The Girls of St. Cyprian's

A Tale of School Life

BY ANGELA BRAZIL

Author of "The School by the Sea," "The Leader of the Lower School,"
"The Youngest Girl in the Fifth," &c. &c.

Illustrated by Stanley Davis

BLACKIE AND SON LIMITED
LONDON GLASGOW AND BOMBAY

"'SO I'VE WON, EVEN WITHOUT YOUR VOTE,' SAID LOTTIE TO MILDRED WITH A SPICE OF TRIUMPH IN HER TONE"

Contents

Illustrations

THE GIRLS OF ST. CYPRIAN'S

CHAPTER I

The United Schools Alliance

"If there's one slack, slow business in this wide world," said Bess Harrison, stretching her arms in the exigencies of a combined sigh and prodigious yawn, "it's coming back to school after the Easter holidays. Tame isn't the word for it! It's absolute milk and water. September start is some sport, because one's generally in a fresh form, and there are always changes; and even January is fairly lively; but now! Why, there's scarcely even a new girl to make a small excitement, and altogether it's about as stale as beginning again after half-term week-end."

"Worse," agreed Maggie Orton. "At half-term one hasn't had time to get out of things. One feels a little sorry for oneself, but that's all. But when one's had nearly three weeks off it's far harder to fall into harness again."

"And the burden's heavier!" urged Mona Bradley. "I've just told Miss Pollock so. We don't start in September with such a grind. No! They keep laying straw after straw on our unfortunate backs, here an exercise and there a problem, or some bit of extra prep., till in the aggregate it's more than mortal girl can bear! We're victims of over-pressure—that's what it is!"

"You don't look a victim—with cheeks like two streaky red American apples!" laughed Maudie Stearne.

"Appearances are deceptive, my good child! You'll often find the thin, wiry sort of folk can stand more than the nice, plump, rosy ones. As for me, I contend that this special botany class is the last straw. The camel's back is bending visibly, and I mean to throw over either Latin or music."

"Not music, surely!" said Kitty Fletcher. "Why, you'd miss half the fun of the school! You'd be out of all concerts and choral meetings, and you needn't flatter yourself the Dramatic would take you up instead. No, you'd just have to squat with the kids, and act audience, and I don't think that's much in your line, Mona Bradley! You're not the one to covet a back seat, as a rule."

"Why, of course I didn't intend to be out of the concerts," protested Mona plaintively. "I only thought I might drop my lessons and give up practising for a while—just during the tennis season, you know."

"Oh! I dare say! And you think Miss Jackson will let you play at recitals when you've never practised a note? Happy are the ignorant, indeed! Don't you know she wouldn't allow Margaret Hales a part in that trio, when poor old Mag had only been away ten days with 'flu'? As for putting on a girl who actually wasn't having lessons, why, the idea's preposterous! No, take your granny's advice, and knock off maths, or chemistry, or anything you can induce Miss Cartwright to let you throw overboard, but stick tight to your piano."

"True, O Queen! Yours are the words of wisdom, I admit. It's the half-hour's practising before breakfast that I so particularly loathe and abhor."

"Well, now the mornings are light, you needn't growl!"

"What a Mentor you are! You'll be quoting Dr. Watts to me next:

"'Tis the voice of the sluggard, I heard him complain,
'You have waked me too soon, I must slumber again!'

I don't mind confessing that I hate getting up in the mornings; however sunny they are, it makes no difference. And to have to do it every day for a whole term, and peg away at scales and arpeggios! Ugh! I sometimes wish I'd been born a savage in Central Africa!"

"Then they'd have made you learn the tom-tom, and no doubt that's an instrument that needs perseverance. You can't get out of it, Mona mine! I see nothing for you but a dreary prospect of early rising, and the pursuit of five-finger exercises. It's your hard, cruel, inexorable fate, the chain from which you can't escape."

Mona laughed rather unwillingly: her mirth was never very spontaneous.

"I know it's slavery! Well, I suppose I must live for the summer holidays! They let me lie in bed as long as I like, and it's my ideal of bliss."

"Then keep it, you old slacker!" said Bess Harrison. "We'll leave you to your dreams of a Mahomet's paradise. I like something livelier, and to go back to my original proposition, I think every school ought to provide a new sensation after the Easter holidays, just to wake us up, and keep us from stagnating."

"Of course there are tennis and cricket this term," suggested Maggie Orton, half apologetically.

"That I admit—but so far at St. Cyprian's we've only carried them on rather languidly. I wouldn't for the world confess it outside, but between ourselves I don't mind saying that we're far and away behind other schools at games. In music I grant you we can give anyone the lead, in languages we're fair, but at athletics we're a set of duffers."

"We oughtn't to be, then!" exploded Nell Hayward. "We're surely as physically fit as most girls, and if we laid ourselves out to train we'd astonish people. It's merely a matter of management. No one's bothered much about it before, or tried to keep us up to the mark, so of course we slacked. It's not our fault!"

"But the fact unfortunately remains the same!"

"We want some new life, certainly, put into the tennis and cricket," said Maudie Stearne. "Something to make it go. It's never been the same since Miss Pritchard left."

"She was A1."

"We shan't get another Miss Pritchard!"

"None of the Sixth seem over-keen."

"We may make up our minds that St. Cyprian's is no good at games!"

"Cease these jeremiads!" interposed Kitty Fletcher. "I'll tell you something to cheer you up. Yes, it's news—real, creditable, veritable news! Why didn't I tell it before? Because I've been keeping it up my sleeve for the pleasure of giving you a complete surprise."

"Are we to have a professional to coach us?"

"Or a special games mistress?"

"Are several female athletes going to join the school?"

"Go on, Kit, and tell, can't you?"

"I haven't heard of either athletes or games mistress, but Miss Cartwright has a grand scheme on hand. We and five other schools are to join together in an alliance, and to meet each other for all kinds of things—hockey, cricket, tennis, concerts, debates, photography, gymnasium, arts and crafts, everything that's going, in fact."

"A kind of Olympic contest? Oh, what sport!"

"Exactly. You see, one school's generally keen on one thing, and another on something else. This is supposed to spur us on, and make us more 'all roundish'."

"Hem—a little wholesome competition!" quoted Maudie, with a fair imitation of Miss Cartwright's rather scholastic voice.

"You put it in a nutshell. We won't call it rivalry, but it would certainly touch us up to be beaten in anything by Newington Green or Marston Grove!"

"Ra—ther!"

"And no doubt they'd feel the same, so it will put us all on our mettle."

"I think it's a gorgeous idea; but how's it going to be run?"

"That's just the point. Each school is to have its own separate committee, and then send delegates to a general committee. There are to be five departments: Musical, Dramatic, Arts and Handicrafts, Literary, and Games, and we're to choose two delegates for each."

"Who's to do the choosing? Miss Cartwright?"

"No, it's to be put to the vote of the upper school. One must be from the Sixth and one from the Fifth, each form to vote for its own delegate."

"That sounds fair enough."

"Can we choose the same delegate for two subjects?"

"I shouldn't think so."

"Let me see—Musical, Dramatic, Arts and Handicrafts, Literary, and Games," said Maudie Stearne, ticking them off on her fingers. "Yes, I have somebody in my mind's eye for each. Mildred Lancaster, of course, for music."

"Mildred Lancaster? No, Lottie Lowman."

"She's not in it with Mildred."

"But she's a better organizer. There's no comparison, in my opinion."

"Nor in mine."

"Talk of people and they're sure to turn up! Here they both come."

"And as different as chalk from cheese!" murmured Maudie under her breath.

The two class-mates who entered the room at that moment were certainly entirely unlike as regards personal appearance, and the dissimilarity went deeper. Lottie Lowman, the elder by six months, was a brisk, alert-looking girl with a fresh complexion, a rather long, pointed nose, a thin mouth, and a square, determined chin. Her forehead was broad and intelligent, her light hazel eyes were very bright and sparkling, and her brown hair held just a suggestion of chestnut in the warmth of its colouring. Lottie's general effect was one of extreme vivacity. She loved to talk, and could say sharp things on occasion—there was hardly a girl in the Form who had not quailed before her tongue—and above all she adored popularity. To be a general favourite at once with mistresses, companions, and the Lower School was her chief aim, and she spared no trouble in the pursuit. Her flippant gaiety appealed to a large section of the Form, her humorous remarks were amusing, even though a sting lurked in them, and if her accomplishments were superficial, they made a far better show than the more-solid acquirements of others. She could do a little of everything, and had such perfect assurance that no touch of shyness ever marred her achievements. She knew absolutely how to make the best of herself, and she had a savoir faire and precocious knowledge of the world decidedly in advance of her sixteen years.

Mildred Lancaster, though only six months Lottie's junior, seemed a baby in comparison, where mundane matters were concerned. She was slightly built and rather delicate-looking, with a pale, eager face, a pair of beautiful, expressive brown eyes, and a quantity of silky, soft, dull-gold hair, with a natural ripple in it. The far-away look in the dark eyes, and the set of the sensitive little mouth, suggested that highly-strung artistic temperament which may prove either the greatest joy or the utmost hindrance to its possessor. Mildred was dreamy and unpractical to a fault, the kind of girl who in popular parlance needs to be "well shaken up" at school, and whose imagination is apt to outrun her performance. Gifted to an unusual degree in music, at which she worked by fits and starts, her lack of general confidence was a great impediment, and often a serious handicap where any public demonstration was concerned. The feeling of having an audience, which was like the elixir of life to Lottie, filled Mildred with dismay, and was apt to spoil her best efforts.

The two girls, who had already heard of Miss Cartwright's scheme, came into the room full of the exciting news, and anxious to discuss it with their class-mates.

"The very thing for St. Cyprian's!" declared Lottie. "I'll undertake we'll give the other schools points! 'Nulli secundus,' second to none, shall be our motto. We'll practise and rehearse till we're tiptop, and can take the shine out of anybody. The five departments give such splendid opportunities. When's the election, by the by?"

"To-day at four," said Mildred. "And Miss Cartwright has just made up her mind that Vb is to vote. She says it will be fairer, and give a better representation of the school."

"Oh, goody! We shall have to hurry up about canvassing."

"Is there to be canvassing?" objected Mona Bradley. "I thought Miss Cartwright didn't like it?"

"We can't get on without it," said Lottie promptly. "Why, how else are you going to put the candidates' points to the electors? There are so many things to be considered if you take an all-round view. Besides, the fun of it! We'll have speeches!"

"Tub oratory's a cheap way of catching the crowd!" growled Kitty Fletcher.

"You shall give us a deep discourse, then!" flared Lottie. "No doubt you'll convince Vb with some learned remarks. Well, if anything's to be done, we'd better be doing. Nell, old girl, you'll be on my side? Let's come and organize a plan of campaign. O jubilate! Here are the others!"

About seven more girls entered the room at the moment, all hotly engrossed in the new scheme, and anxious to discuss it. The company broke into groups, representing fairly well the various sets of the Form, and began eagerly to weigh the advantages and disadvantages of the various members proposed for the delegateships.

"It's a responsibility," said Kitty Fletcher, "because a good leader is half the battle. Don't let's allow any personal feeling to creep in. Vote for your enemy, if she's 'the man for the job'."

"May we vote for ourselves?" chirruped Eve Mitchell. "Oh, there! I was only in fun!" as the general scorn of the Form descended upon her. "Don't utterly spiflicate me! I'm not going to write 'Eve Mitchell' on all my five papers! Honest, I'm not!"

"You've a good chance for the Music, Mildred," whispered Kitty to her friend. "There isn't a girl in the school can play like you, and they know it. I'll back you up for that, if you'll put in a word for me at Games—that's all I'm good for!"

"And enough too," replied Mildred, "considering we can only be a delegate for one subject. I'll do my very best, Kit. I'll go at eleven and harangue some of those slackers in Vb. Joan Richards and you would make an ideal couple; you'd work well together, and pull up the standard to what it was before Miss Pritchard left. Trust me to do all I can!"

There was little time for canvassing if the election were to take place at four o'clock on that very day. Perhaps Miss Cartwright had intentionally arranged it so, wishing to avoid too great seeking for favour among the girls. Competition she considered wholesome, but she did not want it to degenerate into rivalry. At eleven o'clock "break", and during the dinner interval, the supporters of the various prospective delegates worked hard, impressing the merits of their particular candidates upon the electors, and trying to secure promises of votes. The poll was only to be among the members of the Upper School, who, in the Principal's opinion, were likely to be better judges of each other's capabilities than would the younger girls. Juniors, she argued, might be swayed too easily by influence, but she trusted to her seniors to take an open-minded and unbiased view of the situation.

Soon after four o'clock, therefore, Forms VI, Va, and Vb assembled in the lecture hall. A monitress dealt out papers, and in a moment or two Miss Cartwright, the Principal, stepped on to the platform.

"I should like to remind you, girls, of the few essential rules of our election," she began. "They are very simple. No one, of course, must vote for herself. Each girl is put on her honour not to be influenced by personal bias, but to choose for the good of the school. On your papers you will find five divisions—Musical, Literary, Dramatic, Arts and Handicrafts, and Games. Opposite each you are to write the names of one member of the Sixth Form and one of the Fifth. You must sign your own name to the paper, but this will be treated as confidential. I shall myself count the results."

"You vote for me, Mildred, for the Musical, and I'll vote for you," whispered Lottie Lowman, who happened to be sitting next to Mildred Lancaster. "We can't vote for ourselves, so exchange is no robbery, is it?"

Mildred coloured with embarrassment. She had already scribbled "Maudie Stearne" on her paper, not "Lottie Lowman", and it was tiresome to be thus cornered.

"These are the secrets of the confessional!" she murmured, trying to pass it off as a joke.

"Nonsense! We can't be so strict as all that. See, I've put 'Mildred Lancaster'. Let me look at yours."

As Lottie advanced her paper, Mildred hastily snatched hers away, but not before her companion had obtained a glance which told her of its contents. The slight rustle attracted the notice of Miss Cartwright, who fixed such a glare upon the two girls that each at once sat at stiff "attention", and as if unaware of the other's existence. In dead silence the voting was finished, the papers carefully folded, collected, and handed in.

"It will take me about ten minutes to count," said the Principal. "You can all go to the dressing-room I will pin the result on the notice board as soon as I possibly can."

The girls filed from the lecture hall with a sense of relief. To sit waiting for the news would have been a sore trial of patience; it was far more satisfactory to spend the interval in donning hats and coats. Besides, in the dressing-room they could talk, and they certainly did not neglect the privilege. No sooner were they clear of the silence bounds than they broke into a perfect babel of chatter, discussing the pros and cons of the election. Some openly avowed how they had voted, some stuck to their privilege of secrecy, but all were ready to debate the chances of others. Mildred sat lacing her boots and listening to the various scraps of conversation that reached her. She hardly dared to hope for her own success, yet among the whole Form no one more ardently desired a delegateship than herself. To be a representative of the musical side of St. Cyprian's particularly appealed to her. She felt it was almost in the nature of a sacred trust.

Close by Lottie Lowman and a few satellites were washing their hands.

"Some people's meanness is hardly to be believed!" Lottie was saying. "I'd voted for her, and told her so, so she hadn't the excuse of not knowing, and I think the least she could do was to vote for me—it only seemed fair!"

Mildred abandoned the neat "tennis knot" in which she was tying her bootlace, and sprang up in defence of her character.

"You'd no right to look!" she protested. "Surely I could put any candidate I liked? There was no coercion!"

"Not for those who weren't candidates themselves," said Sheila Moore; "but when you were standing for the Musical, you were in rather a different position."

"It was ever so generous of Lottie to vote for you!" urged Nora Whitehead.

"I certainly call it stingy not to vote for her!" added Eve Mitchell. "I should have thought it an obligation!"

"Oh, it's too bad of you! I can't see where the obligation comes in. Our votes were to be quite private. I think you're horrid!"

"Horrid yourself!" retorted Eve, and would have added more, but at that moment a scout announced that Miss Cartwright was in the very act of pinning the results upon the notice-board, so there was a general stampede for the corridor. As it was impossible for everyone to see the precious paper at once, the news was proclaimed aloud for the benefit of those on the outskirts of the crowd.

Musical.—Ella Martin, Lottie Lowman.
Literary.—Phillis Garnett, Laura Kirby.
Dramatic.—Dorrie Barlow, May Thornett.
Arts and Handicrafts.—Alice Lightwood, Freda Kingston.
Games.—Joan Richards, Kitty Fletcher.

"So I've won, even without your vote!" said Lottie to Mildred, with a spice of triumph in her tone.

"I'm very glad, I'm sure. I congratulate you heartily!" replied Mildred, turning back to the dressing-room for her books, and hurrying away, professedly in urgent quest of a tram-car.

Most of the others lingered, and started more slowly for home.

"I'm at the tiptop of bliss to have won the Games," said Kitty Fletcher to Bess Harrison. "I thought Mildred would have got the Musical, though. I can't understand it. She's miles ahead of Lottie, really."

"Yes, but I'm not sure if Lottie won't make the better delegate. Oh! I grant you Mildred has ten times the music in her, but I doubt if she'd get up a concert so well. She hasn't enough push and go—she's always dreaming. She'd play her own piece divinely, but she'd probably forget all about other people's."

"Yes, she is unbusinesslike," groaned Kitty, "but it seems such a shame that the most musical girl in the Form shouldn't represent the music section."

"Lottie knows exactly the public taste!"

"And plays trash!"

"She plays it well, though."

"In a way."

"You'll see her appointment will be very popular; she'll make things hum!"

"Likely enough, but I'm sorry for Mildred. I'm afraid she'll be fearfully disappointed."

CHAPTER II

St. Cyprian's College

Among the six day-schools which were to form the "Alliance" none was more important in the city of Kirkton than St. Cyprian's College. Though in numbers it was much smaller than the High School, it possessed a unique and thoroughly-well-deserved reputation of its own. St. Cyprian's specialized in music, and just as at many large educational establishments there is a classical and a modern side, its course of study was arranged for "collegiate" and "musical". No girl was received under twelve years of age, by which time, it was considered, her natural bent ought to have declared itself, and her parents could determine which branch would suit her best. Those who looked forward to a University degree, or any career in which public examinations must play an important part, were placed on the "Collegiate" side, and trained accordingly in the necessary classics, mathematics and physics, which would fit them for matriculation, or as candidates for certain scholarships. In this department St. Cyprian's had done well, and scored several brilliant successes. On the musical side Miss Cartwright considered she met a crying need. She was apt to wax enthusiastic when she discussed her favourite point.

"The time and attention devoted to music in most schools are totally inadequate," she would say. "Take any girl with a moderate amount of talent: the years from thirteen to eighteen are of extreme importance in her musical education. Now if she attends an ordinary High School, she may with great difficulty put in an hour's daily practice, but no allowance at all is made for this in her table of home work, and it must come out of her recreation time. She will probably have about forty minutes' choral singing weekly, and possibly—though this is by no means the rule—half an hour at theory, but of real music she does not understand even the rudiments. Pick out any ordinary girl of sixteen, take her to a concert, and ask her to name for you the various instruments in the orchestra: the chances are a hundred to one that the violin and the 'cello are about the limit of her knowledge. She could not tell you the difference between a sonata and a symphony, or give you the vaguest idea of the bass for such a simple tune as 'God save the King'. Though, of course, girls differ greatly in musical capacity, I contend that the utter lack of any adequate training is largely responsible for the pitiable ignorance and bad taste in music which is a reproach only too justly flung at the British by other European nations. If all schools would give this subject the prominence it deserves, at the end of a generation the present popular street songs would not be tolerated, and we could once more produce something of the quality of the old English, Scotch, and Irish melodies which have lived among our national tunes."

In accordance with her system, therefore, Miss Cartwright arranged that any pupil who was entered on the musical side of the school had a specially-prepared curriculum. Certain lessons, which were compulsory on the collegiate side, were in her case omitted, and the time given to classes in harmony and counterpoint. Each girl practised for at least half an hour daily at school, under the supervision of a mistress, who was present while she received the weekly or bi-weekly lesson from her master, and who would see that his instructions were carried out to the letter. The home practising was considered of such vital importance that every pupil received a weekly time-sheet, which she was required to fill up with the amount done daily, and to bring signed by a parent or guardian. By this method real and thorough work was ensured, and a record of progress carefully kept.

With regard to its special cult of music, St. Cyprian's was particularly fortunate in being situated at Kirkton, one of the biggest provincial cities in England. Kirkton offered peculiar facilities for a musical education. Owing to its important commerce it included a large proportion of Germans among its population, who were sufficiently wealthy and influential to support a magnificent series of classical concerts. The "Freiburg" orchestra, so called in memory of its founder, was world-famous, and comprised some of the best instrumentalists from various parts of Europe, while its conductorship was considered an honour sufficient to tempt leading musicians from Vienna or Berlin. There was also in the city the Freiburg Academy of Music, on the lines of a foreign conservatoire, where members of the celebrated orchestra gave lessons, and students who were judged of sufficient talent could be adequately trained for the musical profession.

To this "Academy of Music" Miss Cartwright passed on the most brilliant of her pupils. Several of its professors taught at St. Cyprian's, and she endeavoured as far as possible that all the instruction given at her College should be on "Freiburg" lines, and therefore preparatory to the more advanced work which was to follow.

Among the girls who comprised the musical section of the school there were, of course, vast differences. Some were not possessed of any very great capacity, and would never attain more than ordinary proficiency, but one or two were really talented. The standard was so high, and the pains taken with the pupils were so great, that almost any average girl could be taught to play well, up to a certain point. There is a difference, however, between music that has been learnt and music that is inborn, and no amount of cultivation can supply what nature has not implanted. At present there were only about five girls at St. Cyprian's whose performance was of outstanding merit.

Ella Martin, a member of the Sixth, played the violin with considerable skill; but though her technique was good, she had no power of expression, and the result was brilliant, but cold. Elizabeth Chalmers, of Vb, was the counterpart of Ella Martin, but on the piano. Her rendering of most compositions was excellent as regards execution, but purely mechanical, and therefore soulless. May Fawcett, a child of barely thirteen, who had only joined the school at Christmas, showed talent, but was yet in the initial stages of Professor Weissmann's particular system, and, until she had forgotten the faults developed under her former teacher, was being kept almost entirely at exercises and studies.

In Va two girls came easily to the fore. Lottie Lowman had acquired rather an all-round reputation in the College. She played the piano well, with a crisp, firm touch and a certain amount of feeling. She was an excellent reader, and could dash off almost anything at sight, and as she had, besides, the power of memorizing, she always seemed at home on her instrument. She sang also, with a clear soprano voice, pretty, popular drawing-room ballads, into which she threw much sentiment, and which never failed to delight an ordinary audience. Her extreme confidence stood her in good stead, and her bright, taking manner added a further charm to her undoubtedly clever performances.

If Lottie was certainly the favourite of the school, it was Mildred Lancaster who, in the opinion of those really competent to judge, was likely in the future to do credit to St. Cyprian's. Mildred had shown talent amounting sometimes to inspiration, and every now and then she rose to the point of genius. She learnt both piano and violin, but it was at the latter instrument she excelled. Hitherto she had only worked when she chose, and was alternately the pride and the despair of her master, Herr Hoffmann. There was, unfortunately, no relying upon Mildred's industry. One week her practice sheet would record three hours daily, and the next would show a deplorable series of blanks. When she felt in the mood to play she could astonish her professor with her extraordinary flashes of brilliancy, but at other times she would seem absolutely apathetic and uninterested.

She had been three years at St. Cyprian's, and her general school record was fairly good. She never rose beyond the average of the Form, but was not regarded as amongst the drones. Perhaps one reason for this was her friendship with Kitty Fletcher. Kitty had a thoroughly sensible, practical character. She was a hard worker, and being one of a large family, was not given to whims or fancies. Her influence over dreamy, romantic Mildred was excellent; she would spur her on to fresh efforts, both in lessons and athletics, and by a combination of sympathy, chaffing, and sheer will power often prevented her from falling into the slough of inertia to which her disposition was prone. Bright, jolly Kitty was well liked in her Form, and her appointment as Games delegate proved popular. Her enthusiasm was catching, and already the girls promised under her leadership to try to retrieve the lost glory of the College, and raise it again to its former standard.

All at St. Cyprian's knew that the United Schools Alliance was not a thing to be taken lightly. If they wished to shine in comparison with other schools, they would have to work, and devote far more energy to their various undertakings than they had yet troubled to give. Their five rivals were not at all to be despised. The Kirkton High School, averaging six hundred to their two hundred, by its very numbers offered a good pick of champions for hockey teams or tennis tournaments. The Marston Grove High School, a suburban branch of the former, had improved on its parent establishment, and cultivated an almost Olympic keenness for athletic contests. The Newington Green School was famous for its Arts and Handicrafts. The Templeton School had given several excellent dramatic entertainments in aid of charities; while the Anglo-German School, which was bilingual, could certainly win the palm in respect of languages.

"The fact is, except in music, we're rather a rotten set. We shall have to buck up!" said Kitty at the first committee meeting. "If we don't, we shall get a slap in the face."

Though they might not endorse her slang, the other nine delegates were inclined to agree with her sentiments.

"There hasn't been enough competition just amongst ourselves," argued Ella Martin.

"And it's been so hard to make anyone enthusiastic!" sighed Alice Lightwood.

"Or get them to do anything," echoed Joan Richards.

"Well, they've just got to enthuse now. Slackers must turn sloggers, for the credit of St. Cyprian's," declared Kitty. "Each department needs thoroughly organizing, and the best workers picking out. If possible we must try and not overlap. It stands to reason the same girl can't be champion at everything, and it's better to make her decide on her bent, and stick to it. If she's A1 at drawing, she mustn't unsteady her hand by over-practice at tennis; but if she's a record bowler, for goodness' sake don't let her waste her time pottering over photography. I vote we take a census of the school, put down everybody's speciality, and place her on one of our five lists."

"An excellent suggestion," said Dorrie Barlow. "We divide the school into Literary, Musical, Dramatic, Arts, and Athletics, and as heads of the various departments look after our own protégées."

"But surely all will play games?" objected Joan Richards.

"Oh, yes! they'll play, of course—one must have a rank and file—but the ones we select for special training must not be those who are working in another division. Can't you see that if a girl's in the 'Dramatic', or practising for a concert, she may play cricket or tennis for health and recreation, but she can't give her whole mind to it, as she ought to if she wants to be a champion?"

"A boarding-school with compulsory games has the best chance."

"Well, thank goodness, we're not competing against boarding-schools. The others are as much day girls as ourselves, and no doubt as hard to make keen. If we can keep up the general interest we shan't do badly, and I dare say we may hold our own with fair credit."

Kitty's plan was at once adopted by the committee. A census was taken of the school, and each girl was asked to decide upon which subject she meant to devote her surplus energies. The delegates were enthusiastic, and allowed nobody to escape from their net. They formed five special societies with sub-committees, drew up rules, enrolled their members, and insisted upon keeping them up to the mark. Any girl who was not clever in the more-cultured branches of the Alliance was relegated to athletics, and under Kitty's tutorship made to develop her muscles. At first the habitual idlers grumbled, and tried to evade the hard work, but public opinion was against them. St. Cyprian's was on its mettle, and the busy bees would not tolerate drones in their hive. Any girl who did not try her best in one of the five new societies speedily found herself unpopular, and to be unpopular in a large school is an unpleasant experience. Each society was working for a definite object. The "Dramatic" was getting up a play, the "Literary" meant to publish a magazine, the "Arts and Handicrafts" were working for an exhibition, the "Musical" meant to give a concert, and the "Athletic" was training its cricket and tennis champions.

Lottie Lowman certainly was capable of rendering good service in the Musical department. She discovered several juniors with promising voices, and taught them each to sing a solo with great effect. If her style was not quite of the best, she was enthusiastic, and could communicate her own enthusiasm to others. The younger ones practised away at light opera songs with keenest enjoyment, learnt, in their spare time, to play the accompaniments, and were always to be heard trilling snatches of melody about the school. Ella Martin was concentrating her efforts upon the instrumental parts, and left the vocal to her co-delegate. "Lottie's choir", as her flock was called, was entirely a separate institution from the College Choral Classes, and had nothing to do with Mr. Hiller, the singing master. Lottie organized the whole business, chose the songs, conducted practices, and coached her pupils entirely independent of any supervision at head-quarters. She threw herself heartily into her task. The work entirely suited her. She loved to lead, and was extremely happy in her new rôle of training mistress. The girls had gathered very readily round her musical standard, with one exception. Mildred Lancaster held herself aloof, and, under plea of needing all her time for instrumental work, refused to attend the choral practices.

It had been a great blow for Mildred that she was not chosen as a delegate. She was conscious that her talent greatly surpassed Lottie's, and she did not altogether approve of the latter's methods. Her marked lack of enthusiasm for the new scheme drew down comment from her friend Kitty Fletcher.

"You might help, Mildred! You could do so much if you liked, and it's all for the good of the Coll. Why can't you train some kids, or give a shove to the thing somehow?"

Mildred shook her head gloomily.

"I know you think me mean, but the fact is I can't work with Lottie. Her style sets my teeth on edge. She's giving those juniors the most trashy, rubbishy set of songs, and teaching them to sing with that horrible perpetual vibrato—and you know Mr. Hiller's opinion of that! She lets them thump accompaniments anyhow, with the bass all wrong. Ugh! The whole thing is too music-hall-y for me."

"Of course we all know your taste is classical," sighed Kitty; "but on that very account I thought you might be so useful in keeping up the standard. Miss Cartwright never meant them to howl pantomime songs. You'd be a check on Lottie."

"A check she won't acknowledge. If I say a word, she'll ask me who's delegate, and tell me to mind my own business. I don't court snubs, thank you! No; if they chose Lottie, they must stick to Lottie, and abide the consequences. I'm not going to do the spadework and let her reap the harvest. I've plenty of practising to do on my own account, quite enough to fill my spare time."

"Yes, if you'd do it," retorted Kitty, who was public-spirited, and therefore rather angry with her friend.

But Mildred only shrugged her shoulders, and turned away. Kitty said no more at the time, but she made an opportunity to see Ella Martin, and poured forth her complaints.

"Mildred's slacking all round," she said. "I don't know what's wrong with her. She's letting her own work go. Her practice-sheet is a disgrace. She's the most musical girl we have at the Coll., and she's simply doing nothing for herself or anyone else."

"Yes, I've noticed she's gone off lately," replied Ella. "She's a curious girl. I can't make her out. I sometimes think she's incorrigibly lazy. She plays when she feels inclined, and she's so clever that it's no effort to her, but real solid work she doesn't understand. If I'd half her talent I'd undertake to do more with it than she does. Sometimes she makes Professor Hoffmann absolutely rage with wrath; she has her lesson just before mine, you know, so I don't bless her when she leaves him in a bad temper. Professor Kleindorf gets pretty savage too when she won't practise, though I think he realizes that her piano is only understudy to her violin, and doesn't expect too much."

"I wish something would happen to wake her up!" declared Kitty.

CHAPTER III

The Story of a Violin

Mildred Lancaster, with whose history this book is largely concerned, was an orphan, and had been brought up from her babyhood by an uncle and aunt who had no children of their own. Her uncle, Dr. Graham, was a busy man with a large practice, who managed nevertheless to spare a little leisure to keep up the scientific side of his profession. He was a prominent member of Health Congresses, Sanitary Commissions, and Medical Societies, and was full of schemes for the better housing of the labouring classes, the opening of gardens and pleasure-grounds in crowded slum districts, the care of cripples and pauper children, or any question which affected the well-being of the poor people among whom his work chiefly lay. In all these things Mrs. Graham was his most earnest right hand.

She had a very strong sense of her responsibility towards those who were less-well equipped for the world's battles than herself, and she tried to take some of the light and beauty and culture of her own well-ordered life into those sad, sordid homes, where no dawn of higher things had ever shone. It was quiet, unostentatious work, that sometimes seemed to show small reward for the trouble spent over it, but she went on patiently all the same, knowing that the result might often be there, even if she were not able to see it herself.

To both Dr. and Mrs. Graham, Mildred stood in the place of a daughter. She could remember no other home, and knew no other friends, for her mother's relations had hitherto ignored the very fact of her existence. It was a happy little household, with a great deal of love in it, but the life was plain and simple, with few luxuries or extra indulgences. The Grahams were not rich people, and everything that they did not need for absolute necessities was devoted to helping forward the many causes they had at heart. On Mildred's education, however, they spared no expense. They sent her to St. Cyprian's College because it was the only school where she could spend an adequate time on the music which they hoped might some day prove to be her career, and they were prepared later on to give her the best possible advantages.

On the very afternoon when Ella Martin and Kitty Fletcher were talking about her, Mildred, quite unconscious of their concern on her behalf, was at home, trying to make up some arrears on her practising sheet. The cosy upstairs sitting-room of the corner house in Meredith Terrace was a cheerful place, though the carpet was worn and the curtains were faded. The long rows of shelves on either side of the fire-place were overflowing with books; on the walls hung prints, etchings, and water-colour sketches, most of them unframed, and pinned here and there, without any definite order as to arrangement, so as to secure the best light available. An unfinished red-chalk drawing stood on an easel by the open piano, a pot full of tulips made a rich spot of colour against the old green table-cloth, and a large grey Persian cat slept peacefully and luxuriously in the arm-chair.

It was a congenial atmosphere for study, and Mildred, who stood with her violin in the bow-window, had the dreamy, far-away expression in her eyes which, to those who knew her, meant that her artistic side was uppermost. Her long, thin, supple fingers were bringing real music from her instrument. Though her gaze might be fixed upon the piece placed upon the stand before her, she was paying no heed to it, for the snatches of melody, now bright and joyful, now soft and sad, which floated through the room were of her own improvising, a kind of reflection of the spring sunshine and the twittering of the birds outside that found its expression in the notes which flowed so richly and easily that it almost seemed as if her violin were speaking with a human voice. One cannot live long, however, in a world composed only of sweet sounds, and Mildred found her day-dream quickly and suddenly dispelled by the opening of the door and the brisk entrance of her aunt.

"Mildred, dear! Do you call this practising? I thought you had promised me to keep strictly to your concerto. When I last heard it there were still a great many mistakes, and I'm afraid Herr Hoffmann will be anything but satisfied when you go for your next lesson."

Thus brought back to the practical side of life, Mildred put down her violin with a sigh.

"Such a lovely idea came into my head, Tantie! I just had to try it over at once, for fear it should go out again. I thought I might enjoy myself for ten minutes!"

Mrs. Graham did not look approving.

"How many scales and arpeggios have you played?" she enquired gravely.

"Well, not any yet. I can do them after tea."

"And your exercise?"

"Oh! there'll be plenty of time to learn that before next Wednesday. It's quite an easy one."

"It may be easy, but it will need practice all the same. Have you tried your new piece?"

"The 'Frühlingslied'? It's much too difficult. I shall take it back and tell Herr Hoffmann I can't possibly manage it. It's one of those terrible things that go with an orchestra. I simply hate them. The Professor plays to represent the other instruments, and he's always more than usually fussy and particular. He scolds most abominably if I play a false note, or happen to come in at the wrong place."

"I'm very glad to hear it. I think you need more scolding than you get at home."

Mildred screwed up her mouth with a rather humorous expression, then flung her arms round her aunt's neck and gave her an impulsive hug.

"Sweetest darling little Tantie, you can't scold! So please don't begin to try. I know I'm horribly bad. I ought to have been grinding away at that wretched concerto all the time, but it isn't very pretty, and it has such nasty catchy bits in it. I like making up pieces for myself so much better than proper practising. The tunes just come into my head, and then I feel as if I must play them over before I forget them. If I wait, they're gone, and I never can catch them again."

"I don't blame you, dear child, for liking to compose. What I find fault with is that you always want to shirk the hard part of the work. Scales and exercises are not pleasant, I own, but they train your fingers in a way which nothing else can do. How often has the Professor told you that, I wonder?"

"About fifteen dozen times, I dare say!" laughed Mildred, cajoling her aunt into one of the cosy basket-chairs which stood near the hearth, and installing herself in the other, with Godiva, the Persian cat, on her knee. "That doesn't make the scales and exercises any more interesting, though. It's no use, Tantie! I love music, but I detest the drudgery of it. Why need I spend so much time over the part I don't like? Why can't I just play my own tunes, and be happy?"

"Because we all hope you are worthy of better things. Simply to amuse yourself is not the highest ideal, either in music or life. Your violin was the only possession which your father could leave to you, and you must think of it as an inheritance, not as a toy."

"I know so little about my father," said Mildred, leaving her seat, and throwing herself down on the hearth-rug, with her head against her aunt's knee. "You scarcely ever talk about him."

"Because it's a sad remembrance, dear," said Mrs. Graham, stroking the golden hair with a gentle hand. "I've shrunk from speaking of it before, and yet I have often felt lately that you ought to know the story. I would rather you heard it from me than learnt it from anyone who might tell it to you with less sympathy than I should."

She paused, with a far-away look in her eyes, as if memories of the past were living before her. For a moment or two there was silence in the room, only broken by Godiva's purrs and the twittering of the birds outside.

"Please go on!" said Mildred impatiently.

"Your violin has a history," began Mrs. Graham. "You know already that it is a very old and valuable one, made by Stradivarius himself, whose skill was so marvellous that nobody since has ever been able to equal the instruments which he turned out from his workshop at Cremona. I can't tell you who was the earliest owner, or how many hands, long since dead, have brought sweet music out of it; but when I first made its acquaintance it was the most cherished possession of a strange old gentleman who lived in the cathedral city where I was born. No one knew anything about Monsieur Strelezki, for though he had been an inhabitant of Dilchester for several years, he remained to the last as great a mystery as on the day he arrived. His housekeeper, an elderly Frenchwoman, always alluded to him as 'Monsieur le Comte', and he was generally believed to be a Polish nobleman, who for some political reason had been exiled from his native land. He spoke excellent English, and was apparently well off and accustomed to good society; yet he lived the life of an absolute recluse, refusing to exchange visits with any of his neighbours, who, after their first curiosity had worn off, shunned him with an almost superstitious horror, whispering many tales about him under their breath.

TANTIE TELLS MILDRED THE HISTORY OF HER VIOLIN, WHICH IS A VERY OLD AND VALUABLE ONE MADE BY STRADIVARIUS HIMSELF.

"My brother and I would look with a kind of fascination at the gloomy old dwelling just outside the precincts which the Comte had bought, and at once surrounded with such a very high wall that it went in future by the name of 'The Hidden House'. We used to pass it every day on our way to school, and I remember how, by a mutual understanding, we always crossed the road exactly at the corner near the lamp-post, so as to avoid walking too close to what, in our childish imagination, might be the abode of an anarchist or worse. Your father was my only brother, five years younger than myself, my greatest companion, and my special charge after our mother's death. He had the most charming, lovable, careless, happy-go-lucky, and irresponsible disposition that I have ever known. I fear both my father and I spoilt him, for he was very winning, and when he would ask in his coaxing way it was difficult to refuse him anything. From a little child he had shown the most wonderful love for music. He seemed to learn the piano almost by instinct, and his greatest amusement was to play by ear all the chants and anthems which were sung by the cathedral choir. An air once heard never escaped his memory, and he would put such beautiful harmonies to it, and make such elaborate variations upon it, that I have often listened to him with amazement. Our father was proud of his boy's talent, and, wishing him to play the organ, made arrangements that he should take lessons from the cathedral organist.

"At first Bertram was pleased to have the great instrument respond to his little fingers, but he found the stops and pedals were troublesome and confusing to manage, and he did not make the progress we had hoped for. His one longing was to learn the violin. He used to implore our dancing-master to allow him to try the small instrument by which we were taught to regulate the steps of our quadrilles and polkas, and he would even bribe the blind old street musician who played before our house on Saturday mornings to lend him his fiddle and bow. There was no one in the town, however, whom my father considered worthy to teach him, so he was obliged to content himself with trying to pick out tunes on a guitar which had belonged to my mother, and which he had found stowed away in the lumber-room. One day my brother and I were walking down the narrow paved street on our way home from the cathedral, when, passing by the mysterious 'Hidden House', we heard the wailing strains of a violin. Bertram at once stopped to listen, and seeing that the door in the high wall, which was generally fast locked, to-day stood open, he crept inside the garden, so that he might hear the better. I followed, to try and persuade him to return, but I, too, was so attracted by the enchanting music which flowed through the open window that together we stood concealed behind a syringa bush, almost holding our breath for pleasure.

"I know now that it was a composition of Rubenstein's that Monsieur le Comte was playing, but we had never heard it before. It was a style of foreign music quite new to us, and the wild romance, the weird beauty and pathos, the bewitching, haunting ring of the melody, rendered by a master hand, together with the strangeness of the unusual rhythm, roused my brother to a degree of excitement I had never seen him show before. As the last soft notes sank quivering away, he rushed from his hiding-place, and running up the steps to the French window, dashed impulsively into the room where Monsieur Strelezki stood with his violin.

"'Oh, thank you! Thank you!' he cried. 'I've never heard anything so wonderful in all my life. Will you please tell me what it's called? And oh! if you would play it over again!'

"To say that the Comte was astonished will very poorly describe the scene that followed, but finding that the boy was in earnest, he bade us be seated, and gave us such a bewildering and utterly charming selection of quaint Polish and Hungarian airs that Bertram was wild with delight. He sealed a friendship then and there with Monsieur Strelezki, and whenever he had a half-hour to spare he would hurry away to the 'Hidden House' to listen to more of the fascinating music.

"It was perhaps only natural that the Comte, seeing my brother's enthusiasm, should offer to teach him the violin; and though my father was somewhat doubtful about allowing him to accept so great a favour from our eccentric neighbour, he could not, in the end, resist Bertram's pleadings, so the lessons began. I think teacher and pupil enjoyed them equally, and the boy's progress was simply marvellous. He not only learned with a rapidity which astonished even his master, but about this time he began to compose pieces himself, and could hardly contain his joy in this newly-discovered talent. I would often beg him to write them down, as he was apt to forget them; but he did not like the trouble of transcribing music, and would declare with a laugh that it did not matter, as he always had a new one in his head. His school work suffered very much. He would spend over his violin hours which ought to have been given to preparing Greek and Latin, and my father was often angry over his bad reports. It seemed little use, however, to scold him; he was full of promises of amendment, but he never kept any of them.

"This had gone on for perhaps three years, when one day my brother went round early to the 'Hidden House'. He found everything in a state of confusion and upset. Monsieur Strelezki had died suddenly of heart failure during the night. The old housekeeper had discovered him, when she entered the dining-room in the morning, sitting, as she supposed, writing, with his violin on the table by his side; but the eyes bent over the paper were sightless, and the fingers that still held the pen were stiff and cold. On a half-sheet of note-paper he had written in a shaky hand:

"'To Bertram Lancaster.

"'Farewell, dear pupil and friend! The King of the Musicians has called me. We shall meet no more in this world. I bequeath you my Stradivarius. May it prove for you the key to fame. Remember always that there is only one secret of true success, and that is....'

"But here the messenger had come for Monsieur le Comte, and he had obeyed the summons, leaving the secret he had tried to tell for ever untold.

"As my brother grew older his passion for music seemed only to increase. My father wished him to study law, so that he might in time give him a partnership in the steadygoing old-fashioned solicitor's practice which had been in our family for several generations, but Bertram utterly refused. He had set his heart on a musical career, and after a bitter quarrel with his father, he left home altogether, taking with him the small fortune he had inherited from our mother, and went away with the avowed intention of devoting himself to his violin.

"'I feel I have a future before me, Alice,' he said, as he bade me good-bye. 'I shall solve the Comte's secret yet. If it was talent he referred to' (and he flushed a little) 'I think I've my fair share of that, so perhaps the Stradivarius may really prove the key to fame, in spite of everything!'

"It is a very sad part of the story that comes now, but I must tell it to you all the same. Bertram left us in high hopes, and for a time, while his enthusiasm was fresh, and the change still new, I believe he studied hard at his music. But he had a curious lack of any real effort or steady concentrated purpose. He was always going to do great things, which somehow were never accomplished. I cannot tell you how many operas and oratorios he began to compose, which were to take the public by storm; but none of them was ever finished, though the fragments which I heard were of so rare a quality that they were fit to rank among the works of men of genius. Sometimes he would be at the very height of exaltation, and sometimes in the lowest depths of despair; there were periods of wild ambition, when he was determined to have the world at his feet, but they never lasted long enough to carry him through the whole of an opera.

"A few of his shorter compositions were published, and were very highly thought of by musicians, and he had splendid opportunities of playing at concerts and recitals. His appearances in public were always successful; yet he so often refused to fulfil his engagements, for no apparent reason except the whim of the moment, that the managers grew tired of him. He fell under the influence of bad companions, who led him to neglect his work, and to think of nothing but pleasure, and he had not the moral courage to say 'No' to them. His little fortune was soon spent, and as my father refused to help him, he was obliged at last to earn his bread as a teacher of music. It was in this capacity that he made the acquaintance of your mother, whose father, Sir John Lorraine, could not forgive her runaway match with one whom he considered utterly unworthy of her, and forbade her name to be mentioned again in his presence. You cannot remember her, Mildred, for she only lived long enough to put her little golden-haired baby into my arms, and beg me to be a friend to it—a trust that I have never forgotten, both for your sake and hers.

"After this matters went from bad to worse. Your father, in his grief, took no trouble over his teaching, pupils slipped away, and he also lost the post in an orchestra which for some time had been his chief resource. I helped him to my uttermost, but it was little enough, after all, that I could do for him. His health, never robust, seemed suddenly to fail, and before the year was out he had died, broken-hearted, in the prime of his youth, the success he had dreamt of still unwon. I was with him at the last, and as he put his poor worn hand in mine, he said:

"'Alice, I discovered the Comte's secret too late! Give the Stradivarius to my child. It's the only inheritance I have to leave her. Perhaps my wasted life may teach her to use hers to better advantage, and some day she may meet with the fame and success that I always hoped for but never gained.'"

Mildred sat very silent for a moment or two when Mrs. Graham had finished her story.

"What was the Comte's secret?" she asked at length, with a break in her voice.

"Perseverance and hard work. Talent is of very little use without these. Nothing can be gained in this world without taking pains, and any success worth having must be at the cost of the best effort that's in us. Do you see why I've told you this to-day?"

"Yes," replied Mildred thoughtfully. "I didn't know my violin had such a history. I loved it before, but I shall love it ten thousand times better now. Tantie, I think I'll tussle with the 'Frühlingslied' after all. I believe if I really slave at it I can manage it. It'll be hateful, but I declare I'll try, if I break every string, and wear my bow out in the attempt."

"That's my brave girl! Shall we have a resolutions, not only for the 'Frühlingslied', but for all-round work at school? Miss Cartwright says you can do so well when you choose. Won't you promise?"

"Honour bright, Tantie! I'll do my best!"

CHAPTER IV

Concerns Va

Mildred's resolution to work was a huge effort to her easy-going, unpractical temperament, but she could not have made it at a more favourable time. The new Alliance had aroused a general wave of enthusiasm at St. Cyprian's, and many girls who before had been inclined to shirk were now determined to put their shoulders to the wheel. There is a great deal in public opinion, and while a do-as-you-please attitude had hitherto been in vogue, keenness and strenuousness now became the fashion. The school was divided into "Sloggers" and "Slackers", and the latter were looked down upon, and made to feel their inferiority. Among the seventeen girls who composed Va there was of course every variety of disposition, from Laura Kirby, who was nicknamed "the walking dictionary", to Sheila Moore, who was a byword for silliness. Naturally they had their different little sets and cliques, but these were only affairs of secondary importance; as a Form they were remarkably united, and anxious to maintain the credit of Va against the rest of the school.

It was especially with regard to their seniors that they felt an element of competition. To beat juniors was always a poor triumph, and nothing much to boast of, but the Form perpetually cherished the ambition to (as they expressed it) "go one better than the Sixth". The Sixth were not disposed to lay aside their laurels, so the struggle went on, in quite an amicable fashion, but with a spirit of rivalry all the same. It was the custom every few weeks for each of the three top forms to give a short dialogue in French or German. These had nothing to do with the Dramatic Society, being merely part of the school course, to accustom the girls to converse in foreign languages, and they were performed with very little ceremony before an audience of teachers and juniors. This month a German scene had been apportioned to Va, and Kitty Fletcher, Bess Harrison, Mona Bradley, and Mildred Lancaster were chosen by Fräulein Schulte to represent the principal characters. It was not difficult to learn their short parts, and last term, when once they had committed them to memory, they would have thought no more of the matter until the afternoon of the performance. Now, however, in view of the generally-raised standard, they were disposed to take more trouble.

"I'd just like to show the Sixth what we can do," said Kitty. "Suppose our dialogue turned out better than theirs? It would be such a triumph!"

"It strikes me the Sixth intend to turn the tables, and spring a surprise on us," said Mildred. "I'm quite sure they're concocting something."

"Oh, how did you get to know? What is it?"

"That I can't say, but I heard them murmuring something about a rehearsal, and they all scooted off to the small studio."

"Are they there now? I vote we go and see," suggested Bess Harrison.

The four girls hurried upstairs at once, only to find the door of the studio locked, and the Sixth firm in their refusal to open it.

"I want to get my drawing-board!" wailed Mona through the keyhole.

"Then you ought to have got it before. You'll have to wait now," was the stern reply.

"But I must have it. And my chalk pencils. Let me in just for an instant!"

"I tell you I can't!"

"What are you all doing in there?"

"That's our concern."

"Oh, you are mean!"

"Go away this minute, and leave us in peace. What business have you intruding here?"

Finding knocks and thumps on the door as useless as their entreaties, and that the keyhole had been carefully stopped up with a piece of soft paper, the four beat a retreat. They were consumed with curiosity, however.

"I just mean to get to know, somehow!" exploded Bess.

"Look here," said Mona, "I've an idea. Let us creep out through that skylight window on the landing, crawl over the roof, and then we can peep right down through the studio skylight. We'd see for ourselves then. It would be better than keyholes."

Mona's brilliant suggestion was hailed with joy. The only obstacle which offered itself was the difficulty of climbing up to the skylight. But Mona was resourceful. She remembered the housemaids' cupboard at the top of the stairs, and promptly purloined the step-ladder which stood there. Fortunately it was a tall one, so without any superhuman display of agility they were able to reach the roof. A narrow parapet ran round the edge of the house, which afforded some slight security, but perhaps all four girls felt qualms when they found themselves at such a giddy height. Not one would confess her fear, though, so they commenced to creep cautiously forward in the direction of the studio.

"It's like Alpine climbing!" gasped Kitty as they ascended the steep angle. "We've got to go over that ridge! Oh! I say, aren't the slates hot?"

Giggling a little to hide their tremors, the adventurous four reached the chimney-stack, and paused for a moment to survey the prospect. They could obtain a truly bird's-eye view of the playground and the street beyond.

"I know what it must feel like to see things from an aeroplane," said Mildred. "You just get the tops instead of the sides. Look at those hats down there!"

"Oh, don't let us waste time in looking!" said Mona. "Suppose the Sixth should have gone when we get to the studio? It would be such a stupendous sell!"

Urged by the mere idea of such a fiasco, the girls plucked up their courage again, and pursued their caterpillar-like progress. They soon reached the studio skylight, and, peering down, were able easily to see into the room. The Sixth were still there, and very busily employed. Apparently they were holding a rehearsal, and they were dressed up in costumes suitable to the occasion. Dorrie Barlow wore a large French peasant cap, Kathleen Hodson sported a cloak and top-boots, and Edith Armitage, in a blue silk dress with a train, was evidently a lady of high degree. Sublimely unconscious of the four spies above them, the seniors went on complacently with their work. Most of their conversation only ascended as a general buzz, but every now and then a remark in a louder tone than usual was audible on the roof.

"That's capital, Gertie!"

"No one's an idea what we're doing."

"We routed those Fifth-Formers!"

"Cheek of them to come prying here!"

"They went away no wiser, though!"

"We must hide these costumes."

The spectators above absolutely gurgled with joy, but they were careful not to betray their presence. Making a sign to the others, Mona motioned them to withdraw their heads.

"We've seen enough!" she whispered. "They might look up at any moment. Better beat a retreat now."

Four very satisfied girls climbed back over the ridge of the roof. They had gained exactly the information they wanted, and they meant to act upon it. They considered their action was a benefit to their Form.

"We've done it so quickly," said Mona, who was leading the way, "we shall have time to scoot downstairs, and be just innocently loitering about the playground before the Sixth have finished. They'll never guess!—Oh, I say, here's a go!"

"What's the matter?"

"Why, if the wretched skylight isn't shut!"

This was bad news indeed. With consternation in their faces they crept closer, and tried to lift the skylight up. They pulled till their fingers were sore, but with no success.

"Somebody must have come along the passage and shut it," said Kitty. "It's a nuisance to have to give ourselves away, but I can't see anything for it but to knock and get the window opened."

"Someone's sure to be going along the passage," said Bess hopefully.

So they knocked quietly at first, and then thumped with energy sufficient to break the glass. There was no response, however; not even a solitary junior passed down the passage.

"What are we to do?"

Kitty's face was blank in the extreme.

"The step-ladder's gone too!" squealed Bess.

At that moment the big school bell clanged loudly for afternoon call-over. Waxing absolutely desperate, the girls not only thumped on the glass, but shouted. To their intense relief their signals were heard, and the figure of Rogers, the upper housemaid, hove into view. Calling to them to keep clear of the window, she opened the skylight.

"Whatever are you doing up there?" she enquired tartly.

"Oh, Rogers, do be an angel, and fetch the steps quick!"

The expression on Rogers's face was not at all angelic.

"You've no business out on the roof, and you know it."

"Yes, that's why we want to come down," returned Kitty, "if you'll only let us. Do fetch those steps, please!"

Grumbling to herself, Rogers brought the step-ladder, and held it steady while the girls descended.

"I shall tell Miss Cartwright," she announced. "Larks like these are beyond a joke."

"Oh, Rogers, don't—don't, please!" implored the sinners. "We'll vow on our honour never to do it again. Honest—honest, we won't!"

"I can't have the steps taken out of my cupboard."

"We won't so much as peep through the chink of the door again, far less touch anything."

"Do, please, promise not to report us. Oh, we're going to be late for call-over! There's the second bell."

"Late you'll certainly be, and serve you right!" snapped Rogers. Then, relenting a little: "Well, I won't report you this time; but mind, if I ever catch you meddling with this window again, or touching anything in my cupboard, you needn't expect to get off."

Thankful to escape with nothing worse than a scolding, the four tore downstairs in the hope that they might just be in time to answer to their names, but Miss Pollock was closing the register as they entered the room, and had already marked them down "late". Rather crest-fallen, they went to their various classes—Mildred to practise, Mona to her drawing lesson, and Bess and Kitty to Latin preparation. At four o'clock they met to compare notes.

"After all, I think we scored," said Mona. "We found out what the Sixth were doing."

"Yes, and what we've got to do now is to get up our own dialogue in costume, and not let the Sixth have a hint of it beforehand."

"It will take the wind out of their sails when they see us all dressed up."

"Especially if we do the thing better."

"That goes without saying. I've a far nicer dress at home than Edith's blue silk."

"We shall have to tell Eve and Maudie."

"Of course, but no one else in the Form need know. It can be a surprise for everybody."

As a rule, though the school was obliged to be present to act audience at the monthly dialogues, everybody considered them rather a bore. Even the girls who were taking part had not hitherto been very enthusiastic. They had been regarded strictly as lessons, and not in any sense recreation. This time, however, both the Sixth and the Fifth had a secret—a possession which adds a charm to any undertaking. The Fifth held the decided advantage of knowing their seniors' intentions while preserving silence about their own. They held delightfully mysterious committee meetings in the dressing-room, and private confabulations in the playground. Long-suffering relations at home were induced to set to work with needles and thread, or to lend a variety of articles that would come in for the occasion. On the day of the dialogues several bulky packages were smuggled into school. The girls had been obliged at the last moment to take Miss Pollock into their confidence, and beg her to lock up the costumes in her cupboard until the afternoon, and to secure them the use of a small practising room for a dressing-room. Five out of the six performers stayed to dinner at the College, so they had a little extra time for last arrangements. By dint of hard pleading they had managed to change places with Vb, so that their dialogue came third on the list instead of second.

"That's good biz," said Kitty. "Now we shall be able to sit all through the Sixth's performance, and do our robing while Vb are on the platform. Then we'll just walk on and astonish everybody."

Punctually at three o'clock the whole school assembled in the big lecture-hall, and took their places, small girls in front, and older ones to the back, with a row of chairs reserved for teachers. In spite of the discretion of the performers, some little hint had leaked out that the afternoon's proceedings were to be of an extra special character, and there was considerable whispering and expectation among the audience. The six players in Va had seats at the end of a bench, so that they could make an easy exit when necessary. They watched with keenest anticipation as the door behind the platform opened and the actors in the French dialogue entered. The rank and file of the school had not expected costumes, and clapped heartily at sight of the quaint figures who were standing bowing and curtsying with eighteenth-century dignity. Kathleen Hodson as Monsieur le Duc de Fontaineville was stately in her top-boots, an evening cloak of her mother's flung across her shoulder, and a sword at her side.

"Silk stockings and buckled shoes would have been more in keeping with the period than those boots," whispered Bess to Mildred. "They haven't taken any trouble over details."

"Dorrie Barlow's cap is only made of tissue-paper," triumphed Mildred. "Wait till they see Eve's."

The wearing of the dresses seemed decidedly inspiring to the performers, who gave their short piece with far more spirit than was their usual custom. To be sure, Monsieur le Duc forgot his sword, and, tripping over it, nearly measured his length on the platform, but he recovered himself with admirable calm, and went on with his speech as if nothing had happened. Susanne, the peasant woman, clattered about in a real pair of sabots, but had the misfortune to step on the train of Madame, her mistress, with rather disastrous results, to judge from the rending sound which ensued. Gertie Raeburn was seized with stage-fright, forgot her lines, and had to be prompted; and Hilda Smith, who enacted the Abbé, was distinctly heard to giggle under her ecclesiastical vestments. In spite of these slight flaws the piece was immensely appreciated, and brought down a storm of applause, under cover of which our six heroines of Va slipped quietly from the room.

There was no time to be lost, for they knew Vb's dialogue was only short. Miss Pollock had placed their parcels in readiness, so they opened them with utmost speed and began their toilets. They all helped one another, and made such a record of haste that in exactly ten minutes they were ready, and listening for the applause which would mark the termination of Vb's performance. At the very first clap they ran down the passage; then, restraining their impatience, waited until their predecessors had made their due exit from the lecture-hall. It was with pardonable pride that they stepped on to the platform and watched the look of amazement which spread over the audience. Nobody had expected them to be in costume—that was evident. The Sixth were looking particularly astonished, indeed almost annoyed. There was a discomfited expression on their faces, highly gratifying to the conspirators. Even Miss Cartwright seemed surprised. The little German play had afforded good opportunity for dressing up, and the girls had certainly risen to the occasion.

Bess Harrison, as "Else, the daughter of the Schloss", wore a charming mediaeval robe, with velvet bodice and slashed sleeves; her long fair hair was plaited in two orthodox braids, and she held a distaff and spindle at which she worked industriously. Mildred, her betrothed, was arrayed as a baron of the Lohengrin type, in a short robe of peacock-blue emblazoned with an heraldic dragon in scarlet. Her golden hair was combed loosely over her shoulders, and surmounted by a small ducal coronet. She had a heavy chain round her neck, and armlets on her bare arms. Kitty Fletcher made a stately mediaeval grandmother, in silken gown, stiff ruffle, coif and wimple, and rattled the keys of the Schloss with great effect as she said her lines. Eve Mitchell as the serving-maid had a cap of real muslin, copied from an old German picture, a green-and-black-striped skirt, cherry-coloured stockings, and buckled shoes; while Maudie Stearne, in her capacity of seneschal, almost surpassed the rest in the gorgeousness of her embroidered cloak, chain armour, and winged helmet.

The girls were on their mettle to do well, and played up most successfully. The whole dialogue went without a single hitch, and the actors threw enough scorn, grief, jealousy, alarm, and devotion into their parts to have sufficed for a longer play. As finally, quite flushed with their efforts, they made their bows to the audience, the appreciative school broke into thunderous applause. The Sixth, nobly repressing any spasms of envy that may have assailed them, were clapping heartily, Miss Cartwright beamed approval, and Fräulein Schulte was all congratulations and smiles.

"Really, this afternoon's dialogues have been a delightful innovation," said the Principal. "The addition of costumes makes an immense improvement. It was a coincidence that the two Forms should have thought of it quite independently of each other. You must have been mutually surprised. I am very pleased indeed, girls. It is a step in the right direction when you organize these things on your own account."

"It isn't quite such a coincidence as Miss Cartwright imagines," chuckled Kitty, as she and her confederates disrobed in the practising room. "She doesn't know who peeped through the skylight."