The
Third Class at Miss Kaye's

By ANGELA BRAZIL

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"THE WHEELBARROW SUDDENLY SEEMED TO PLUNGE INTO THE GROUND"
[See text]

The
Third Class at Miss Kaye's
A School Story
BY
ANGELA BRAZIL
Author of "The Fortunes of Philippa"
ILLUSTRATED BY ARTHUR A. DIXON
BLACKIE AND SON LIMITED
LONDON GLASGOW AND BOMBAY

Contents

Illustrations

CHAPTER I
A Wet-day Party

Drip, drip, drip! The rain came pouring down on a certain September afternoon, turning the tennis lawn to a swamp, dashing the bloom off the roses, spoiling the geraniums, and driving even the blackbirds and thrushes to seek shelter inside the summer house. It was that steady, settled, hopeless rain that does not hold out the slightest promise of ever stopping; there was not a patch of blue to be seen in the sky sufficient to make the traditional seaman's jacket; several large black snails were crawling along the garden walk as if enjoying the bath; and the barometer in the hall, which started the day at "Set Fair", had now sunk below "Change", and showed no signs of intending to rise again.

Curled up in a large armchair placed in the bow window of a well-furnished morning-room, a little girl of about eleven years old sat peering out anxiously at the weather.

"It's far too wet!" she remarked cheerfully. "It never means to clear to-day, and it's four o'clock now. They can't possibly come, so I shall just settle down and enjoy myself thoroughly."

She spoke aloud to herself, a habit often indulged in by solitary children, and, opening a copy of Ivanhoe, screwed herself round into an attitude of still greater comfort, and set to work to read with that utter disregard of outer happenings which marks the true lover of books.

She was rather a pretty child; her features were good though the small face was pale and thin; her hair was fair and fluffy, and she had large hazel-grey eyes which looked so very dreamy sometimes that you could imagine their owner was apt to forget the commonplace surroundings of everyday life and live in a make-believe world that was all her own. Equally oblivious of the driving rain outside and the cosy scene within, Sylvia read on, so lost in her story that she did not even notice when the door opened and her mother entered the room.

"Why, here you are, darling! I thought I should find you in Father's study. I'm so sorry it's such a dreadful day for your party."

Sylvia put down her book with a slam, and dragging her mother into the big armchair, installed herself on her knee and administered a somewhat choking hug.

"Oh, Mother dear, I'm so glad!" she declared. "I didn't want a party, and I've been watching the rain all the time and hoping it would go on pouring."

"Sylvia! I thought you would be terribly disappointed. Don't you want to see your little friends?"

"Not very much."

"But why, sweetheart?"

Sylvia squeezed her mother's hand in her own and sighed, as if she found it rather difficult to explain herself.

"Lots of reasons," she said briefly.

"Tell me what they are."

"Why, for one thing, I've just got to the middle of Ivanhoe, where Rowena is shut up in Front de Bœuf's castle, and I want to see how she escapes. I'd much rather stay and read than go racing round the garden playing at 'I spy!'"

"But I thought you liked Effie and May and the Fergusson boys."

"I hate boys!" declared Sylvia dramatically. "At least, not Cousin Cuthbert and Ronald Hampson, but boys like the Fergusson boys. They do nothing but tear about and play tricks on one. They're perfectly hateful! I didn't enjoy my last party there one scrap. They tease me most dreadfully every time I meet them."

"What about?"

"They call me 'The Tragic Muse', because they got hold of one of my pieces of poetry. They made the most dreadful fun of it. And it wasn't tragic at all. It was about the Waltons' baby, and its blue eyes and curls and dimples. I did put dimples, though they read it out pimples! I don't believe they know what tragic means, or a muse either, and I do, because I learnt them in Greek history last month. Mrs. Walton liked the poetry though. She said I must copy it into her album and sign my name to it, and she thought I might be a poetess when I grew up, and she expected it was that which kept me so thin, and had you tried giving me cod-liver oil, because she was sure it would do me good. You're not going to, are you? I took some once at Aunt Louisa's, and it was the most disgusting stuff."

"I don't think you need any more medicine just at present, so we will spare you the cod-liver oil," said Mrs. Lindsay, smiling. "Perhaps Roy and Donald would have forgotten about the poem by this afternoon."

"No, they wouldn't. They never forgot anything if it's possible to tease. I'd far rather they didn't come. I don't want the Waltons either, or the Carsons. It's so nice and quiet in here, and Miss Holt's out, and it's such a wet day that there won't be any callers, and I can have tea with you in the drawing-room, and Father said perhaps he would be back from the office by half-past five, and he promised the next time he was home early that he'd go through my museum and help me to label all the shells, and that would be far nicer than a party."

"I thought you enjoyed playing with other children, dear," said Mrs. Lindsay rather gravely.

"I don't think I do," replied Sylvia. "It's so hard to make them play properly. They never can imagine things. When I tell the Waltons there's a witch in the cupboard, they look inside and say there isn't anybody there. They can't understand that you can pretend things until they seem quite real, and yet it's only pretending. When I told Beatrice and Nora Jackson that I knew a dragon lived in their coal house, they went and told their governess, and she said she was afraid I was not a truthful child!"

"That was too bad!"

"Yes, wasn't it? I'd rather not go to tea at the Jacksons'. Mrs. Jackson always says I don't eat half enough. Beatrice and Nora have four thick slices of plain bread and butter before they begin with jam or honey, and great basins of bread-and-milk or soup plates full of porridge for breakfast. I think it's rather rude of people to make remarks on what you eat when you go out to tea. Don't you?"

"It just depends," said Mrs. Lindsay.

"Well, they don't like it themselves," continued Sylvia. "The last time the Jacksons were here, when their nurse came to fetch them I told her I was sure they had enjoyed themselves, for Nora had eaten four buns and three sponge cakes, and Alfie had ten jam sandwiches and a piece of Madeira cake. I thought it would please her to hear they had had so much, when they scold me for eating so little, but she went quite red in the face and said they were not greedy children anyway."

"It was hardly a happy remark, I am afraid," said Mrs. Lindsay. "You will be wiser next time."

"People in books are so much nicer than real people," said Sylvia plaintively. "If I could have a party and invite Little Lord Fauntleroy, and Alice in Wonderland, and Rose out of Eight Cousins and Rowena and Rebecca, and perhaps Queen Guinevere, and Hereward the Wake, then I should really enjoy myself."

"Can't you pretend that your friends are heroes and heroines of romance?" said Mrs. Lindsay, pinching Sylvia's pale cheeks. "You're so fond of make-believe that it ought to be quite easy to imagine them princes and princesses."

"It's not so easy as you'd think," replied Sylvia, shaking her head. "I make up lovely stories about them sometimes, and they just go and spoil it all. I played one afternoon that Effie was an enchanted princess, shut up in a magic garden; but she kept on eating green apples instead of simply looking lovely among the flowers, and when I put a wreath of roses round her hair she said it had earwigs and spiders in it, and she pulled it off. I didn't dare to tell her what I was playing, because she laughs so, but I began a piece of poetry about her, only it's never got beyond the first verse. Then there's that boy who lives in the house with the green railings down the road. I don't know his name, but he has blue eyes and very light curly hair. Once I played for a whole week that he was Sir Galahad—he's exactly like the picture Father showed me in that big book on the drawing-room table; but just when I'd made up my mind that he was starting off to find the Holy Grail, he threw a snowball at me, and trod hard on Lassie's tail on purpose. Somehow I never could manage to think of him as Sir Galahad after that. Now, Mother, don't laugh!"

"It would be rather difficult, I own," said Mrs. Lindsay, trying to straighten her face. "I'm afraid you made an unfortunate choice in your knight."

"It's just as bad," continued Sylvia, "if you pretend you're somebody out of a book yourself. So much depends upon other people. I was Rowena in Ivanhoe yesterday. I had to be rather haughty; because, you see, I was a Saxon princess, and everybody was accustomed to obey my slightest wish. But Miss Holt didn't understand it in the least; she said if I spoke to her again like that she should send me out of the room. So I had to be Peter Pan instead, and Miss Holt asked me if I had taken leave of my senses. She was really quite angry with me."

"I don't wonder. It doesn't do to mix up pretending with your lessons. Do you know, it isn't raining nearly so fast now, and I certainly hear a cab coming up the drive. I believe some of your friends are arriving after all to have tea with you."

"Why, so they are!" exclaimed Sylvia, jumping up and running to the window which commanded a view of the front door and steps. "What a nuisance! It's Effie and May, and they've brought the little Carsons with them. They'll have to play in the schoolroom, and they always want my old dolls' house. I've put it away in the cupboard, and now I suppose I shall have to rummage it out again. It's too bad! I thought they wouldn't ask for it if we played in the garden. Don't you think I might say I can't get it?"

"Oh, no, dear! If it will give them pleasure you must certainly let them have it. Run along quickly, and open the hall door to welcome them. It is very kind of Mrs. Walton to send them in spite of the rain."

Sylvia went, but not too fast or too willingly. She was not at all pleased to see her guests, and would much have preferred the afternoon to herself.

"I never thought you'd come," she began, as the children sprang quickly from the cab and ran up the steps into the porch.

"We were so dreadfully disappointed," said Effie. "We'd been watching the weather all day. May nearly cried when it didn't clear up, and Mother said it would be quite as disappointing for you, and she thought we could play indoors; so she telephoned for a cab, and we called for Bab and Daisy on our way, and brought them with us." So saying she led in the two little mites in question, who were beaming with smiles at their unexpected drive.

"Oh! our shoes!" cried May; "I've left them in the cab and the man's driving away. Stop! Stop!" And she rushed out wildly into the rain.

The coachman drew up, and, dismounting from his box, gave her the parcel, and she hurried in before Mrs. Lindsay had finished saying good afternoon to the other children.

"We're goin' to play wiv the dolly house," announced Daisy as Sylvia took her hand to lead her upstairs.

"And all the lickle chairs and tables," added Bab, as her fat legs toiled after.

Sylvia said nothing. She was annoyed, for the dolls' house had been a favourite toy. Though she was now too old to care to play with it, she liked to keep its treasures intact, and feared Bab's and Daisy's small fingers might work havoc among the miniature furniture and dainty glass tea services. She had no brothers and sisters of her own to spoil her things, or interfere with any of her plans or games, no one, in fact, to consider except her all-important little self, and she was so accustomed to keep the schoolroom as her special kingdom that it put her out to be obliged to share it even for one afternoon. She helped, however, to take off the Carsons' hats and coats, to unbutton their boots, to tie Bab's hair ribbon, which had come off, and to fasten May's pinafore, then escorted her unwelcome visitors downstairs again with the best grace she could. It was not half so interesting to have tea in the dining-room with four children, she thought, as alone in the drawing-room with her mother, a privilege which, owing to Mrs. Lindsay's many social duties, she did not often get the chance to enjoy, and she wished with all her heart that either Mrs. Walton or the cabstand had not been on the telephone.

If Sylvia were an ungracious hostess, however, her small friends at any rate seemed thoroughly determined to enjoy themselves. They much appreciated the honey, the raisin buns, and the iced sponge cake, and were especially delighted with the crackers which Mrs. Lindsay brought out at the conclusion of the meal.

"Crackers, though it's not Christmas!" cried Effie in astonishment.

"Why not?" said Mrs. Lindsay. "They are as much fun now as in December, I think. Here are two for each of you, and you may take them upstairs to the schoolroom and pull them when you get there."

There was a general stampede for the stairs, the four guests racing up with great enthusiasm, while Sylvia followed leisurely behind, debating in her mind whether it would be possible to lose the key of the cupboard, and thus preserve her dolls' house from meddlesome hands.

"The crackers will keep them busy for a short time," she reflected, "and then I can just turn the key in the lock and hide it away behind the bookcase. I'll give them the picture puzzles and a box of bricks instead."

It is all very well, however, to make plans, but it is quite a different thing to carry them out. The young Carsons knew perfectly where the dolls' house was kept; they ran in front of Sylvia into the schoolroom, and, flinging their crackers on to a chair, had opened the cupboard and were begging her to lift down the coveted toy long before she had any opportunity of locking the door, so there was nothing for her to do but yield to their request, though she certainly felt decidedly cross. She placed the dolls' house on the floor in a corner of the room, and, having rescued one or two of the most fragile ornaments, left Bab and Daisy to amuse themselves and turned her attention to Effie and May. They were jolly, rollicking little girls of eight and nine, who liked to run about playing boisterous games much better than sitting quietly reading books. They had soon pulled their crackers and taken out the whistles and lockets which they contained, and now began to ask eagerly what they should do next.

"Can't we play 'Tig' on the landing?" said Effie.

"Or Tom Tiddler's Ground?" suggested May.

"There aren't enough of us," said Sylvia. "Besides, I don't expect Mother would like it. The last time we played there we broke the big Japanese jar, and Father was so angry about it. You haven't seen these puzzle maps. Wouldn't it be fun to try and fit them together?"

"No, thanks; too like lessons," said May, pulling a face.

"We hate geography," added Effie.

"Would you care for Halma?"

"Don't know how to play," replied Effie.

"I could soon show you."

"Oh, we don't like learning new games!" said May. "I wish the Fergussons had come."

"I'm thankful they didn't," thought Sylvia, who was not at all in a nice temper to entertain her friends. "What a bother Effie and May are! I wish they'd do something by themselves and not trouble me. I don't mean to show them my museum, even if they ask. Shall I get out the bagatelle?" she added aloud. "You know how to play that at any rate."

"Oh, yes!" cried the little girls, helping her to lift the large board and unfold it on the table. "That's ever such fun! Don't you remember last time we made bigger scores than you did?"

"I forget," answered Sylvia. "But I think it's a better game for two than three; you get more turns."

"Aren't you going to play then?" exclaimed Effie.

"No, I shall only spoil it for you. Besides, I have to look after Bab and Daisy. You start and I'll come and score for you presently."

The small Carsons were so happily employed with the dolls' house that there was not the slightest need for Sylvia to neglect her other visitors on their behalf. Making them the excuse, however, she allowed Effie and May to grow interested in their game, then, creeping quietly out of the room, she fled downstairs to the study, where she had left Ivanhoe in the big armchair, and, returning with it to the schoolroom, she settled herself in the window seat, and was soon so absorbed in the storming of Torquilstone Castle that she forgot the very existence of her companions.

Now, as fate would have it, the rain cleared up sufficiently for Aunt Louisa to come about five o'clock and pay a call upon Mrs. Lindsay. If she had not arrived on that particular day, and at that particular hour, it is quite probable that the events recorded in this story might never have happened at all. Sylvia was not sure whether she altogether liked Aunt Louisa, who, though kind on the whole, and liberal in the matter of birthday and Christmas presents, had a very keen pair of eyes that seemed to notice directly when people were selfish, or conceited, or trying to show off, and saw through excuses and humbug in a moment. She considered Sylvia spoilt, and did not hesitate to say so; but, on the other hand, she proved so good-natured when her niece spent a day at Laurel Bank, and treated her as such a sensible, almost grown-up person, that Sylvia invariably enjoyed herself, and looked forward to going again.

It was about half-past five when Mrs. Lindsay and Aunt Louisa, having finished their chat in the drawing-room, walked upstairs to take a peep into the schoolroom and see how the children were getting on. They found Bab and Daisy seated on the floor, much occupied in giving the dolls' house babies their evening baths, while Effie and May were playing bagatelle by themselves with a good deal of noise and shouting.

"And where is Sylvia?" asked Aunt Louisa, looking round in some astonishment for the absent hostess.

"She's there," said Effie, pointing to the window seat. "She doesn't care about playing. Go on, May, it's your turn."

Mrs. Lindsay walked across to the window, and, drawing aside the curtains, disclosed Sylvia, squatting on her heels like a Turk, in the corner of the seat, entirely taken up with the adventures of the black knight and his outlawed companions. Her mother pulled the book from her hand.

"Sylvia!" she exclaimed. "Don't you know it is extremely rude of you to sit reading and leave your guests to amuse themselves? Get up this minute!"

Sylvia obeyed with a very red face. She had never expected to be caught like this.

"They were quite happy without——" she began, but meeting Aunt Louisa's eye she wisely left the sentence unfinished.

"I'm sure they would enjoy some game you could all play together," said Mrs. Lindsay. "If we push the table aside there will be plenty of room for Blind Man's Buff."

"Oh! Yes! Yes!" cried the little Carsons, bundling the dolls back into the dolls' house, and dancing up and down with excitement, while Effie and May, equally pleased, helped Sylvia to put away the bagatelle.

"Let Bab be blind man," begged Daisy.

"And turn me round three times," added Bab, beginning to revolve already in delighted anticipation.

Both Mrs. Lindsay and Aunt Louisa were kind enough to join in the game, and to institute several others afterwards, so that for an hour the children had a most enjoyable romp, which continued until the Carsons' nurse arrived to take Bab and Daisy home. Even Sylvia raced about when she found her elders doing the same, and grew so rosy in the effort that her mother looked at her pink cheeks with approval.

"Goodbye!" called the four small visitors, when at last hats, coats, and boots had been put on, and they all hurried to start before a threatening cloud brought down the rain again.

"They seem to have had a lovely time, and enjoyed themselves so much, m'm," said the nurse, gathering up the parcels of shoes and taking Daisy's hand.

"Did you enjoy it, Sylvia dear?" asked Mrs. Lindsay, as they stood in the porch watching Bab's plump legs waddling along the drive in an effort to keep pace with Effie's longer strides.

"No," replied Sylvia, "not nearly so much as having tea with you."

"Why don't you care for your friends, sweetheart?"

"Because I like being with you and Father better. That's the very whole of the reason. Anybody else is such a bother!"

Mrs. Lindsay smoothed the fluffy hair, which was hanging in some disorder after an uproarious game of Fox and Goose, and bent down to kiss the little face that turned up so readily to meet her own.

"My precious pet!" she murmured fondly.

But Aunt Louisa shook her head.

CHAPTER II
An Important Decision

"Gordon," said Mrs. Lindsay to her husband on the following evening, when he was enjoying his after-dinner cup of coffee in the drawing-room, and she judged him to be in a suitable mood to discuss knotty problems, "I am not at all happy about Sylvia."

Mr. Lindsay paused to take an extra lump of sugar, and to help himself deliberately to some more cream.

"Why, what's wrong with the child?" he asked. "I thought she was looking much as usual to-day."

"She looks quite well," replied Mrs. Lindsay; "but I don't feel satisfied, all the same."

"Try a fresh tonic," suggested her husband, stretching himself lazily in his chair as he spoke.

"A tonic would be of absolutely no use."

"Then you had better send for Dr. Fergusson to-morrow, and let him see her; it's as well to take things in time."

"It's not a case for Dr. Fergusson, yet it has been distressing me for some months. Louisa was here yesterday, and she noticed it also, and spoke to me most seriously about it."

"Really, Blanche, you alarm me! What's the matter with Sylvia? If Dr. Fergusson can do no good we must take her to a specialist."

"It's not her body, Gordon, it's her mind. She's a dear child, but she's growing so old-fashioned and sedate, she's more like a little old woman than a girl of scarcely eleven. Louisa says it's most unhealthy."

"I wish Louisa would mind her own business," said Mr. Lindsay, frowning; "I can't see anything amiss with Sylvia. I think her old-fashioned ways are particularly charming."

"Yet they are not natural at her age. She's living in a world of dreams and make-believe. Books are all very well, but it's not good for her to be entirely buried in them."

"She has a strong imagination," replied Mr. Lindsay, "a thing Louisa can never appreciate. She inherits it from me, and I fully sympathize with her funny little pretendings."

"Yes, when pretendings don't take the place of real life. Sylvia has been such a solitary child, so accustomed to play by herself and make her own amusements, that she has almost lost the desire for young companions."

"I thought she had plenty of friends. Didn't I meet some of them going away yesterday as I returned home?"

"Yes, but she doesn't enjoy having them here. I should be sorry, Gordon, to believe our darling was selfish."

"That she most certainly is not!" declared Mr. Lindsay emphatically.

"Not with us, but I'm afraid she doesn't like her small plans disturbed by other children. She's not very ready to give up her own way; indeed I was obliged to scold her yesterday for reading a book instead of entertaining her visitors."

"She gets absorbed in her books."

"Too much so. She needs to be made to run about more. She's such a gentle little mouse, she always prefers quiet games to a romp. It's not healthy for a child to live continually with only grown-up people. We've thought so earnestly about her education, and she has been taught so carefully and well, that I really believe we've given her a kind of mental indigestion!"

Mr. Lindsay laughed.

"She's very bright for her age," he said. "She can talk about botany and antiquities as well or better than many an older person. I'd rather have Sylvia for a companion than half the people I know."

"But she mustn't turn out a prig, and I fear she's in sad danger of doing so if we don't take matters in hand at once. Intellectual interests are delightful, and we want her to have them, but they hardly supply the place of tennis and rounders at eleven years of age. She's far too thin and pale and fragile looking. Louisa says we have been developing her mind at the expense of her body."

Mr. Lindsay groaned and wrinkled up his forehead into lines and puckers.

"What does Louisa propose that we should do then?" he enquired. "I've no doubt she has some plan to suggest."

"She thinks Sylvia ought to be sent away to school."

"Then there is plenty of time to talk it over before Christmas."

"Not at Christmas. At once. The September term has only just begun, and it's not at all too late."

"Whew! But what about Miss Holt? We couldn't pack her off at a moment's notice."

"Her brother's wife died during the summer holidays, and she would be only too delighted to go to keep house for him in Derbyshire and look after his motherless children. I believe she didn't wish to return here, only she didn't like to break faith with me. We needn't take her into consideration."

"Then you actually propose to send Sylvia away immediately?"

"I am sure it would be for the best."

"But where?"

"Louisa knows the very school; Miss Kaye's at Aberglyn, where Bertha Harding was educated. It seems satisfactory in every way, and the Welsh mountain air would suit Sylvia; she looked so well after that fortnight we spent at Llandudno."

"I should like to know a little more about it first. Sylvia is such an unusual child, and would be miserable if she were popped down amongst an unsympathetic number of girls and a set of teachers who didn't understand her."

"Miss Kaye is a clever woman. I think her system seems excellent."

"I don't wish Sylvia to grow up a kind of walking dictionary, with her mind so crammed full of Greek, Latin, and Euclid that there's no room for an original idea."

"She won't there. The girls lead a very rational, healthy life, with plenty of time for games and outdoor exercise."

"Neither do I want her conversation to consist of nothing but golf and hockey, like some of the young ladies of my acquaintance, whom I'm afraid I scarcely admire."

"Gordon, how perverse you are! Louisa shall talk to you herself, and tell you everything about the school that you can possibly wish to know. She's coming to-morrow, when we can discuss the question thoroughly, and in the meantime we must take care that Sylvia doesn't get the least idea of what is in the wind."

If our little heroine could only have known the consultations which were taking place about her future she would no doubt have acted very differently on the following day; but as she was quite unaware that any change was proposed, she naturally went on in her accustomed way, with the result that her father, who was regarding her from a new standpoint, noticed a good many things to which he had previously been absolutely blind. In the first place she was dainty at breakfast; refused her egg because it did not happen to be a brown one, left her toast when she found that the crust was burnt, and helped herself to an enormous serving of marmalade, which she did not finish. She argued hotly with Miss Holt about some trifling point, and even took upon herself to correct her mother. She never passed anything at table without being asked, jumped up and began to read a book before the others had finished, pretended not to hear when she was requested to ring the bell, and had to be told twice that it was nine o'clock before she would go upstairs to the schoolroom.

"It's certainly high time we sent her away," thought Mr. Lindsay. "I'm afraid, with the best of intentions, we've completely spoilt her. Louisa's right. She needs to be among other girls, to have her corners rubbed off. At school there's no allowance made for fads and fancies, and she would be obliged to fall in with the general rules. It will do her good to be of a little less importance than she is at home. Strange that I never noticed all this before!"

When Aunt Louisa arrived, therefore, in the evening, prepared to encounter a great many objections to her suggestion, she was surprised to find that her brother agreed with her so easily, and, after listening to her detailed accounts of Miss Kaye's excellent arrangements, consented quite readily that Sylvia should be sent there as soon as the necessary preliminaries had been settled and her clothing should be considered in due order.

"A week will be ample time for that," said Aunt Louisa. "Miss Saunders will soon run her up a school frock, and you could send anything else she requires afterwards, Blanche. It would be a pity for her to lose more of the term than we can help. She won't like to find herself behind-hand in the classes, and now you have made up your minds it will be better not to let her have too long to think it over."

"I don't know what Sylvia will say!" sighed Mrs. Lindsay, who half repented of parting with her darling. "I'm afraid she will never forgive us."

"I shouldn't ask her," replied Aunt Louisa firmly. "She will like it very much when once she gets there, and the improvement which it will make in her is well worth a few tears at the start. I beg, Blanche, that you will not be foolish now, and stand in the way of the child's real good."

"I'll try not," said poor Mrs. Lindsay, wiping her eyes; "but when you've only the one, and she's never been away from you before, it seems so hard to let her go."

"Oh, you'll get over that! I felt just the same when Cuthbert first went to school, and I'm quite accustomed to it now. We can't expect to keep our children always tied to our apron strings."

"I suppose not, but boys are different from girls, and Sylvia has been such a pet. If she's not happy at Heathercliffe House she'll simply make herself ill with fretting, and the cure will be worse than the disease."

"I'm sure she will not do so. She will be so interested in her work and her new companions that, after the first few days of homesickness are over, she will settle down and like her fresh life immensely."

"You really think so?" said Mrs. Lindsay. "Well, the decision is made and I suppose we must keep to it now; but I'm dreading the moment when I shall have to break the news to her."

To Sylvia the announcement came as a great shock. She was totally unprepared for it, and the idea of such a sudden change was anything but a welcome one. When she fully understood that in one short week she was to be banished to a strange place, among people whom she had never seen, she clung to her mother in such a passion of tears that if it had not been for the thought of what Aunt Louisa would say, Mrs. Lindsay would have yielded and have begged her husband to keep the child at home after all. As it was, she did her best to soothe her, and to paint the future in as bright colours as her fancy could depict.

"I'll never be happy again, never!" sobbed Sylvia. "I shall be as miserable as Evelyn in The Little Heiress or Rosalie in The Orphan Cousin. They both broke their hearts until the last chapter, and so shall I."

"Nonsense, darling, you must try to be brave! Heathercliffe House is a most charming school, and I'm sure you will be happy. You'll find ever so many nice little girls of about your own age who will be ready to make friends with you, and there will be plenty of fun going on as well as lessons. I want you to make some more friends."

"I have Effie and May."

"They're too young for you. You would get on better with girls rather older than yourself, I believe. It will be quite a new thing for you to be one of a class. I'm sure you will like Miss Kaye."

"If she's like the mistress in Sara Crewe I shall hate her," declared Sylvia.

"But she's not. She's very kind and not at all prim. She takes the girls the most delightful country walks, and sometimes they go down to the beach. You're so fond of the seaside, aren't you?"

"Yes," said Sylvia doubtfully, "when it's holidays, and you and Father are there. I shall have to pretend I'm an outlaw or a hostage, like Richard in The Little Duke, and that my subjects are busy fighting to keep my kingdom while I'm away."

"Imagine anything you wish, dear; but I don't suppose you will need to amuse yourself with pretendings at Aberglyn. You will find some fresh books there, at any rate; there is a large school library."

"I'd like that. But oh, Mother, I shall have my birthday at school!"

"I'm sorry for that; but we can send you your presents, and you shall have your party when you come home. Now, won't you be my brave girl, and cheer up? I want to begin to decide what things you're to take with you, and what must be left behind."

So much had to happen during Sylvia's last brief week at home that from morning till night the days seemed completely full. Her usual lessons with her governess were given up, and the schoolroom turned for a time into a kind of outfitting establishment. Miss Saunders, the dressmaker, was installed at the table with her sewing machine, working at a school frock and a new autumn coat, while her mother and Miss Holt between them hastily finished winter underclothes.

"We don't know how soon the weather may turn cold," said Mrs. Lindsay, "and it's as well to send everything at once if we can, though I expect the thick nightdresses will have to follow."

Sylvia found it really rather exciting, and if it had not been for the thought of parting from her father and mother she would have quite enjoyed being a person of such great importance. It was decidedly gratifying to have Aunt Louisa coming in every day to consult about her clothes and assist in choosing her new hat; she had never taken so much notice of her little niece before, except occasionally to express disapproval, and Sylvia felt that at last her aunt was giving her the consideration which was only her due. Then the shopping expeditions were great fun; it seemed nice to buy yards of hair ribbon at a time, and several pairs of boots and gloves, as well as a dozen pocket handkerchiefs, a mackintosh, and a pair of goloshes. Miss Holt was kept busy marking her new possessions, stitching tapes on stockings, and lengthening her winter petticoats.

She had quite a number of presents given her to take to school. Aunt Louisa surprised her one day with a lovely green Russia-leather writing case, fitted inside with notepaper, envelopes, postcards, and everything she would be likely to need for her letters home, including a pen with an ivory handle, and six gilt nibs. There was a key that would lock and unlock it, and her initials were stamped in gold letters on the top flap. To say that she was pleased would hardly express her satisfaction. Uncle George sent her a paintbox—not the ordinary children's kind which she had always had before, but one with china pans of good colours and proper sable brushes that had the most delicate points and would go neatly into corners that her old camel-hair ones would have certainly smudged. Her mother gave her a beautiful new Bible, bound in dark-purple morocco, with many illustrations of Eastern scenes, and maps and a concordance at the end.

"You must read a little piece every day, darling, as you do at home, though I shall not be there to explain it to you. Miss Holt has made you this pretty marker to keep your place, and I have put a sprig of lavender at our favourite chapter."

Father had bought her a Prayer Book and hymnbook in a case to take to church on Sundays, and added a tiny purse in which to keep her collection money. Cousin Cuthbert sent a cedarwood pencil box containing a blue-handled penknife, several new lead pencils, an indiarubber, and an ink eraser; the cook made her a box of toffee, and the housemaid crocheted a toilet tidy to hang on her dressing table. A large new trunk had arrived, and stood in the spare bedroom all ready to be packed, and so many parcels were being delivered from various shops that it was quite an excitement to carry each fresh one upstairs to the schoolroom and open it.

"I hope Miss Kaye will find you as well on as other girls of your age," said Miss Holt anxiously, as she sorted out a few lesson books and some pieces of music for Sylvia to take with her. "Do remember that aller is an irregular verb! I should be so ashamed if you began 'j'alle, tu alles, il alle,' as you did last week! I wish you would look up the dates of the kings and queens of England before you go, and your weights and measures. I'm afraid you are not very certain of some of them, especially square and cubic. I think you are pretty good at spelling, but I'm sure they will consider you write badly for nearly eleven years old; you don't hold your pen properly, and you make so many blots. I hope they won't ask you for the geography of Europe, for you've only learnt England and physical outlines; and when you play Clementi's second sonatina, don't forget that you always count the time wrong in the fourth bar. I have told you about it so often."

"All right, Miss Holt!" replied Sylvia, "I'll do my best, but I wish we could lose old Clementi; I do so hate the sonatinas. I hope my new teacher will give me some fresh pieces, and won't bother with the metronome. I think it's that which makes me count wrong. I'll tell her it's not your fault, anyway. Are you going to teach your nephews and nieces in Derbyshire?"

"No, they all attend a day school except the baby, who is too young for lessons. I shall have plenty to do in looking after them and the house. I hope you will be happy, Sylvia, in your new life. I have tried to ground you thoroughly, and any future teachers ought to find you fairly well-informed upon most subjects."

There was very little time left even for the final instructions which Miss Holt considered necessary; the days seemed literally to fly, and the last one came only too soon for all concerned. Effie and May called to say good-bye, much distressed at parting with their playfellow, and immensely impressed by the preparations, which Sylvia was secretly extremely proud of being able to show to them.

"You'll be too big to play with us when you come back," said Effie wistfully.

"No, I shan't," replied Sylvia, kissing them in a rather superior and patronizing manner. "I shall like to have you just as much at my Christmas party; but perhaps I shan't care to romp about quite in the same way, because, you see, when I come back I shall be eleven years old, and one of Miss Kaye's girls at Heathercliffe House."

CHAPTER III
The Third Class

Heathercliffe House was a large modern building which stood in its own grounds about a mile from the sea, and an equal distance from the railway station at Aberglyn. It looked bright and cheerful on the October afternoon when a cab containing Mrs. Lindsay and Sylvia turned in at the gate and drove slowly up the drive to the front door. Sylvia, gazing with eager eyes from the window, noticed the trim garden, the shrubbery of laurels and rhododendrons, the beds still gay with geraniums, and the smooth lawns where in the distance she could just catch a glimpse of girls playing tennis. As the cab passed under a big chestnut tree she saw a little girl of about her own age run rapidly to the top of a bank, and, hiding behind a broom bush, peep down with evident curiosity at the newcomers below. She was a bonny child with a creamy complexion, blue eyes, and thick, straight, brown hair, tied with a ribbon that at present hung over her left ear; she stared hard at Sylvia as the latter leaned out of the window, then, seeing Mrs. Lindsay in the background, she took fright and dashed away among the shrubs even more quickly than she had come.

"I wonder what her name is, and if I shall like her!" thought Sylvia. "She looks nice. Oh! There are some more of them!" as about half a dozen older girls paused in a game of croquet to glance at the cab, and several little ones, playing under a tree, pointed eagerly, for which they were evidently reproved by a teacher who was with them. There was no time, however, to see further; the cab had drawn up at the front steps, the cabman was ringing the bell, and Mrs. Lindsay was collecting small parcels and telling Sylvia to jump out first.

Sylvia felt very serious indeed when they were ushered into the drawing-room, and Miss Kaye came forward to meet them. She was a tall, pleasant-looking lady, still fairly young, with a fresh colour, brown eyes, and thick coils of smooth auburn hair. She had a brisk, cheerful manner, and was not in the least like the old-fashioned severe sort of mistress about whom Sylvia had read in What Katy did at School and Sara Crewe, and whom she had been expecting to see. She welcomed her new pupil kindly, and ordered tea to be brought in at once.

"Our usual schoolroom tea is at five o'clock," she said, "but to-day you shall have yours here, as I know you will wish to be with your mother as long as possible. Then, when you have seen your bedroom, and taken off your things, you will be ready to make friends with some of your companions."

Sylvia sat very solemnly during tea, listening to the talk between Miss Kaye and her mother, and though the mistress sometimes addressed a question to her she was much too shy to answer anything except "Yes" or "No". She was glad when the ordeal was over and Miss Kaye suggested that, as Mrs. Lindsay had only a short time left before she must return to the station, they would like to look through the school, and see both classrooms and dormitories.

When she tried afterwards to recall her first impressions of Heathercliffe House she had only a confused remembrance of clinging very tightly, almost desperately, to her mother's hand, as they were shown the neat bedrooms, the large empty playroom, the schoolrooms with their desks and blackboards, and took a peep into the dining-room where rows of girls of all ages were sitting round two long tables having tea. Then came the moment which she had been dreading from the beginning, that hurried last goodbye, that final hug as Mrs. Lindsay kissed her again and again and hastened down the steps into the cab, the rumble of the departing wheels, and the sudden sense that she was left alone in a school of more than thirty girls, and that she did not yet know one of them even by name. An overwhelming rush of homesickness swept over her, so bitter in its force that she almost cried out with the intensity of the pain; she stood still in the hall with the dazed expression of one newly awakened from a dream, turning a deaf ear to Miss Kaye's well-meant efforts at consolation, and longing only for some safe retreat where she might escape to have a little private weep, out of reach of watching eyes. Seeing the mistress pause to speak to a teacher who came at that instant from the dining-room, she seized the opportunity, and dived into the drawing-room, where she ran to the window to catch the last glimpse of the coachman's hat as he drove through the gate, and disappeared behind the trees and bushes which bordered the road. Miss Kaye did not follow her; perhaps long experience had taught her that it was sometimes best to leave new girls judiciously alone, and for a few minutes she stood playing absently with the tassel of the blind, and struggling hard to keep back her rising tears. Why had she been brought to school? Why had she not begged her mother to take her home with her? It was cruel to send her away. It was all Aunt Louisa's doing, she was sure. She could never make herself happy, and she should write to-night to her father and tell him so. Perhaps he might relent and come to fetch her.

"I shall be the most miserable girl in the school," she said to herself. "Far worse than Florence in The New Pupil; she only 'shed a few tears', and I'm going to cry quarts, I know I am."

She took out her handkerchief ready for the expected deluge, but life is often very different from what we propose, and before she had time to do more than wipe away the first scalding drop she was startled by a voice at her elbow. Turning round hastily she found herself face to face with the little girl who had run to the top of the bank to peep at her as she came up the drive, and who now stood smiling in a particularly friendly fashion.

"Miss Kaye has sent me to take you to the playroom," she said. "We've just finished tea. You've had yours, haven't you? So come along."

"What's your name?" asked Sylvia, stuffing her handkerchief back into her pocket in a hurry, and blinking the remains of a drop off her eyelashes. She was too proud to care to be caught crying like a baby, and hoped her companion had not noticed.

"Linda Marshall. I know yours. Miss Kaye told us this morning. You're going to be in our class, and you're to sleep in my bedroom, because I'm the only one who hasn't got a room mate. Do come! Miss Kaye'll be cross if we're not quick. We're not allowed in the drawing-room at all, only she sent me in to fetch you."

"Do you like being here?" asked Sylvia, following her new friend with some deliberation.

"Sh! we mayn't speak in the hall! There, I can talk to you now we're down the passage. Yes, of course, I like it. Everyone does; we have such jolly times. Now come here," pausing with her hand on the door handle, "I want to go in quite suddenly and surprise them."

She flung the door open, and, with a giggle, announced "Miss Sylvia Lindsay", giving our heroine such a vigorous push forward that she nearly fell into the midst of a group of girls who were standing close by. There were six of them, and they had evidently been waiting to see the new arrival, though they pretended they were only finding some books and putting away their paintboxes. They looked steadily at Sylvia, but no one volunteered a remark, and the silence would have grown oppressive had not Linda come to the rescue. "Now then," she cried, "have you all gone dumb? Sylvia, this is our class. I'll tell you their names. Connie Camden, Hazel Prestbury, Marian and Gwennie Woodhouse, Nina Forster, and Jessie Ellis. There were only seven of us before, and you'll make eight. It's a much nicer number, because we can just get up a set of lancers by ourselves now, without one of the second class joining. I hope you know the lancers?"

"A little," said Sylvia, who felt rather overwhelmed by the six pairs of eyes fixed upon her.

"We'll soon teach you if you don't. The dancing lessons begin next week, and they are such fun. Miss Delaney is a perfect dear. We all adore her. I'm sure you'll think she's sweet; won't she, girls?"

"Of course she will," said Marian Woodhouse. "I ought to know, because I learnt from Miss Delaney before I came here. We're to have the tarantella this term."

"And a skirt dance," added Hazel Prestbury. "Have you brought an accordion-pleated dress with you for dancing?"

"I don't think so," replied Sylvia. "But Mother was going to send some of my clothes afterwards. I came away in rather a hurry."

"You're late though," said Connie Camden. "It's nearly three weeks since we started the term. We came back on the 14th of September."

"Why didn't you come then?" asked Nina Forster.

"I don't know. Father only decided to send me a week ago."

"Well, you can try to catch us up, but we've done twenty pages of the new history," said Marian Woodhouse, "and read the first canto of Marmion. We shall have to tell you the story."

"I know it, thank you," replied Sylvia. "I had it with my governess at home."

"Oh!" said Marian, looking rather disgusted. "But I don't suppose you took any of the notes, and Miss Arkwright explains it quite differently from anyone else. What sums are you at?"

"Weights and measures," said Sylvia.

"Why, we did those in the baby class! We're doing fractions now."

"We've only just begun them," said Linda. "Don't bother about lessons, Marian. We've barely ten minutes before prep, and I want to show Sylvia her locker."

The six children who, with Linda and Sylvia, made up Class III at Miss Kaye's, were all very much of an age. Hazel Prestbury was the eldest; a tall fair girl of twelve, with regular features and a quantity of pretty light hair which fell below her waist, and of which she was exceedingly proud. She could be rather clever when she troubled to work, but as that did not often happen she rarely stood high in her form, though she was well advanced in music, and played better than many girls of thirteen and fourteen. Marian Woodhouse, only an inch shorter, had a good complexion, and curly ruddy hair plaited in a thick pigtail. So far she had easily kept head of the class, for she was bright, and such a good guesser that she often contrived to make Miss Arkwright think she knew more than was really the case. She liked to manage other people, to take the lead, and keep everybody up to the mark, and was more of a favourite with the teachers than she was with her companions. There could have been no greater contrast to her than her sister Gwennie, a round, rosy dumpling of a girl, so gentle and quiet and unassuming that she scarcely ever seemed to have an opinion of her own, being content to follow Marian blindly, whom she considered the cleverest person in the whole world. The girls often called the pair "Voice and Echo", because poor Gwennie so faithfully upheld everything which her elder sister said, no matter whether it proved right or wrong. Connie Camden was the jolliest little romp imaginable. She was not at all pretty, and wore her lank, colourless brown hair cut short like a boy's, but she had frank grey eyes, and though she was continually getting into scrapes, her honest, straightforward ways atoned for much that was lacking in other respects. She was one of a large family, and had three sisters in the school, all with the same reputation for endless jokes and high spirits. Nina Forster, a graceful, delicate-looking child of ten, spoilt by her weak mouth and indecisive chin, was generally lost in adoration of some favourite among the bigger girls. Her friendships were of the briefest, but very hot while they lasted, and she seemed able to change her affections so easily from one object to another that she had a different idol nearly every week. Jessie Ellis, whose plain, freckled little face could look almost pretty when she smiled, had been placed in the third class solely because she was too big to remain any longer in the Kindergarten. She was dull at lessons, having a poor memory and a lack of any power of grasping a subject; she was the despair of Miss Arkwright, and took her seat placidly at the bottom of the form as regularly as Marian Woodhouse occupied the top.

Sylvia was excused from preparation on this first evening, and was taken instead by Miss Coleman to unpack her box and arrange her drawers.

Heathercliffe House had been specially built for a school, and was so designed that, instead of long dormitories or curtained cubicles, there were rows of small bedrooms, each intended to accommodate two girls. The one which Sylvia was to share with Linda Marshall stood at the end of the upper corridor. It was a pretty little room with a pink paper, and a white-enamelled mantelpiece. The furniture was also in white enamel, and consisted of a washstand, two chests of drawers, and a large wardrobe fixed into the wall, containing two separate compartments with a drawer for best hats at the bottom of each. The beds had pink quilts to match the paper, the jugs and basins were white with pink rims, while even the mats on the dressing table were made of white muslin over pink calico.

Sylvia looked round with approval. She had expected school to be a bare, cheerless place, but this was as dainty as her own room at home. The walls were hung with pictures in oak frames, there was a small bookshelf beside each bed where Bibles and favourite volumes could be kept, and the mantelpiece was covered with tiny china cats, dogs, and other animals, which Miss Coleman said belonged to Linda.

It took some time to arrange Sylvia's possessions, for the mistress was very particular as to where they were put, and informed Sylvia that she would be expected to keep them exactly in that order, and her drawers would be examined once a week.

"Your dressing gown is to hang behind the door; there is a hook here for your bath towel, which, by the by, you are never to leave in the bathroom; your sponge must go in the lefthand sponge basket, and your bedroom slippers under this chair. Your coats must, of course, always be kept in the wardrobe, but your boots are to go downstairs. You may lay your writing case and paintbox on the chest of drawers, or keep them in your locker in the playroom."

"I'm glad I brought a white nightdress case," thought Sylvia; "it looks much nicer on the pink bed than the blue one Mother nearly packed instead. When I've put out my photos it will feel more homey. I'll write to Mother to-morrow and tell her all about it."

When at last everything had been tidily set in its right place, and a servant had carried the empty box to the boxroom, Miss Coleman took Sylvia to the playroom, and, giving her a book, told her she might read until her companions came to join her. The girls of the third class did preparation and practising until seven, after which they were allowed half an hour's recreation until supper. They had the playroom to themselves, as the little ones had gone to bed by that time, and the elder girls had a separate sitting-room of their own. Precisely as the clock struck seven Linda Marshall, Hazel Prestbury, Connie Camden, and Nina Forster came tearing in.

"I thought we'd find you here," cried Linda. "We're just through prep., but I don't know my history in the least. Do you, Hazel?"

"Not a morsel. Miss Arkwright will scold to-morrow. It's dreadfully hard, though; I don't suppose anybody will know it properly."

"Except Marian," said Nina.

"Oh, yes, Marian! She'll scrape through somehow. She always does. Look here, Sylvia! If you're clever, I wish you'd take down Marian Woodhouse. We're quite tired of seeing her always top."

"She's so conceited about it," said Connie Camden.

"She thinks no one else can do anything but herself," said Nina Forster.

"Yes, do try, Sylvia," said Linda; "it would be lovely if you got above her. It would do her ever so much good."

"Oh, do!" pleaded the others.

"Why don't you try yourselves?" asked Sylvia.

"Oh, we can't; it's no use!" said Connie; "but you look clever, and I'm sure you'll be able to learn things. She needn't think she's going to have it all her own way this term, because——"

"Hush, she's here!" said Hazel quickly, as the door opened, and Marian came in, carrying her music case, followed shortly afterwards by Gwennie and Jessie Ellis.

"What shall we play to-night?" asked Connie, who had gone rather red. "I don't think she heard," she whispered to Hazel.

"Word-making," said Marian decisively. "Here's the box."

"Oh no!" exclaimed Nina and Hazel, "that's a stupid game. We don't like it at all."

"Yes, you do. Don't be silly. Come along."

"I vote for telegrams," suggested Linda.

"No!" cried Marian.

"Yes!" cried the others in such overwhelming majority that Marian had to give way, though she looked anything but pleased.

Pencils and pieces of paper were collected, the eight girls seated themselves round the table, and each set to work to concoct a telegram the words of which must commence with twelve letters read out at random, in the order in which they were given. The letters were: T, C, M, I, C, D, C, I, W, E, A, B. They proved a little puzzling to fit together, but after much nibbling of pencils, and knitting of brows, everybody managed to get something written, and Marian volunteered to read them out.

The first happened to be Sylvia's. She had put: "Tell Charley Mother ill. Cook dead. Come immediately. Will explain all. Bertha."

"It's not bad," said Marian condescendingly, "but you don't know how to spell. You've written C-h-a-r-l-e-y."

"Well, and that's the right way too!" said Sylvia.

"Indeed it's not, it's C-h-a-r-l-i-e. Why, even Jessie Ellis knows that."

"I've seen it C-h-a-r-l-e-y in a book," objected Sylvia, who meant to fight her own battles.

"Then it must have been a misprint."

"I believe you can spell it both ways," said Hazel, "just like Lily or Lillie."

"Then it's old-fashioned, and my way's the best," declared Marian, who loved to argue.

"Oh, get on and never mind!" cried Linda. "We want to hear the other telegrams. What does it matter how we spell them?"

At half-past seven a tray with glasses of milk and plates of bread-and-butter and biscuits was brought into the room, and, when supper was finished, Mercy Ingledew, the monitress, came to see that all went off to their bedrooms, going upstairs with them to help to plait their hair and superintend the due brushing of teeth and the tidy disposal of clothes. From the beginning it had seemed so new and strange and exciting that Sylvia had not yet found time for the tears which she had fully intended to shed, and it was only when she was in bed and the light turned out that she suddenly remembered how homesick she was. Even then the fresh events kept mixing themselves up with her regrets, and as she mopped her cheeks with her damp pocket handkerchief she thought: "It's much more interesting than I expected. I shall like Linda. But Marian Woodhouse needn't think she's going to teach me everything. I dare say I can learn lessons as well as she does. It would be lovely if I could be head of the class. I'm going to try and try just as hard as I possibly can, and then I could write to Mother and tell her I was top."

And with this meritorious resolution she fell asleep.

CHAPTER IV
A First Day at School

There were thirty-three girls at Heathercliffe House, and they were divided into four forms. Miss Kaye herself taught the first class, Miss Barrett the second, Miss Arkwright the third, and Miss Coleman the Kindergarten, while Mademoiselle took French and Needlework, and Miss Denby the music, a few elder girls, however, learning from a master, who came twice a week to give lessons.

Sylvia found that she very soon settled down into the ordinary routine of her new life. Miss Kaye was kind, and tried to make school seem as much like home as possible. There were a certain number of clearly defined rules, but on the whole the pupils were allowed a good deal of liberty, which she trusted to their sense of honour not to abuse. Four of the eldest girls were monitresses, responsible for the behaviour of the third and fourth forms, and the younger ones were encouraged to come to them with their troubles or difficulties.

"You see, telling a monitress isn't like telling a teacher," said Linda, "and Mercy Ingledew's so nice she never makes mischief. I'm glad she's on our landing instead of Kathleen Gilchrist."

To Linda Sylvia had been attracted at once, and when she found that her room-mate liked the same occupations and the same books as herself, had read Eight Cousins and The Little Duke and was just beginning Ivanhoe, she felt the friendship was sealed. Linda was certainly a very different companion from Effie and May or any of the other children whom Sylvia had known at home. She seemed so much older and more sensible, and was interested in many things which she was only too pleased to explain to her new friend.

"You must come and see our gardens," she said on the first morning, when lessons were over and the girls were amusing themselves in the grounds. "They're over here at the other side of the lawn. We may each have a small one of our own or share a double one. They don't look very nice now, because of course we couldn't take care of them in the holidays and the weeds grew so dreadfully, but it's getting time to dig them up and plant bulbs. This is mine. There isn't much in it now the annuals are over. If you like I'll give it up and join at a larger one with you."

"That would be jolly," said Sylvia, "if there's one to spare."

"Oh yes! Nobody has that big double one by the cucumber frame. Shall we begin now to weed, and on Saturday we can move out any plants we want and decide what we'll put in it. Come along for the gardening tools. I shall have to lend you mine."

The tools were kept in a shed at the back of the house. Linda had a dear little set of spade, rake, hoe, trowel, and basket, so the pair set to work at once upon the new patch of ground.

"Please dig carefully," said Linda, "in case we come across any treasures. This piece belonged to Ellie Turner and Sophy Hardman, and they may have left something in it. Yes, I believe that's a clump of daffodils. I remember they had some, and there was a root of forget-me-not in the corner if no one else has taken it away."

"Couldn't we do anything special with our garden?" asked Sylvia.

"What do you mean by special?" said Linda.

"Something that would be different from anybody else's. Couldn't we put our names in flowers?"

"We might sow them in mustard and cress in the spring."

"Yes, but now. Suppose we put Linda at one end and Sylvia at the other in white stones."

"Oh, that would be lovely! What a glorious idea! We'll borrow Sadie Thompson's wheelbarrow and do it at once. How did you think of such a jolly thing? I wonder where Sadie is. We'll go and look for her."

It was a vain search, however, for Sadie could not be found, and nobody appeared to know where she was; so after hunting for some time Linda gave it up.

"What a nuisance!" she cried. "I shall take it out without asking her; we really can't wait. I don't suppose she'll mind. We shan't do it any harm." And she trundled the little barrow out of the shed and wheeled it to the farther end of the back carriage drive, where she thought they might find some stones.

Heathercliffe House had the most delightful garden. In front were two large lawns, an upper one used for croquet and a lower one for tennis. Between the two was a rosery where a great many beautiful roses were still blooming, although it was now October.

"On Miss Kaye's birthday," said Linda, "we always make her a garland and put it on her head. She laughs, but she wears it for a little while and it looks so nice."

The front carriage drive was well rolled and kept very neatly, but the back one was just like a country lane; there were thick trees on each side with grass and wild flowers growing between, and in a corner near the gate was a small disused quarry, with high, rocky sides covered with gorse bushes and long brambles. Linda could not have chosen a better place to find stones; there were any number lying about, and though they were not white ones, they were a very light grey colour. There were a few blackberries still remaining on the brambles, but the ripest hung far out of reach and were quite impossible to pick, though Sylvia scratched herself in a vain attempt.

"It's no use. I'd best give them up and stick to the stones," she said. "If we ever go down to the beach we might bring back some shells too. Do you find any here?"

"Yes, lots, at one particular place, pink and white and yellow ones. They'd look pretty as an edging, but it would take a fearful long time to fetch enough to go far. I expect we shall need a great many barrows of stones before we can make both our names. I wouldn't pick up too small ones if I were you. There, I can't possibly wheel any more, so we'd better start."

The barrow was heavy and they took it in turns. It seemed a long way all round the back drive, through the rosery, and along the apple-tree avenue till they reached their own garden and tipped the stones down in a heap. A very small pile it looked, too, only sufficient for about three letters, and they sighed to think of the number of journeys that would be needed before their great scheme was complete. Off they went again, however, to the quarry and refilled the barrow as fast as they could.

"There can't be very much time before dinner," said Linda, "though I haven't heard the first bell yet. We must get on as quickly as we can, because I don't know what I should do if there wasn't time to put Sadie's barrow away. We have to run in the very second we hear the bell, and wash our hands."

"It's full enough now," said Sylvia. "I'll start with it first. Don't jog me or I shall upset it."

"I think we might make a short cut," suggested Linda. "Instead of walking all round the drive and the avenue we'll go straight through the shrubbery, it will take off an enormous corner and save us the hill by the rosery. We're not supposed to go there, but no one will notice."

They plunged therefore under the trees, wheeling the little barrow with some difficulty over the grass and among the rhododendrons, and were just getting in sight of the lawn when Linda suddenly stopped and clutched Sylvia by the arm.

"Look!" she cried. "There's Sadie Thompson coming with Gertie Warburton. What will she say when she finds we've taken French leave with her barrow? She'll be ever so cross. Give it me quick and we'll rush over here amongst the bushes. Perhaps they won't see us."

She seized the handles from Sylvia's grasp and they scuttled as fast as they could under the over-hanging boughs of a particularly big rhododendron, which appeared to offer a safe retreat.

"Quick, quick, they're looking!" cried Linda, bending low to avoid the branches and scrambling farther under the bush. "Hullo! Why! Oh! I say! What's happened?" She might well exclaim, for to her extreme astonishment the wheelbarrow suddenly seemed to plunge into the ground, and she saw before her nothing but the tips of the handles standing out from among a quantity of dead and withered leaves.