It's absurd to think of you being bottom. Did you do it on purpose?"

"Well, as I didn't care a scrap if I occupied the place and you cared very much, I thought I might as well rob you of it," Monica confessed, laughing.

Nat sat down in a chair and gazed at Monica wonderingly.

"You are a queer girl. I see it all now. You pretended you wanted to be top and that the stuff on the walls was to help you to remember the work, when it was really to try and knock something into my head. And always making me hear you say your prep, just when I was off for a game of chess—— Whatever did you do it for?"

"Oh, just for fun. You aren't stupid enough to be always at the bottom of the form, you know, Nat."

"You mean you aren't," retorted Nat. "Still," she added after a moment's consideration, "though I'm sure it's good of you to take so much trouble over me, I think I'd almost rather be bottom than sit in a room decorated in the same way again."

"Perhaps we can manage it without such extreme measures next term," Monica said optimistically.

"If my luck holds out. However, I've a sort of feeling that's it's going to change for the better. Something tells me that next Saturday, when St. Etheldreda's wins the hockey match, I shall not slip up in the goal circle instead of shooting the winning goal; that on Speech Day the following Wednesday I shall not make my entry as Cæsar's ghost at the wrong cue, as I did last year. You see, I feel that I have you as my mascot now," and Nat heaved a huge sigh of supreme content.

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