BY HONOUR

BOUND

A SCHOOL STORY FOR GIRLS

BY

BESSIE MARCHANT

AUTHOR OF

“DIANA CARRIES ON,” ETC.

THOMAS NELSON AND SONS, Ltd.

LONDON, EDINBURGH, NEW YORK

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By Honour Bound

CHAPTER I

WHAT DOROTHY SAW

Stepping out of the train in the wake of Tom, Dorothy was at once caught in the crowd on Paddington arrival platform. She was pushed and squeezed and buffeted, but her eyes were shining, and her face was all smiles, for she felt that she was seeing life at last.

“Whew! Some crowd, isn’t it?” panted Tom, as a fat man laden with a great bundle of rugs and golf clubs barged into him from behind, while a lady carrying a yelling infant charged at him from the side, and catching him unawares, sent him lurching against Dorothy.

She was sturdy, and stood up to the impact without disaster, only saying in a breathless fashion, “Oh, Tom, what a lot of people! Where do you expect they all come from?”

“Can’t say. You had better ask ’em,” Tom chuckled, as he sprang for the nearest taxi, and secured it too, although a ferocious looking man, with brown whiskers like a doormat, was calling out that he wanted that particular vehicle.

Dorothy meanwhile secured a porter, and extricating Tom’s luggage and her own from the pile on the platform, the things were bundled into the taxi; she and Tom tumbled in after them, and they were moving away from the platform before the angry person with doormat whiskers had done making remarks about them.

“That is what I call a good get-away,” Tom sighed with satisfaction, lolling at ease in his corner. “You will have time to buy your finery now, without any danger of our missing the train.”

“Bless you, I should have taken the time in any case, whether we lost the train or not,” rejoined Dorothy calmly. Then she asked, with a twinkle in her eye, “Are you coming to help me choose the frock?”

“Not me; what should I be likely to know about a girl’s duds?” and Tom looked as superior as he felt.

Dorothy leant back laughing. “Sometimes you talk as if you know a lot,” she said mischievously. “Do you remember Brenda Gomme and the marigold satin?”

Tom grinned, but stuck to it that he had not been so far wrong in calling the thing marigold, seeing that it was yellow, and marigolds were yellow.

“Roses are red—sometimes,” she answered crisply; “for all that we do not call all red things rose colour. Hullo! is this Victoria already? See, Tom, we will cloakroom everything we’ve got, and then we shall be able to enjoy ourselves.”

When this was accomplished, and the taxi paid, the two plunged into the busy streets outside Victoria, walking briskly along, and stopping occasionally to ask the way to the great multiple shop to which they were bound.

“There it is! Look, Tom!” There was actual rapture in Dorothy’s tone as she pranced along, waving her hand excitedly in the direction of the big plate-glass windows of Messrs. Sharman and Song.

At the door of the lift she paused to beg Tom to come with her; but he, his attention caught by a window filled with football requisites, was already engrossed, and turned a deaf ear to her pleading.

Dorothy was shot up in the lift to the next floor, and was at once thrilled and half-awed by the splendid vista of showrooms stretching away before her enchanted gaze. Then a saleswoman took her in hand, and she plunged at once into the business of buying a little frock for evening wear, with the tip kind old Aunt Louisa had given to her.

The frocks displayed were too grown-up and elaborate for a schoolgirl. Dorothy knew what she wanted, and was not going to be satisfied until she got it. The saleswoman went off in search of something more simple, and for the moment Dorothy was left alone staring into the long looking-glass, not seeing her own reflection, but watching the people moving about the showroom singly and in groups: it was so early in the day that there were no crowds.

She saw a girl detach herself from a group of people lower down the room, and wander in and out in an aimless fashion between the showcases. Suddenly the girl halted by a table piled with pretty and costly jumpers. Stooping over them for a moment she swiftly slid one out of sight under her coat, and with a leisurely step turned back past a big case to join her party.

She swiftly slid a jumper under her coat

Dorothy gave a little gasp of dismay. It had been so quickly done that at first she did not realize she had been watching a very neat piece of shoplifting. Then she sprang forward to meet the saleswoman, who was coming towards her with an armful of frocks. She was going to denounce that girl who was a thief, she was just opening her lips to cry out that a jumper had been stolen, she looked round to see where the girl was, but the light-fingered one had gone—vanished as completely as if she had never been—and Dorothy was struck dumb. If the girl had escaped out of the room, of what use to accuse her? Even if she were still in the building she might easily have passed the stolen garment on to some one else. Then it would be her word against Dorothy’s accusation. There would be an awful fuss, her journey would be delayed Tom would be furious, and——

“I think you will like these better, Moddom,” the voice of the saleswoman cut into Dorothy’s agitated thinking.

She hesitated, and was lost. She could not make a disturbance by telling what she had seen—she simply could not.

All the time she was choosing her frock she felt like a thief herself. Half her pleasure in her purchase vanished, and she was chilled as if the sun had gone behind a cloud, leaving the day drear and cold.

In spite of this the garment was as satisfactory as it could be, and the price was so reasonable that there was a margin left over for shoes and stockings to wear with the frock. Oh, life was not such a tragedy after all, and Dorothy hugged her parcel with joy as she went down in the lift to join Tom, who was still absorbed by the window filled with football things.

“Did you buy up the shop?” he asked, as they went off briskly in search of lunch.

“Why, no; it would have needed a pretty long purse to do that,” she said with a laugh; and then she burst into the story of the shoplifting she had seen, asking Tom what he would have done if he had been in her place.

“Yelled out, ‘Stop thief!’ and have been pretty quick about it too,” he answered with decision, as they settled down at a corner table in a quiet little restaurant for lunch.

“Oh, I could not!” There was real distress in Dorothy’s tone. “The girl was so nice to look at, and she was well-dressed too. Oh, Tom, how could she have stooped to such meanness?”

“Women are mostly like that.” Tom wagged his head with a superior air as he spoke. “It is very few women who have any sense of honour; I should say it is peculiar to the sex. When boys and girls have games together the girls always cheat, and expect the boys to sit down under it. It is the same in the mixed schools; the girls expect to get by thieving what the boys have to work hard for. When they are older, and ought to know better, it is still the same; they expect to have what they want, and if they can’t get it by fair means, why, they get it by foul. They don’t care so long as they get it.”

Dorothy stared at him for a moment as if amazed at his outburst; then she laughed merrily, and told him he was a miserable old cynic, who ought to be shut up in a home for men only, and be compelled to cook his own food and darn his own socks to the end of the chapter.

“Well, in that case I shouldn’t be going back to school to-day, with the prospect of being invited over to the girls’ house every fortnight or so during the term—rather jolly that would be.” Tom winked at his sister as he spoke, and then they laughed together.

“I should feel just awful at the prospect of Compton Schools if you were not going to be there too,” she said with a little catch of her breath; and then she cried out that they must hurry, or they would certainly be late for the train.

It was a scramble to get their things out of the cloakroom, to get on to the platform, and to find a place in the Ilkestone train. At first they had to stand in the corridor, then a voice from farther along the corridor called to them “Tom Sedgewick, there is room for one here Is that your sister? Bring her along.”

“Some of our crowd are down there; come along and be introduced,” said Tom, catching Dorothy by the hand and hurrying her forward. “It is Hazel Dring, and Margaret Prime is with her. They are pals—if you see one, you may be sure the other is not far off.”

Hazel Dring was a tall girl with fair hair and a very nice smile. Margaret Prime was smaller, a quiet girl with a rather shrinking manner, as if she was afraid of being snubbed, Both of them greeted Dorothy in the friendliest fashion. They made room for her to sit with them, although they were already crowded; and they were so kind that she had to be glad she had met them on the train, although secretly she would have chosen to be alone with Tom.

“You are not a scholarship girl, are you?” asked Hazel. “You look nearly grown up.”

“I am not clever enough for a scholarship girl,” Dorothy answered with a little sigh; “Tom has the brains in our family. I am seventeen, and I am to have one year at the Compton Schools.”

“Just long enough to win the Lamb Bursary,” cried Hazel eagerly. “I expect you will be in the Sixth, you are so big; and if you are, you will be eligible for the Mutton Bone.”

“The Mutton Bone!” Dorothy looked puzzled, even frowning, as was her wont when perplexed.

Margaret laughed, then answered for Hazel. “That is what we call the Lamb Bursary—a term of affection, mind you. We would not cry it down for worlds; it is the top strawberry in the basket of the Compton Schools, and there are a lot of us going to have a try for it this year.”

“Oh yes, I know the Lamb Bursary is a prize worth having,” said Dorothy. “Tom has talked about it, and groaned a lot because there was not an equal gift for the boys. But I don’t suppose I should have much chance for it as I am not at all clever.”

“Oh, that does not matter so much if you are anything of a sticker at work,” said Hazel; “the Lamb Bursary goes to the best all-round scholar of the year. You might be very brilliant in some subjects, but if you were a duffer at others you would not stand a chance. For instance, you might stand very high in mathematics, you might be a prodigy in chemistry, but if you had not decent marks for languages, history, and music you would be left, for the judging is on the averages of all the subjects. It is really a very good way, as it gives quite an ordinary girl a chance.”

“What do you mean by judging on the averages?” asked Dorothy, frowning more than before.

“This way,” put in Margaret, whose business in life seemed to be to supplement Hazel. “You might get a hundred marks for maths; well, eighty would be a good average, so you would be put down for eighty. Say you only got twenty for history; the twenty left over from your maths average would be put to it, but it would not bring you up to your average of eighty, don’t you see? It is a queer way of judging, and must give the staff and the examiners no end of trouble, but it does work out well for the girl who is plodding but not especially clever. In most subjects one could hope to make eighty out of a hundred, but oh! it means swotting all the time. One can’t shirk a subject that does not make much appeal, because every set of marks must be up to the average.”

“I don’t mind work,” said Dorothy, her frown disappearing, “but I’m not brilliant anywhere, and that has been the trouble. The Bursary sends you to Cambridge, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, the full university course. Oh! it is well worth trying for, even if one has little or no chance of getting it.” Margaret’s face glowed as she spoke, and Dorothy thought she was really nice-looking when she was animated.

“Webster and Poole are wedged into a corner along there; I am going to talk to them,” said Tom, thrusting his head in from the corridor; and then he went off, and Dorothy did not see him again until the train slowed up at Claydon Junction, where they had to change for Sowergate.

Quite a crowd of boys and girls poured out of the London train, racing up the steps and over the bridge to the other platform where the little Sowergate train was waiting. Dorothy went over with Margaret, while Hazel and Tom stayed behind to sort out the luggage. There was a wait of ten minutes or so. The carriage was crowded out with girls, some of them new, like Dorothy, and others, old stagers, who swaggered a little by way of showing off. The talk was a queer jumble of what they had been doing in vac, of the hockey chances of the coming term, and what sort of programme they would have for social evenings. Dorothy sat silent now; indeed she was feeling rather lonely and out of it, for every one was appealing to Margaret, and Hazel was at the other end of the carriage, while Tom was nowhere to be seen.

“Rhoda Fleming has come back,” said a stout girl who had flaming red hair, “I saw her at Victoria. She says she is going to stay another year, so that she can have a chance at the Mutton Bone.”

“She will never win it,” chorused several.

“She would stand a very good chance if only she would work,” said Margaret quietly. “Rhoda is really clever, and she has such a good memory too.”

“It is like you to say a good word for her, Meg, but she has snubbed you most awfully in her time.” The red-haired reached out a friendly hand to pat Margaret on the shoulder, but Dorothy noticed that Margaret winced, turning a distressful red.

“I don’t mind who snubs me, provided Hazel does not,” she said with a rather forced laugh.

“There is not much danger of my doing that, kid.” Hazel nodded her head from the other end of the carriage, and looked her affection for her chum.

Dorothy thrilled. How beautiful it must be to have a girl chum, and to love her like that. She and Tom had always been great pals, but she had never had a chum among girls. Her own two sisters, Gussie and Tilda, otherwise Augusta and Matilda, were four years younger than herself, and being twins, were in consequence all in all to each other.

Just then the train ran out of tunnel number three, Dorothy caught sight of two flags fluttering amid groups of trees on the landward side of the railway track, and at that moment a great roar of cheering broke out along the train. The girls in the carriage yelled with all their might, handkerchiefs fluttered, and Dorothy wondered what was happening.

“See those flags?” cried Margaret, seizing her arm and shaking it violently. “They are the school flags, and we are saluting them. Now, then, yell for all you are worth!”

And Dorothy yelled, putting her back into it too, for was she not also a Compton girl?

CHAPTER II

A SHOCK

A string of vehicles were drawn up outside Sowergate Station—there were three taxis, two rather dilapidated horse cabs, the station bus, and four bath chairs. There was a wild rush for these last by the girls in the know, and when they were secured the fortunate ones set off in a race for the school, the chair-man who arrived first being promised double fare.

Dorothy, with Hazel, Margaret, the two Goatbys, and little Muriel Adams were squeezed into a taxi, and the luggage was taken up on a lorry. The girls were a tight fit, as Daisy Goatby was an out-size in girls; however, the distance was short, so crowding did not matter. They all cheered loudly when they passed the labouring chair-men, who were making very good way indeed, until one unlucky fellow, in trying to pass another, tipped his chair over in the ditch and spilled the passenger, though, luckily, without doing any damage.

Dorothy felt rather sore because Tom had gone off without even saying good-bye, but she was too proud to let the others know she was hurt. There was such a bustle and commotion on the platform and in the station that no one would notice the omission but herself. It was quite possible that Tom had forgotten that he had not said good-bye to his sister, and she strove to forget it herself.

There were no conveyances for the boys. Their school was so close to the station, they had only to race across the rails, and then over the road leading up to Beckworth Camp, and the school gates were in front of them. But it was nearly a mile up the steep little Sowergate valley to the funny old house under the hill where the girls had their school.

Dorothy thought she had never seen such a queer medley of buildings as the Compton School for girls. It was built round in a half-circle under the hill, and at first sight seemed to consist chiefly of conservatories; but that was because most of the rooms opened on to a conservatory which ran the whole length of the house, and served as a useful way of getting from room to room. The place was very big, and very rambling; it had lovely grounds, and the sixty girls were lodged in the extreme of comfort and airy spaciousness.

Dorothy was received by Miss Arden, the Head, and by her handed over to the matron, who allotted her a cubicle in No. 2 dormitory, in company with Hazel, Margaret, and seven other girls. It was half-past five by this time, and matron said dinner was at six o’clock: it was to be at this time to-day, as most of the girls had been travelling, and had had no proper meal since breakfast. By the time dinner was over the luggage would have arrived, and there would be unpacking to be done.

Dorothy was thankful to drop the curtains of her cubicle, and to find herself alone for a few minutes, it had been such a wildly exciting sort of arrival. Even as she sank down for a moment on the chair by the side of her bed a great burst of cheering broke out, and she looked out of the window to see that the first bath chair had turned in past the lodge gate, and was being uproariously welcomed by a group of girls who were lingering on the step of the hall door for that purpose.

She had to burst out laughing at the ridiculous sight the chair-man presented, decked out with coloured paper streamers round his hat and a huge rosette pinned to his coat. He was panting with his exertions, while his fare, still seated in the chair, was haranguing them all on her splendid victory, when two other chairs came in at the gate, and were presently followed by the last, which had been overturned.

There was only time for a wash and brush-up; then, as the gong sounded, streams of girls from various parts of the house poured in the direction of the dining-hall. They streamed along the conservatory that was so gay with all sorts of flowers, and turned into the dining-hall to meet another stream of girls coming from dormitories No. 4 and No. 5, which were reached by a different stairway.

Dorothy was with the girls coming through the conservatory, she was looking at the flowers as she was hurried along, and she was thinking what a lovely place it was. There seemed to be a great crowd of girls in the dining-hall, and because it was the first meal of term, they were a little longer getting to their places. The various form-mistresses were busy drafting them each to the right table, and Dorothy had a sense of whirling confusion wrapping her round, making all things unreal, while her vision was blurred, and the sound of voices seemed to come from ever so far away. Then the sensation passed. She was herself again, she was standing on one side of Hazel Dring, while Margaret stood on the other, and she lifted her eyes to look at her opposite neighbour.

A shiver of very real dismay shook her then, for in the tall girl confronting her across the table she recognized the girl who had stolen the jumper in the showroom of the London shop.

Oh, it surely, surely could not be the same! Dorothy stared at her wide-eyed and bewildered. Her gaze was so persistent and unwinking that presently the girl looked at her in annoyance, saying curtly,—

“What are you staring at? Have you found a black mark on my face?”

Dorothy flushed. “I beg your pardon, I was thinking I had seen you before.” She stammered a little as she spoke, wondering what answer she would make if the girl should ask her where she had seen her.

“That is hardly likely, I should think,” answered the girl. Then, as if with intent to be rude, she said coldly, “I have no acquaintance with any of the scholarship girls.”

Dorothy gasped as if some one had shot a bowl of cold water in her face; she was fairly amazed at the rudeness and audacity of the girl, and she subsided into silence, while Hazel said crisply,—

“Dorothy Sedgewick is not a scholarship girl, and until after the examination to-morrow morning we do not even know whether she is a dunce or not, so you need not regard her as a possible rival until then.”

“I am not afraid of rivals,” said the girl with superb indifference; and Dorothy caught her breath in a little strangled gasp as she wondered what would happen if she were to announce across the table that she had seen this proud girl steal a silk jumper from the showrooms of Messrs. Sharman and Song only a few hours before.

Just then a girl lower down the table leaned forward and said, “I did not see you at Redhill this morning, Rhoda; which way did you come?”

The girl who had snubbed Dorothy turned with a smile to answer the question. “I came up to town with Aunt Kate, who was going to do some shopping, and then I came on from Victoria.”

Dorothy’s gaze was fixed on the girl again: it was just as if she could not take her eyes away from her; and Rhoda, turning again, as if drawn by some secret spell, flushed an angry red right up to the roots of her hair. But she did not speak to Dorothy—did not appear to see her even; and the meal went on its way to the end, while the girls chattered to each other and to the mistresses.

“Who was that girl sitting opposite who was so very rude?” asked Dorothy, finding herself alone for a minute with Margaret when dinner had come to an end.

“That was Rhoda Fleming,” answered Margaret; then she asked, “Whatever did you say to her to put her in such an awful wax?”

“I only said that I thought I had seen her before,” said Dorothy slowly.

“And had you?” asked Margaret, opening her eyes rather widely, for there did not seem anything in that for Rhoda to have taken umbrage about.

“I may have been mistaken.” Dorothy was on her guard now. She might have told Rhoda where she had seen her, had they been alone; but to mention the matter to any one else was unthinkable—it would be like uttering a libel.

“You succeeded in getting her goat up pretty considerably,” said Margaret with a little laugh. “You may always know that Rhoda is pretty thoroughly roused when she mentions scholarship girls—they are to her what a red rag is to a bull. I am a scholarship girl myself, and I have had to feel the lash of her tongue very often.”

“But why?” Dorothy’s tone was frankly amazed. “It is surely a great honour to be a scholarship girl—to have won the way here for yourself; I only wish I had been able to do it.”

“Oh yes, the cleverness part is all right, although very often it is not so much cleverness as adaptability, or luck pure and simple,” said Margaret, who hesitated a minute; and then, as if summoning her courage by an effort, went on, “You see, the scholarship girls often come up from the elementary schools. I did myself: it was my only chance of getting here, for my mother is a widow, and poor; she keeps a boarding-house in Ilkestone. I am telling you this straight off; it is only fair that you should know. Seeing me with Hazel Dring, you might think our social positions were equal, or at least not so far apart as they really are. Hazel’s people are rich. She has never in all her life had to come within nodding distance of poverty, or even of narrow means. But she chose me for her chum, and we never trouble about the difference in our positions.”

“Of course not; why should you?” Dorothy’s tone was friendly—she had even slipped her arm round Margaret’s waist—and was shocked to see how the girl shrank and shivered as she made her proud little statement of her position. “If you will let me be your friend too, I shall be very pleased and proud. My father is a doctor, and he has to work very hard indeed to feed, clothe, and educate his six children, so there is certainly not much difference between you and me, whatever there may be between you and Hazel. But I am so surprised to find that your home is in Ilkestone—why, that is quite close, the next station on from Claydon Junction—and yet you came from London with Hazel.”

“I have spent all the vac at Watley with Hazel. I was not very well last term,” explained Margaret. “Mother is always so busy, too, during the long hols that I am something of an embarrassment at home; so it was an all-round benefit for me to be away with Hazel.”

“I see.” Dorothy’s arm tightened a little round the slender figure of Margaret as she asked, “Then we are to be chums? I don’t want to come between Hazel and you, of course.”

“You would not,” said Margaret, glowing into actual beauty by reason of her happy confidence in her friend. “Hazel and I have plenty of room in our hearts for other friends, and even for chums. I felt you were going to be friendly, that is why I screwed my courage to make a clean breast about myself.”

“That was quite unnecessary where I am concerned, I can assure you.” Dorothy spoke earnestly and with conviction; then she asked a little uneasily, “Do you expect that Rhoda Fleming will be in our dorm?”

“No,” replied Margaret. “I am sure she will not. She will be in No. 1; it is the same size as ours, but there are better views from the windows. She was there last term, and will be certain to go back to her old place. She said she was going to leave, so we are surprised to find that she has come back for another year. Here comes matron; that means we have to go and get busy with unpacking.”

It was later that same evening, and Dorothy was standing at the window of the corridor outside the door of the dorm watching the moon making a track of silver on the distant sea, when suddenly a tall girl glided up to her out of the shadows, and gripping her by the arm, said harshly,—

“Pray, where was it that you thought you had seen me before?”

The girl was Rhoda Fleming, and Dorothy could not repress a slight shiver of fear at the malice of her tone.

“I did not think; I knew,” she answered quietly, and she was quite surprised to hear how unafraid her voice sounded.

“Well, where was it?” Rhoda fairly hissed out her question, and Dorothy shivered again, but she answered calmly enough, “It was in the showrooms of Messrs. Sharman and Song, a little before one o’clock to-day.”

The clutch on her arm became a vicious pinch, as Rhoda said in strident tones, “You are wrong, then, for I have not been near the shop to-day; in fact, I have never been there.”

“Very well, that settles it, of course,” said Dorothy quietly. “Please let my arm go, you are hurting me.”

“Rats! Is your skin too tender to be touched?” Rhoda’s tone was vibrant with scorn, but her fingers relaxed their grip as she went on, “Well, what was I doing when you saw me there?”

“That cannot possibly concern you, seeing that you state you were not there,” said Dorothy calmly, and then she moved away to join some girls who had come out from No. 2 dorm, and were on their way downstairs for prayers. She was feeling that the less she had to do with Rhoda Fleming the better it would be for her happiness and comfort at the Compton Schools. But how to avoid her without seeming to do so would be the problem, and she went her way down with the others, wearing a very sober face indeed.

CHAPTER III

PRIDE OF PLACE

Next morning directly after breakfast, Dorothy, in company with the other new girls—about a dozen of them—went off to the study of the Head, to be examined as to place in the form, and general capacity.

It was not usual for any girl, whatever her age, to be received at once into the Sixth, and Dorothy was accordingly given a Fifth Form paper to fill. When she had done this, and it had been passed to the Head by the form-mistress who was assisting her, Miss Arden, after reading down her answers, immediately passed her another paper—and this a Sixth Form one—to fill. This was a much stiffer matter, and Dorothy worked away with absorbed concentration, not even noticing that the other girls had all done, and left the room. But none of them had been given a second paper, so she was to be forgiven for being the last.

The Head was called for at that moment. It was a couple of hours later before Dorothy knew her fate. Meanwhile the whole of the Sixth and the Upper Fifth were gathered in the lecture hall for a lecture on zoophytes by Professor Plimsoll, who was the natural history lecturer for the Compton Schools. He was a young man, and very enthusiastic. Dorothy was so surprised to find how interesting the subject could be made that she sat listening, entranced by his eloquence, until a nudge from Daisy Goatby, sitting next to her, recalled her to her surroundings.

“Take notes, duffer, take notes,” whispered Daisy with quite vicious energy. “If you sit staring like a stuck pig at my lord, you will get beans when he has finished, and he has a way of making one feel a very worm.”

Dorothy made a valiant effort to scribble things on paper; but the next minute her head was up again, and she was staring at the professor, so absorbed in what he was saying that she quite forgot Daisy’s kindly warning anent the need of looking busy.

All round her the girls were bent over their notebooks industriously scribbling: some of them were taking notes in writing they would certainly not be able to read later. One or two were writing to friends, but the main of them were jotting down facts which should serve as pegs on which to hang their ideas when they had to write out what they could remember.

Professor Plimsoll was suave in his manner, a gentleman, but withal very hot-tempered, and a terror to slackers. He noticed Dorothy’s absorbed attention, and was at first rather flattered by it; then observing that she took no notes, and that her gaze had a dreamy quality, as if her thoughts were far away, his temper flared up, and he determined to make an example of her. Nothing like beginning as he meant to go on. If he allowed such a flagrant case of laziness to pass unrebuked at the first lecture of the term, what sort of behaviour might he not have to put up with before the end of the course?

He was nearly at the end of his lecture, when he stopped with dramatic suddenness, pointing an accusing finger at Dorothy.

“The name of that young lady, if you please?” he said with a little bow to the form-mistress, who had come into the lecture with the girls.

“That is Dorothy Sedgewick,” answered Miss Groome with a rather troubled air. She was sorry that the professor should fall upon a new girl at the first lecture of term; to her way of thinking it did not seem quite fair play.

“Miss Dorothy Sedgewick, may I beg of you to step up here?” The professor’s tone was bland—he was even smiling as he beckoned her to come and stand by his side; but the girls who had attended his lectures before knew very well that he was simply boiling with rage, and from their hearts pitied Dorothy.

She rose in her place and walked forward. She was still so absorbed in what she had been listening to that she did not sense anything wrong. It did not even seem strange to her that she should be called forward. She was the only new girl present at the lecture, and she supposed it might be the ordinary thing for fresh girls to be called forward in this fashion.

“Will you permit me to see the notes you have taken?” he asked in a voice that was curiously soft and gentle, although his eyes were flashing. He held out his hand as he spoke, and Dorothy handed him her notebook, saying in an apologetic tone, “I am so sorry, but I have not taken any notes, I was so interested.”

Professor Plimsoll permitted himself a smile, and again his eyes flashed, just as if they were throwing off little sparks. He glanced at the blank page of the notebook, then gave it back to her, saying in that curiously soft and gentle tone, “Since you have been too interested to take notes, perhaps you will be so very kind as to tell us what you can remember of the things I have been telling you; especially I should be glad to hear what has interested you most.”

Dorothy looked at him in surprise; even now, so restrained and controlled was his manner, she did not realize how furiously angry he was, but supposed that he had called her out because of her being a new girl, and that her position in the school would in some way be determined by what she could do now. It had been the custom in her old school for girls to have to stand up and talk in class; and although this was a much more formidable affair, she was not so much embarrassed as she would have been but for her training in the past.

Speaking in a rather low tone, she began at the beginning. In many places she quoted the professor’s own words. Once she left out a little string of facts, and went back over her ground, marshalling them into the proper place, and then went steadily on up to the very point where the professor stopped so suddenly.

The silence in the lecture hall was such as could be felt; some of the girls, indeed, were sitting open-mouthed with amazement at such a feat of memory. But there was a ghost of a smile hovering about the lips of Miss Groome—she was thinking how the professor would have to apologize to the new girl for having so misjudged her.

If Professor Plimsoll was fiery in temper, he was also a very just man. The girls must have known he had been angry, even though Dorothy did not seem to have realized it, and it was due to himself, and to them, that he should make what amends he could.

“Miss Dorothy Sedgewick,” he began, and he bowed to her as impressively as he might have done to royalty, “I have to beg your pardon for having entirely misunderstood you. When I saw that you took no notes I was angry at what I thought was your laziness, and new girl though you were, I determined to make an example of you, and that was why I called you forward in this fashion. I do apologize most sincerely for my blunder, and I am charmed to think that I shall have a student so able and painstaking at my lectures this term.”

Great embarrassment seized upon Dorothy now. She turned scarlet right up to the roots of her hair as she bowed, murmuring something inaudible, and then she escaped to her seat amidst a storm of cheering from the excited girls.

Professor Plimsoll held up his hand for silence. The lecture went on to its end, but it is doubtful whether Dorothy got much benefit from the latter part. The girls all around her were showing their sympathy each after her kind, but she was angry with herself because she had lacked the penetration to see that she had really been an object of pity.

When the lecture was over, and they all streamed out of hall carrying their notebooks, they fell upon her, cheering her again, and patting her on the back with resounding thumps just by way of showing friendliness.

“Oh, Dorothy, you were great!” cried Hazel, struggling through the crowd to reach her. “It was priceless to see you standing there beside my lord, giving him back his old lecture on creepy-crawlies as calmly as if you had been brought up to that kind of thing from infancy. His eyes gogged and gogged until I thought they would have come right out of their sockets! And then to see the way he climbed down and grovelled at your feet, oh, it was rich!”

“Dorothy, how did you remember it all?” cried Margaret, thrusting several girls aside and coming eagerly close up to Dorothy.

“I don’t know; I cannot always remember things so well,” she answered. “But it was all so interesting, and the professor has such a way of ticking his facts off, it is so easy to keep them in mind.”

“There is one comfort,” said Hazel. “You will be certain to be in the Sixth after the little affair of this morning.”

“I don’t know about that,” replied Dorothy, thinking of some of the questions on the paper she had filled in that morning.

A little later there came to her a message summoning her to the Head’s private room, and she went in fear and trembling. If she was put in the Sixth, she would be able to enter for the Lamb Bursary; if she was not in the Sixth her chance would be gone for always, for she knew that it was quite impossible for her to stay at school for more than one year.

Miss Arden was very kind; she made Dorothy sit down, and drawing out the Sixth Form examination paper, began to talk to her about it.

“In many ways,” began the Head, speaking in her calmly assured manner, “I do not think you are up to the level of the Sixth, but in other things you are very good indeed. I was still debating whether to put you straight into the Sixth, or to keep you for one term in the Upper Fifth to see how you would shape; but before I had really made up my mind, Professor Plimsoll came in and told me of what happened at his lecture. He was so impressed with your ability that, acting on his suggestion, I am going to put you straight into the Sixth, and I hope that you will work hard enough to justify me in having done this. It is very unusual for a new girl to be put into the Sixth. Different schools have different methods of work, and a girl has usually to be with us a little time before we feel sufficiently sure of her. However, I hope it is all going to be quite right.”

“Thank you very much; I will be sure to work,” murmured Dorothy, and her eyes were shining like two stars at the prospect before her; then she asked in a low tone, her voice a little shaken, “May I enter for the Lamb Bursary, now that I am going to be in the Sixth?”

Miss Arden smiled. “You can enter if you wish. Indeed, I shall be very glad if you do. Even if you are not within seeing distance of getting it, the discipline and the hard work will be good for you. It will be good for the others too, for the more candidates the better the work that is done. Rhoda Fleming was to have left last term, but she has come back for the purpose of competing. I hope that next week, when the candidates are enrolled, a good number of the Sixth will offer themselves.”

Dorothy went out from the presence of the Head, feeling as if she was walking on air. How wonderful that she was in the Sixth! How still more wonderful that it was really her humiliation at Professor Plimsoll’s lecture which was the means of putting her there. It had not seemed a very awful thing to stand up beside the professor and repeat to him what she remembered of his lecture, but it had been a very keen humiliation indeed to find that he had considered her a time-waster, and had really called her out to shame her in the eyes of the others. She had suffered tortures while the girls were cheering her. Yet if all that had not happened, she would not have been in the Sixth now, with the possibility of winning the Lamb Bursary in front of her.

Rhoda Fleming was coming down the stairs as she went up. Just when passing, Rhoda leaned towards her, and smiling maliciously, murmured, “Prig!”

Dorothy’s temper flared. It was an outrage that this girl who was a thief should call her names. She jerked her head round to hurl a scathing remark after the retreating figure, then suddenly checked herself. True pride of place was to hold one’s self above the sting of insults that were petty. After all it did not matter who called her prig, provided she was not that odious thing.

CHAPTER IV

TOM IS DISAPPOINTING

The rest of the week passed in a whirl of getting used to things and of settling into place. Dorothy had to find that however good she might be at memory work, she did not shine in very many things which were regarded as essentials at the Compton Schools. She was a very duffer in all matters connected with the gym. She was downright scared at many things which even the little girls did not shirk. She could not swing by her hands from the bar, she looked upon punching as a shocking waste of strength, and even drill had no charm for her.

Miss Mordaunt, the games-mistress, was not disposed to be very patient with her. Miss Mordaunt was not to be beaten in her encouragement of little girls and weakly girls; she would work away at them until they became both fearless and happy in the gym. But a girl in the Sixth ought to be able to take a creditable place in sports, according to her ideas. She was really angry with Dorothy for her clumsiness and her ignorance, which she chose to call downright cowardice and laziness. She was not even appeased by being told that for the last five years Dorothy had walked two miles to school every day, and the same distance home again. In consideration of this daily four miles she had been excused from all gym work.

“One is never too old to learn, and you do not have to walk four miles every day now,” Miss Mordaunt spoke crisply. She tossed her head, and her bobbed hair fluffed up in the sunshine. She was the very best looking of all the staff, and realizing the unconscious influence of good looks, she made the most of her attractive appearance, because of the power it gave her with the girls.

“Oh, I know I am rotten at this sort of thing,” Dorothy admitted with an air of great humility, as she stood watching little Muriel Adams somersaulting in a way that looked simply terrifying.

Miss Mordaunt suddenly softened. She had little patience with ignorance, and none at all with indolence, but a girl who humbly admitted she was nothing, and less than nothing, had at least a chance of improvement.

“If you are willing to work hard, to start at the beginning, and do what the little girls do, I shall be able to make something of you in time.” The air of the games-mistress was distinctly kindly now; she even went out of her way to pay Dorothy a compliment which all the rest of the girls could hear. “The amount of walking you have had to do has had the effect of giving you a free, erect carriage, and you have an alert, springy step that is a joy to behold. I shall have long and regular walks as part of our course this term, just for the sake of improving the girls in this respect; the manner in which some of them slouch along is awful to behold.”

“I wish you had kept quiet about your long walks to school,” grumbled Daisy Goatby on Friday afternoon, when the long crocodile of the Compton Girls’ School swung along through Sowergate, and, mounting the hill to the Ilkestone promenade, went a long mile across the scorched grass of the lawns on the top of the cliffs, and then turned back inland, to reach the deep little valley of the Sowerbrook.

“Why? Don’t you like walking?” asked Dorothy, who had been revelling in the sea and the sky, and all the unexpectedness of Ilkestone generally.

“I loathe it!” Daisy said with almost vicious energy. She was so fat that the exercise made her hot and uncomfortable; she had a blowsed appearance, and was rather cross.

“That is because you are so fat,” Dorothy laughed, her eyes shining with merriment. “Why don’t you put in half an hour every morning punching in the gym, then do those bar exercises that Hazel and Rhoda were doing yesterday? You would soon find walking easier.”

“Why, I take no end of exercise,” grumbled Daisy. “What with tennis, and hockey, and bowls, and swimming, one is on all the time. My fat is not the result of self-indulgence; it is disease.”

“And chocolates,” laughed Dorothy, who had seen the way in which her companion had been stuffing with sweets ever since they had started out.

“I am obliged to take a little of something to keep my strength up,” Daisy said in a plaintive tone; then she burst out with quite disconcerting suddenness, “What makes Rhoda Fleming have such a grouch against you, seeing that you were strangers until the other day?”

Dorothy felt her colour rise in spite of herself, but she only said quietly, “You had better ask her.”

“Bless you, I did that directly I found out how she did not love you,” answered Daisy, breathing hard—they were mounting a rise now, and the pace tried her.

“Well, and what did she say?” asked Dorothy, whose heart was beating in a very lumpy fashion.

“She said that you were the most untruthful person she had ever met, and it was not safe to believe a word you said,” blurted out Daisy, with a sidelong look at Dorothy just to see how she would take it.

Dorothy flushed, and her eyes were angry, but she answered in a serene tone, “If I said I was not untruthful, it would not help much; it would only be my word against Rhoda’s. The only thing to do is to let the matter rest; time will show whether she is right or wrong.”

“Are you going to sit down under it like that?” cried Daisy, aghast. “Why, it will look as if she was right.”

“What can I do but sit down under it?” asked Dorothy with an impatient ring in her tone. “If I were a boy I might fight her, of course.”

“Talking of fighting,” burst out Daisy eagerly, “Blanche Felmore, who is in the Lower Fifth, told me this morning that your brother Tom has had a scrap with her brother Bobby, and Bobby is so badly knocked out that he has been moved to the san. There is a bit of news for you!”

“Oh, I am sorry!” exclaimed Dorothy, looking acutely distressed. “I hate for Tom to get into such scraps, and it is horrid to think of him hurting some one so badly.”

“Oh, as to that, if he had not hurt Bobby, he would have been pretty considerably bashed up himself,” replied Daisy calmly. “Bobby Felmore is ever so much bigger than your brother—he is in the Sixth, and captain of the football team, a regular big lump of a boy, and downright beefy as to muscle and all that. The wonder to me is that Tom was able to lick him; it must have been that he had more science than Bobby, and in a fight like that, science counts for more than mere weight.”

“What made them fight?” asked Dorothy, a shiver going the length of her spine. It seemed to her little short of disastrous that Tom should get into trouble thus early in the term.

Daisy gave a delighted giggle, and her tone was downright sentimental when she went on to explain. “Tom is most fearfully crushed on Rhoda Fleming; did you know it? We used to make no end of fun of them last term. Tom is such a kid, and Rhoda is nearly two years older than he is; all the same he was really soft about her. They usually danced together on social evenings, they shared cakes and sweets and all that sort of thing, and they were so all-round silly that we got no end of fun out of the affair. Of course we thought it was all off when Rhoda was leaving; but now that she has come back for another year it appears to have started again stronger than ever.”

“But how can it have started?” asked Dorothy in surprise. “We only came on Tuesday—this is Friday; we have not met any of the boys yet.”

Daisy sniggered. “You haven’t, perhaps, but Rhoda has, and Blanche too. It seems that the evening before last, Blanche, who had no money for tuck, ran down into the shrubbery beyond the green courts to see if the boys were at cricket; she meant to signal Bobby, and ask him to send her some money through his matron, don’t you see. Rhoda saw the kid loping off, and wanting some amusement, thought she would go along too. Bobby saw the signalling, and knowing it was Blanche, came to see what she wanted. It seems that Tom also saw a handkerchief fluttering from the end of the shrubbery, and thinking it was Rhoda waving to him, came sprinting along after. He caught Bobby up, too, and passed him. Rhoda was at the fence, and so they had a talk, while Blanche told Bobby about having no money, and got him to promise that he would send five shillings by his matron that same evening. Things were pleasant enough until the girls were coming away; they expected the bell to go in a minute, and knew that they would have to scoot for all they were worth. Then Tom said something about thinking that Bobby was coming across to see Rhoda, and he was just jolly well not going to put up with it.”

“Yes, what then?” said Dorothy sharply.

It was not pleasant to her to find out how little she really knew about the inside of Tom’s mind. He was a year younger than herself; she regarded him as very much of a boy, and it was rather hateful to think that he was making a stupid of himself with a girl like Rhoda Fleming. Poor old Tom!

“Bobby Felmore said something rude,” replied Daisy. “The Felmores are rather big in their way, and their pride is a by-word. Bobby remarked that he would not trouble to go the length of a cricket pitch at the call of a girl like Rhoda. Tom went for him then and spat in his face, or something equally unpleasant. After that it had to be a fight, of course, and they planned it for yesterday. When the boys’ matron brought Blanche the five shillings she told her that Bobby was licked, and in bed in the san.”

“Will Tom be very badly punished?” asked Dorothy with dilating eyes; her lively fancy was painting a picture of dire penalties which might result, and she was thinking how distressed her father and mother would be.

Daisy laughed merrily. “When you see Bobby Felmore you will understand what a most astonishing thing it is that Tom should have whacked him. Oh no, Tom won’t get many beans over that. He may have an impot, of course; but he would get that for any breaking of rules. I should think that unofficially the masters would pat him on the back for his courage. He must be a well-plucked one to have stood up to Bobby, and to beat him. I wish I had been there to see.”

“I don’t; and I think it is just horrid for boys to fight!” cried Dorothy, and was badly ashamed of the tears that smarted under her eyelids.

“You are young yet; you will be wiser as you get older,” commented Daisy sagely; and at that moment the crocodile turned in at the lodge gates, and the talk was over.

Dorothy had furious matter for thought. She had been looking forward to Sunday because she knew that she would have a chance to talk to Tom for an hour then; and she had meant to tell him that the girl who did the shoplifting at Messrs. Sharman and Song’s place was at the Compton Schools in her form.

If Tom was so fond of Rhoda Fleming as to be willing to fight on her behalf, he would not be very ready to believe what his sister had to tell him.

“He might even want to fight me,” Dorothy whispered to herself, with a rather pathetic little smile hovering round her lips.

She went into the house feeling low-spirited and miserable; but there was so much to claim her attention, she had so many things to think about, and next day’s work to get ready for, that her courage bounced up, her cheerfulness returned, and she was as lively as the rest of them. After all, Tom would have to fight his own way through life, and it was of no use to make herself miserable because he had proved disappointing so early in the term.

CHAPTER V

TOM MAKES EXCUSE

The girls of the Compton Schools attended the church of St. Matthew-on-the-Hill, which stood on the high ground above the Sowerbrook valley. A grey, weather-worn structure it was, the tower of which had been used as a lighthouse in the days of long ago. It was a small place, too, and for that reason the boys always went to the camp church, a spacious but very ugly building, which crowned the hill just above their school.

To both girls and boys it was a distinct grievance that they were compelled to go to different churches; but St. Matthew-on-the-Hill was too small to contain them all, and the military authorities looked askance at the girls, so what could not be cured had to be endured.

The one good thing which resulted from this was that brothers and sisters were always together for a couple of hours on Sunday afternoons. If the weather was fine they went for walks together; if it was wet they were in the drawing-room or the conservatories of the girls’ school.

That first Sunday, Dorothy was waiting for Tom. She was out on the broad gravel path which stretched along in front of the conservatory, for the girls had told her that the boys always came in by the little bridge over the brook at the end of the grounds, and she did not want to lose a minute of the time she could have with her brother.

She had imagined he would be in a tearing hurry to reach her, and she felt downright flat, after waiting for nearly half an hour, to see him strolling up the lawn at the slowest of walks, in company with a lumpy-looking boy whose face was liberally adorned with strips of sticking-plaster.

“Hullo, Dorothy, are you all on your own?” demanded Tom, looking distinctly bored; then he jerked his thumb in the direction of his companion, saying in a casual fashion, “Here is Bobby Felmore, the chap I licked the other day. Did you hear about it?”

“Yes, I heard,” she answered, and then hesitated, not quite sure what to say. It would be a bit embarrassing, and not quite kind, to congratulate Tom on his victory, with the beaten one standing close by, so it seemed safest to say nothing.

“It was a bit rotten to be licked by a kid like Tom, don’t you think, Miss Sedgewick?” asked Bobby with a grin. “The fact was, he is such a little chap that I was afraid to take him seriously, and that was how he got his chance at me.”

“Hear him!” cried Tom with ringing scorn. “But he is ignorant yet; when he is a bit older and wiser he will understand that a lump of pudding hasn’t any sort of chance against muscle guided by science. Besides, he had to be walloped in the cause of chivalry and right.”

“You young ass!” exploded Bobby, and he looked so threatening that Dorothy butted in, fearing they would start mauling each other there and then.

“I think it is just horrid to fight,” she said crisply. “It is a low-down and brutish habit. Are you going to walk, Tom, or shall we sit in the conservatory and talk? It is nearly three o’clock, so we have not very much time.”

“I’m not particular,” said Tom with a yawn. “Where are all the others? If we go for a walk we have just got to mooch along on our own; but if we stay in the grounds or the conservatory we can be with the others, don’t you see?”

“Just as you please.” Dorothy could not help her tone being a trifle sharp. It was a real disappointment to her that Tom did not want to have her alone for a little while.

“Very well, then, let us go down to that bench by the sundial. Rhoda Fleming is there, and the Fletchers; we had a look in at them, and a bit of a pow-wow as we came up.” Tom turned eagerly back as he spoke, and Dorothy walked in silence by his side, while Bobby Felmore went on into the house in search of Blanche, who had a cold, and was keeping to the house.

So that was why Tom was nearly half an hour late in arriving! Dorothy was piqued and resentful; but having her share of common sense, she did not start ragging him—indeed, she was so quiet, and withal pensive, that Tom’s conscience began to bother him, and he even started to make excuse for himself.

“You see, Rhoda and I are great friends—downright pals, so to speak—and, of course, if we went for a walk she would not be able to come too.” He was apologetic in manner as well as speech, and he slipped his arm round her waist with a great demonstration of affection as they went slowly across the lawn.

It was because he was so dear and loving in his manner that Dorothy suddenly forgot to be discreet, and was only concerned to warn him of the kind of girl she knew Rhoda to be.

“Oh, Tom, dear old boy, I wish you would not be pals with Rhoda,” she burst out impulsively. “I don’t think you know what sort of girl she is, and, anyhow, she——”

Dorothy came to a sudden halt in her hurried little speech as Tom faced round upon her with fury in his face.

“You had better stop talking rot of that kind.” There was an actual snarl in his tone, and his eyes were red with anger. “Girls are always unfair to each other, but I thought you were above a meanness of that sort.”

Dorothy’s temper flared—what a silly kid he was to be so wrapped up in a girl. She fairly snapped at him in her irritation.

“If you were not so young, so unutterably green, you would be willing to listen to reason, and to hear the truth. Since you won’t, then you must take the consequences, I suppose.”

“Don’t be in a wax, old girl.” He gave her an affectionate squeeze as he spoke, which had the effect of entirely disarming her anger against him.

“I am not in a wax; oh, I was, but it has gone now.” She smiled up into his face as she spoke, deciding that come what might she could not risk losing his love by trying to point out to him what sort of a girl Rhoda was.

The September afternoon was very sunny and warm, and the group of girls on the broad wooden bench by the sundial were lazily enjoying the brightness and the heat as Dorothy and Tom came slowly along the path between the flower-beds at the lower end of the lawn.

Rhoda Fleming was there, Joan and Delia Fletcher, and Grace Boldrey, a Fourth Form kid who was Delia’s chum. They all made room for Dorothy and Tom, as if they had expected them to come.

Dorothy found herself sitting between the two Fletchers, while Rhoda monopolized Tom, and the Sunday afternoon time, which she had looked forward to as being like a bit of home, resolved itself into an ordeal of more or less patiently bearing the quips and thrusts of Rhoda, who appeared to take a malicious pleasure in making her as uncomfortable as possible.

The affair of Professor Plimsoll’s lecture was dragged out and talked about from the point of view of Rhoda, who, perching herself on the lower step of the sundial, pretended she was Dorothy, standing up beside the professor, and repeating to him his own lecture.

Rhoda had a real gift of mimicry: the others rocked with laughter, and Dorothy, although she smarted under the lash of Rhoda’s tongue, joined in the laugh against herself, because it seemed the least embarrassing thing to do.

She felt very sore a little later when Tom, in the momentary absence of Rhoda, said to her, “It was silly of you to make such an exhibition of yourself at the lecture. No one cares for a prig. I should have thought you would have found that out long ago.”

“I could not help myself—I had to do as I was told; and, at least, I owe my place in the Sixth to having been able to remember.” Dorothy was keeping her temper under control now, although of choice she would have reached up and slapped Tom in the face for daring to take such a critical and dictatorial tone with her.

Tom shrugged his shoulders. “Every one to his taste, of course; myself, I would rather have waited until I was fit for the Sixth, than have got there by a fluke. You will find it precious hard work to keep your end up. For my own part, I would rather have been in the Upper Fifth until I was able to take my remove with credit.”

“Why, Tom, if I had been put into the Upper Fifth I should have stood no chance of the Mutton Bone,” cried Dorothy in a shocked tone.

Tom smiled in a superior and really aggravating fashion. “Going in for that, are you? Well, your folly be on your own head; you are more fond of the wooden spoon than I should be. For myself, I never attempt anything I’m not likely to achieve. You don’t catch yours truly laying himself open to ridicule; but every one to his taste. Seeing that Rhoda has come back to school for another year, it goes without saying that she will win the Mutton Bone. She is no end clever, and you won’t have much chance against her.”

“I am going to have a try, anyhow,” said Dorothy in a dogged tone; and at that moment Rhoda and Joan Fletcher came back, and the chances of any homey talk between brother and sister were over for that afternoon.

Rhoda and Tom started arguing about a certain horse that was to run at Ilkestone the following week, and Dorothy, sitting listening to Joan Fletcher’s thin voice prosing on about the merits of knife pleated frocks, wondered what her father would have said if he could have heard Tom discussing the points of racehorses as if he had served an apprenticeship in a training stable.

Later on, when she walked with him to the little gate at the end of the grounds, where the bridge went over the brook and the field path which led to the boys’ school, Tom began to make excuses for himself for the depth of his knowledge on racing matters.

“A fellow has to keep his eyes open, and to remember what he hears, or he would get left at every turn, you know,” he said, and again he slid his arm about his sister’s waist.

“I don’t think father and mother would approve of your keeping your eyes so wide open about horse-racing and that sort of thing.”

Dorothy spoke in a rather troubled fashion. It was really difficult for her to lecture Tom for his good when he had his arm round her in that taking fashion.

“Oh, naturally the governor and mums are more than a trifle stodgy in their outlook. It is a sign of advancing years.” He laughed light-heartedly as he spoke, then plunged into talk about football plans and his own chances of getting a good position in his team.

They lingered at the bridge until the other boys who had been visiting at the girls’ school came pouring along the path at a run. Then the first bell sounded for tea, and Dorothy had to scuttle back through the grounds at racing speed, for she would only have five minutes in which to put herself tidy for tea.

“Did you have a pleasant afternoon?” asked Hazel, who had been out with Margaret.

“It was good to be with Tom for a time,” Dorothy answered, hesitated, and then went on in a hurried fashion, “It would have been nicer, of course, if we had been alone together, or with you and Margaret, but Tom elected to spend the time with Rhoda and Joan Fletcher, and—and, well, it was not all honey and roses.”

“I can’t think what the silly boy can see in Rhoda,” said Hazel severely. “I never cared much for her myself, and the way in which she has snubbed Margaret is insufferable. I am thankful that Dora Selwyn is head girl, and not Rhoda; it would be awful if she set the pace for the whole school.”

“Dora Selwyn looks nice, but she is rather unapproachable,” said Dorothy in a rather dubious tone.

Hazel laughed. “Don’t you know the secret of that?” she asked. “Dora is about the shyest girl alive, and her stand-offishness is nothing in the world but sheer funk. You try making friends with her, and you will be fairly amazed at the result.”

CHAPTER VI

RHODA’S JUMPER

The first social evening of term was always something of an event. The Lower Fifth, the Upper Fifth, and the Sixth of both schools joined forces for a real merry-making. The juniors had their own functions, and made merry on a different evening, and they had nothing to do with the gathering of the seniors.

The lecture hall was cleared for dancing; there were games and music in the drawing-room for those who preferred them, and supper for all was spread in the dining-room.

It had been a soaking wet day; the girls, in mackintoshes, high boots, and rubber hats, had struggled for a mile along the storm-swept sea front. They had been blown back again, arriving in tousled, rosy-cheeked, and breathless, but thoroughly refreshed by the blow.

The dressing-bell went five minutes after they reached the house, and there was a rush upstairs to get changed, and ready for the frolic.

Dorothy was very much excited. She was going to wear the new little frock which she had bought at Sharman and Song’s place. She danced up the stairs and along the corridor to the dorm, feeling that life was very well worth living indeed.

Hazel and Margaret were just ahead of her, and the other girls were crowding up behind. They had been rather late getting in from their walk, and so there was not very much time before the boys might be expected to arrive.

With fingers that actually trembled Dorothy opened the wrapping paper, and taking out her frock, slipped it on. The looking-glass in her cubicle was not very big; she would have to wait until she went downstairs to have a really good look at herself. But oh! the lovely feeling of it all!

Admiring herself—or, rather, her frock—had taken time. Most of the girls were downstairs before she was ready. They were standing about the drawing-room in little groups as she came in through the big double doors, feeling stupidly shy and self-conscious, just because she happened to be wearing a new frock that was the last word in effective simplicity.

No one took any notice of her. The little group just inside the door had gathered about Rhoda Fleming, who was spreading out her arms to show the beauty of the jumper she was wearing over a cream silk skirt.

“Isn’t it a dream?” Rhoda’s voice was loud and clear; it was vibrant, too, with satisfaction. “I bought it at Sharman and Song’s; they are not to be beaten for things of this sort.”

Dorothy stood as if transfixed, and at that moment the crowd of girls about Rhoda shifted and opened out, showing plainly Dorothy standing on the outskirts of the group.

Rhoda paused suddenly, and there was a look of actual fear in her eyes as she stood confronting Dorothy. Then she rallied her forces, and said with a slow, insolent drawl, “Well, what do you want?”

“I—I don’t want anything,” faltered Dorothy, whose breath was fairly taken away by the calm manner in which Rhoda was exhibiting the jumper, which was a lovely thing made of white silky stuff, and embroidered with silver tissue.

“Then don’t stand staring like that.” There was a positive snarl in Rhoda’s tone, and Dorothy turned away without a word. She heard one of the girls cry out that it was a shame of Rhoda to be so rude, but there was more fear than resentment in her heart at the treatment she had received. It was awful to see the malice in Rhoda’s gaze, and to know that it was directed against herself, just because she had been the unwilling witness of Rhoda’s shoplifting.

She would have known the jumper anywhere, even if Rhoda had not declared so loudly that it had come from Sharman and Song’s, and she shivered a little, wondering how she would have felt if she had been in Rhoda’s place just then.

“Oh, Dorothy, what a pretty frock! How perfectly sweet you look!” cried the voice of Hazel at her side, and then Margaret burst in with admiring comments, and Dorothy found herself surrounded by a cluster of girls who were admiring her frock and congratulating her on having an aunt with such liberal tendencies. But the keen edge of her pleasure was taken off by the brooding sense of disaster that would come to her every time she recalled the look in Rhoda’s eyes.

Being healthy minded, and being also blessed with common sense, she set to work to forget all about the uncomfortable incident, and to get all the pleasure possible out of the evening.

The boys arrived in a batch. After the manner of their kind, they formed into groups about the big doors of the drawing-room and at the end of the lecture hall. But the masters who were with them routed them out with remorseless energy, and started the dancing. Bobby Felmore, very red in the face, and still adorned with sticking-plaster, led out the Head. He was most fearfully self-conscious for about a minute and a half. By that time he forgot all about being shy, for, as he said afterwards, the Head was a dream to dance with, and she was a downright jolly sort also.

Dorothy had danced with big boys, she had danced with cheeky youngsters of the Lower Fifth who aired their opinions on various subjects as if wisdom dwelt with them and with no one else, and then she found herself dancing with Bobby Felmore.

Bobby, by reason of having danced with the Head, was disposed to be critical regarding his partners that evening, and he began telling Dorothy how he had plunged through a foxtrot with Daisy Goatby, who was about as nimble as an elephant, and as graceful as a hippopotamus.

“She is quite a good sort, though, even if she is a trifle heavy on her feet,” said Dorothy, who was hotly championing Daisy just because Bobby saw fit to run her down.

“I say, do you always stick up for people?” he asked.

“When they are nice to me I do, of course,” she answered with a laugh.

“Well, you won’t have to stick up for Rhoda Fleming, at that rate,” said Bobby with a chuckle. “She seems to have a proper grouch against you. Tom was complaining as we came along to-night because you and Rhoda don’t hit it off together.”

“We do not have much to do with each other,” murmured Dorothy, resentful because Tom should have discussed her with this big lump of a boy who, however well he might dance, had certainly no tact worth speaking of.

“Just what Tom complained of; said he couldn’t think why his womenfolk didn’t hit it off better: seemed to think that you ought to be pally with any and every one whom he saw fit to honour with his regard. I like his cheek; the Grand Sultan isn’t in it with that young whipper-snapper.” Bobby tossed his head and let out one of his big laughs then, and Dorothy thought it might be for his good to take him down a peg.

“Tom is rather small,” she said, smiling at him with mischief dancing in her eyes; “but he is a force to be reckoned with, all the same.”

“Now you are giving me a dig because of that mauling I had from him last week,” chuckled Bobby. “It isn’t kind to kick a fellow that is down.”

“I have not kicked you,” she answered; and her tone was so friendly that Bobby, rather red, and rather stammering, jerked out,—

“I say, I’m really awfully crushed on you, though I have only seen you about twice. Say, will you be pals, real pals, you know?”

Dorothy turned scarlet, for just at that moment she caught sight of Rhoda regarding her fixedly from a little distance. It was horribly embarrassing and uncomfortable, and because of it her tone was quite sharp as she replied, “I have got as many chums already as I can do with, thank you; but I am really grateful to you for not being nasty to Tom over that licking he gave you last week.”

“Oh, that!” Bobby’s voice reflected disappointment, mingled with scorn. “The licking was a man’s business entirely, and it need not come into discussion at all. I should like to be pals with you, and I’m not going to believe what Rhoda says about you.”

“What can Rhoda say about me?” cried Dorothy, aghast. “Why, I have not known her a week.”

“Bless you, what she doesn’t know she will make up,” said Bobby, who was by this time quite breathless with his exertions. “Don’t you trust her. If she tries to be friendly, keep her at arm’s length. I have warned Tom about her until I’m out of breath; but he will find her out some day, I dare say. Meanwhile he is not in as much danger of being scratched by her as you are.”

Dorothy did not dance with Bobby again that evening. Indeed, she did not dance much after that, for Margaret had a bad headache, and wandered off to a quiet corner of the drawing-room, where Dorothy found her, and stayed to keep her company.

“Just think, to-morrow by this time we shall be enrolled for the Lamb Bursary, and work will begin in earnest,” said Margaret, as she leant back in a deep chair and fanned herself with a picture paper.

“I think work has begun in earnest, anyway,” Dorothy said with a laugh. “I know that I just swotted for all I’m worth at maths this morning. I could not have worked harder if I had been sitting for an exam. I am horribly stupid at maths, and I can never find any short cuts.”