Judy of York Hill

Sally May and Jane whirled into the "Jolly Susan" like small hurricanes in time to sing the verse over again, and then the snatches of talk she could hear told Judith that her neighbours were thoroughly enjoying the fascinating business of dressing up, and had evidently forgotten all about her.

Perhaps it was a little reaction after several weeks of new and exciting experiences; perhaps Josephine's reference to mothers being "bricks"; whatever it was Judith felt lonely and homesick. She didn't know how to make her costume; she didn't think of Sally May, and she hated to confess to Josephine—to whom, it must be confessed, she had always felt a little superior—that she hadn't a ghost of a notion how to make, out of nothing at all, the dress of a Virginian lady of fashion.

But although Josephine had convulsed the class and enraged Madame Phillippe by translating hors de combat as "war-horse," and although her ideas as to angles and triangles were so hazy as to be of no service to her in a geometry class, she was not at all stupid where her fellow humans were concerned, and she had seen the quickly restrained quiver on Judith's lips when mothers were mentioned.

"I guess she's homesick and doesn't know it," said Josephine to herself. "I'd better buck her up a bit and give her a good time." But because she had a generous admiration of Judith's cleverness she never thought of offering her any suggestions as to how to put her costume together.

A little later she appeared in Judith's doorway in black tights, blue silk stockings, buckled shoes (cardboard buckles covered with silver paper), a white shirt blouse buttoned high, and a long black ribbon in her hand.

"Please wind it round my neck, Judy, several times as high up as you can. Why, where is your dress?" she asked in surprise.

Poor, proud Judith, how she hated to confess that she simply could not think of anything. But the despised Josephine rose to the occasion: she took charge with an assurance which immediately dispelled Judith's gloom.

"Colonial lady—um—you will look awfully nice with your hair powdered—let me see—your chintz curtains will do for panniers—put on your frilliest blouse and a white skirt, pull down your curtains, and I'll drape you in a minute or two."

Josephine was as good as her word. Blouse and skirt by means of an overdrape of window curtain were made into the dress of a lady of quality; Judith's pretty hair was piled high and liberally powdered with talcum, and Josephine even produced a tiny bit of rouge and a black patch, and insisted that to make the picture complete Judith must have the buckled shoes, and as there wasn't time to make more buckles she'd wear her old pumps.

Josephine was having such a good time admiring the result of her handiwork that Judith accepted the shoes with a good grace, and off they went to join the throng in the Big Hall. So successful had Josephine been that Judith had quite a little triumph as she entered the hall on her colonel's arm, for she had discarded the spectacles she wore during school hours, and the powder and rouge had discovered a hitherto unnoticed pair of beautiful arching eyebrows, and altogether her appearance was so distinguished that numbers of girls turned to ask, "Who's that pretty Virginian with Jo?"

It was a thrilling evening. Indeed, it is to be doubted whether bona-fide balls of later years would ever bring such thrills and such intoxicating happiness to the Pierrots and Pierrettes, gypsies and Arabs, Spanish dancers and flower girls, Elizabethan ladies and cavaliers, Red Cross nurses and college dons, Indian chiefs and squaws, cowboys and "habitant" girls, who were so thoroughly enjoying themselves.

Judith laughed and danced away her blues, and to all the compliments paid her was glad to be able to say with honest admiration, "Oh, I couldn't do it—Josephine did—isn't she just wonderful?"

And when, after "the loveliest party ever," Judith tucked up in bed and her thoughts ran to the absent mother, instead of tears she smiled happily and whispered, "What a lot of nice people there are in the world, mummy, dear—I've got an awful lot to learn—but I'm going to try hard to be unselfish and kind like Josephine and Nancy."

CHAPTER IV

A SUPPER PARTY

"Oh, goody!" Judith heard Nancy saying, "isn't it splendid that it came on Friday! We never have anything but buns and milk after a Friday night lecture. Your mother is an angel, Sally May; she must have guessed that this was going to be a Friday without a party."

"That you, Judy?" came in Sally May's pretty voice; "come on in." And Judith was soon seated on Sally May's couch.

The crew of the "Jolly Susan" were invited, she learned, to partake of an elegant cold collation consisting of roast chicken, meringues, cakes, candies, etc., etc., which Sally May's mother was thoughtfully sending them from a caterer in town.

"Have you asked Miss Marlowe if we may have the small sitting-room?" asked Nancy after Judith had been informed of the feast awaiting her.

"Asked—Miss Marlowe?" gasped Sally May; "well, of all the queer schools! Ask a teacher if we may have a midnight supper? Well, I reckon not!"

"Why, that's the way we do," returned Nancy; "the lecture will be over early and then we'll go up to the sitting-room and have our feed."

"Oh, that," said Sally May, "is ridiculous and no fun at all. Why, at Knowlton Manor we always waited until twelve o'clock, at least, and had our feasts in the loveliest places. Once we had supper in the cellar, and the engineer caught us and we had a terrible time bribing him; and last June, at Miss Gray's school, five of us were caught in the teachers' own sitting-room at three a.m."

Her hearers looked horrified enough to satisfy even Sally May, who loved to tell a story, and she related one epic after another, until the York audience were convinced that life would not be worth living unless they too could recount similar tales when they went home for the Christmas vacation.

Miss Marlowe and her rules were forgotten, and they laid their plans for a midnight supper.

"But Miss Marlowe knows that your box has arrived," objected practical Nancy.

"Then we'll buy some buns at tuck and have a camouflage supper after the lecture, and the real one at midnight," retorted Sally May, not to be done out of her scheme.

"I wish we could ask Cathy, don't you?" said Josephine; "she's been such a dear that it seems a shame to have a glorification without her."

Catherine, hard at work at her desk in her own room, caught the sound of her name, and the next sentence in an excited voice revealed the fact that a midnight supper was being planned for that very night. Her first impulse, of course, was to tell the crew that she had unwittingly overheard them, and use her influence as captain and prefect to stop the whole proceeding; and then, because she was taking her duties as a prefect very seriously, she stopped to consider the little escapade in a new light.

Sally May, Catherine could see, was going to be troublesome. Already she had chafed at several time-honoured rules and customs, for her sense of reverence for traditions had been stifled by her ceaseless change of residence, and Sally May was becoming exceedingly popular. Her soft Southern voice, with its delicious inflections and its lazy drawl, was most persuasive. The crew of the "Jolly Susan" had so far been a model crew and Catherine had not yet had to enforce discipline, but at the last prefects' meeting Sally May had been mentioned as the cause of two practical jokes perpetrated in other parts of the house, and, "Such things are not done, they are simply not done," said the School captain severely; "Catherine, you must take Sally May in hand." Perhaps this was her chance. She waited until the four o'clock bell scattered the conspirators to practising and gymnasium classes and then went down to the captain's study.

"Come in," said a clear ringing voice as Catherine knocked at Eleanor's door; "you're just in time for tea—here, you toast the crumpets and I'll brew the tea."

"Wait a jiffy and I'll get some jam—wild strawberry with crumpets is heavenly."

Catherine was back in the specified jiffy, and in a few moments the two friends were chatting comfortably over their tea-cups.

York Hill like most modern schools had adopted a modified form of self-government. Each of the four Houses had its quota of prefects appointed by the staff, and a House captain; the Senior House captain was known as the Captain of the School, and this year South House had the honour of providing the School Captain—Eleanor Ormsby. The prefects, usually members of the various Sixth Forms, were girls who had shown themselves worthy of responsibility and privilege and who could be trusted to set the tone of the School.

Eleanor Ormsby was deservedly popular: there was a frankness and a directness about her almost boyishly clear-cut face which inspired confidence, and the girls who brought their difficulties to her found in her a wise and sympathetic counsellor. Eleanor was not beautiful like Catherine, not brilliant like Patricia—in fact it was with difficulty that she held her place in the Sixth-Form classes, but on basket-ball court, hockey-rink, or gymnasium floor she had no rival. Above all she was a born leader, and having spent all her school days at York was steeped in its traditions and ideals.

Just now Eleanor was keen upon getting the two plays given just before the Christmas vacation well started before the busy time at the end of term: it was the custom for the Old Girls to entertain the New Girls at a play and for the New Girls to return the compliment.

So the absorbing topic of Queen's new hockey coach being exhausted for the time being, "Got any good stuff for the play in your cubicles, Cathy?" asked Eleanor; "looks to me as if they are a nice lively little bunch. What a little witch Sally May is, and what lovely eyes Judy has! I'm glad she and Nancy are such pals—they make a good team."

"They're darlings, all of 'em," said Catherine enthusiastically; "but 'not too good for human nature's daily food.'" And she unfolded the plan for the midnight supper.

"Well, of course," said Eleanor, laughing reminiscently, "you couldn't expect them to go home for the holidays without a story of some such adventure as that. Remember the time we went down to the gym and Pat fell over the dumb-bell rack."

"And it was such a mean supper to get punished for," added Catherine, grinning; "only cold baked beans and apples. The trouble is that Miss Marlowe is death on suppers since Christine Dawson caught pneumonia last year when they climbed out on to the sun-parlour roof, and of course now that I know—"

"Oh, of course we'll have to do something. But what?"

Various plans were discussed, but nothing satisfied their desire for poetic justice until suddenly Catherine exclaimed: "I've got it! Let them have their supper, and then we'll make them wish they hadn't—let's lock the door of the common room (that's where they mean to go) and give them a good long time in which to repent of their sins. I've got the key—Miss Marlowe loaned it me for the dress rehearsals."

"Good," said Eleanor. "I'll see that the windows are kept shut during the evening so that they won't catch cold, and I'll oil the lock at tea-time."

And in spite of the solemnity befitting prefects, their eyes danced as they pictured the dismay of the young sinners when they discovered themselves caught; for prefects, notwithstanding their dignity and general "high and mightiness," are not by any means above a bit of a lark themselves.

CHAPTER V

"ENOUGH IS AS GOOD AS A FEAST"

The crew of the "Jolly Susan" did little work during the evening study hour; Judith, especially, found that she could not keep her mind on her tasks. This was the full flavour of life at a boarding-school, surely, to break the rules, and creep down the corridor in the dark to eat forbidden food! She even let her mind play round the food itself—chicken, meringues! She could hardly wait for bedtime.

If Catherine had not been in the secret, she would have been amazed at the swiftness with which her family went to bed. Josephine was usually incorrigibly slow, and Sally May always needed reminding that the devotion bell would ring in two minutes' time. To-night clothes were neatly arranged ready for the morning, rooms were in impeccable order, hair was properly brushed, and there was no mad rush to be at one's own door when the fatal bell sounded.

At last "Lights out" bell rang and silence descended on South House. Ten o'clock, and the prefects put out their lights, only the tiny red fire-escape lamps shone dimly at intervals down the corridor. Eleven o'clock, and the night watchman had creaked by on his way to East House. The way was clear.

Out of bed slipped the conspirators. Judith's cheeks burned with excitement as, obedient to orders, she put on her warmest kimono, and, carrying mug and sofa pillow, followed Josephine and Jane to the corridor.

Nancy and Sally May had already gone, Josephine informed her in a piercing whisper, and Nancy had said to be very careful of the boards opposite Miss Marlowe's door because they sometimes squeaked horribly.

Stealthily in Indian file they crept down the corridor.

Horrors! The boards certainly did creak! Miss Marlowe's light was still on! What if she should open her door!

Judith, with her eyes glued on the crack of light, clutched her kimono more tightly as if to escape being seen, and in some inexplicable way her mug slid from her cold fingers.

The fate of Sally May's party hung in the balance for just so long as it takes a mug to fall to the ground, and Judith for a nightmare second felt the bitterness of having betrayed her friends to the enemy; but Jane, with a magical dexterity, caught the mug "on the fly" as Judith described it later, and for the time being they were saved.

Judith's heart was still thumping from their narrow escape when they joined the rest of the party in the common room at the head of the stairs. The blinds had been pulled up to let in the pale moonlight, and in the semi-darkness Judith could see five shadowy forms seated on their pillows around the precious box.

"Are we all here?" said Sally May in a sepulchral whisper.

"We are—thanks to Jane," said Judith, and the episode of the mug was told to appreciative listeners.

"Put on your flash, Nancy," commanded Sally May; "no one is going to pass this door and we'll never manage to carve the chicken with this miserable knife unless we have more light."

With infinite precautions the papers were unwrapped, and mouths began to water as certain favorite goodies appeared.

"Who's going to carve?" asked Sally May surveying with a certain dismay a plump brown bird and a seemingly inadequate pocketknife.

"Draw lots," suggested Rosamond.

"Here, Jane, you're it." And Jane lost no time in attacking her job.

"My children! what do you think? Here's a jelly or a mousse or something—it's all creamy and quivery, anyway, and we haven't any spoons!"

"I asked you—" began Jane reproachfully.

"Yes, I know you did, but Mother never mentioned a jelly and I thought spoons would make a noise."

"Well, we'll have to have some," said Nancy practically.

"Uggledy wuggledy doo,"

Judith felt in her bones she was going to be it. And she was.

"Let me go," said Nancy generously.

"No," said Judith, "Certainly not. Where'll I get spoons?"

"Oh, just collect what you can," said Sally May, handing round rolls and sandwiches. "I've got a shoe-horn and a medicine spoon, and so has Jane. Watch out for Miss Marlowe."

Fear and the desire to partake of the "eats" speeded Judith on her way, and she lost no time in gathering up what utensils the "Jolly Susan" could offer. Her thoughts flew to Catherine for a moment as she passed her door and she wished their beloved captain could be with them. She little knew how nearly her wish was fulfilled.

On the return journey as she hurried up the corridor, having safely passed Miss Marlowe's door, she suddenly heard a soft footfall or the swish of a kimono, and then discovered a dark form bearing down upon her. Could it be Miss Marlowe? No, it wasn't tall enough. It must be Miss Ashwell. Judith flattened herself against the wall, which was fortunately in the shadow, in the hope that she would not be seen. But it was a very slender little hope, and for the second time that evening Judith was sure that their plans for a good time were ruined, when, just as she had given herself up for lost, the figure turned about and a voice, unmistakably Miss Ashwell's, said, "Bother! I've forgotten my sponge again."

Another disaster averted!

What a gorgeous time they had! What a heavenly chicken!

What luscious meringues! And if you have never in semi-darkness balanced a precious morsel of jelly on the end of a nail-file, you have missed one of thrills of real living.

"The spiffingest feed I ever had," declared Judith as they began to pack up the remains and remove all traces of their feast.

"Well, we haven't had all the thrills that you've had to-night, Judibus, but for once I've had a perfectly good meal," confessed Rosamond, who was holding the useful little flashlight, "and now I'm good and ready for my perfectly good bed." She was voicing a unanimous thought—they had had a jolly time, but their feet had gone to sleep and their eyes were beginning to feel drowsy—yes, certainly bed would be good.

Pillows were sorted out, and Nancy with the tiny light led the way. She tried to open the door; it would not budge! She pulled hard. Josephine pulled harder; Sally May tried; and then consternation took possession of their souls. Some one had them, had them with a vengeance! Whatever would they do now?

Sally May was not in the least daunted, whatever the others might feel. "I'll tell you," she said; "it's some one who wanted to come to the party doing it for a joke"—but that brought little comfort. The party was a secret, and who would know where to find them? Forebodings as to to-morrow's punishment filled their minds.

Sally May, however, was accustomed to punishments. "Sufficient unto the day" was evidently her motto. "Come on, let's tell ghost stories," she said, and the others obediently seated themselves on the floor again. Sally May produced a large box of chocolates which they were keeping for another time, and began a long tale of a ghost who followed, and followed, and followed a man up and down, up and down, the corridors of an old manor house. The hero could hear the ghost's footsteps and its blood-curdling laugh, but he was afraid to turn his head, and when he did—very, very, very, slowly—the muscles of seven little necks stiffened obedient to Sally May's suggestion—he saw a terrible—but here Rosamond broke in with an hysterical cry, "Please, Sally May, I can't bear any more"—and Sally May's spell was broken.

Indeed they all began to be frankly miserable, for they were chilly by this time, and even schoolgirls' stomachs are susceptible to unlimited cake and candy. Nancy fell asleep and leaned on Judith, making her most uncomfortable. Sally May confessed quite openly to a feeling of sickness, and in a steady whisper poured into Judith's ear the ghastly details of how ill she had been at Knowlton after a lobster supper. The night wore on. Most of them finally went to sleep in uncomfortable attitudes, but about four o'clock in the morning, Judith, who was much too unhappy and too uncomfortable to sleep, got up stiffly from the floor and walking about the room, tried the door once more. To her huge astonishment and joy it opened! Catherine had come up a couple of hours before, but the striking of the big clock in the hall had covered the very slight noise of the turning of the lock.

"It was open all the time," protested several unhappy voices.

"You didn't try it properly."

"We did," said other cross voices, and sulkily and stiffly they creaked down the hall to their longed-for beds.

The rising bell rang in about an hour's time; at least so it seemed to eight very sleepy girls. Pancakes and maple syrup, the favourite York Hill breakfast, brought them no solace; indeed, to the surprise of their friends, they refused them. Sally May, who demanded much sympathy, reported to the nurse after breakfast.

"I don't feel well, Miss Anderson, I don't really. I'm tired all over. I think if I had a little rest—" she added plaintively.

"Put out your tongue," said Miss Anderson cruelly. "Hm, blowing up for a bilious attack. Oh, yes, you can go to morning lessons, but report at the Infirmary this evening for a dose of calomel."

Poor Sally May! The thought of the horrid dose haunted her all day, and when evening came her punishment was indeed complete.

Judith, Nancy, and Josephine had separately and independently resolved by hook or by crook to escape the hated morning walk or "crocodile." A walk after their wakeful night seemed simply impossible and the weather was too bad for games. Many excuses were thought of and rejected, but eventually they presented themselves to the mistress-in-charge, a certain zealous Miss Martin.

"Too tired to go out, Nancy? Very well, early bed, of course"—and she chalked up Nancy's name with "Bed at eight-thirty." Judith and Josephine were treated in like manner; not that they minded very much, for bed at eight-thirty had a soothing sound. But Madam Retribution was not done with them yet.

For a week or more they had been expecting an invitation from Catherine to supper in her room. It was a regular first-term institution that a prefect should entertain her set of cubicles, and rumours of other suppers had already reached the ears of the crew of the "Jolly Susan." Judith, especially, had been looking forward to this treat. An evening in Catherine's room, what a delight!

At evening prayers it was announced that to-night's lecturer would not be able to come, and promptly afterwards Catherine gave the longed-for invitation. "Supper in my room at eight-thirty," she whispered to each of the five; "we'll have a jolly time." Her surprise and astonishment at their stammered refusals were great.

"Slacking the walk?" she said coldly. "Of course, then, you can't have a treat"—and she wasted no sympathy on them. Judith could have wept with vexation and disappointment.

At half-past eight the crew of the "Jolly Susan" crept sadly into bed and listened to the laughter of the prefects gathered in Catherine's room, devouring their supper. Sally May had gone to the Infirmary, but one vow was registered by the other chastened souls in the "Jolly Susan"—"No more midnight suppers!"

CHAPTER VI

PUTTING IT THROUGH

The last two weeks had been so full of other things that lessons and their preparation had taken a somewhat secondary place in the thoughts of Form Five, and, in consequence, they had merited and received many rebukes.

Sally May had spent two hours of a precious Saturday afternoon learning poetry, for she had failed miserably in the last literature test; Josephine had been her companion in disgrace, and had even had to spend a precious Friday evening "in durance vile" because of returned lessons.

Judith's pride had been badly hurt by Miss Hilton's comment written in her geometry exercise book, "Very poor work, indeed, untidy and careless," and, worse still, when the lists were posted for the mid-term Latin examination, Judith's name had been halfway down with fifty-six marks to her credit. At Miss Graham's she had always headed the list. Just for a moment she almost thought that there must be some mistake, and then she realized that Five A standards were high and first-class standing meant first-class work.

Literature and history were Judith's strong subjects, and on the morning when she saw her Latin marks she made a mighty resolve to head the list in at least one of these. It wouldn't be easy. Joyce Hewson and Phyllis Lovell had been steadily piling up marks all term, and the whole form was watching their tussle for first place. Christmas reports and class standing for the half-year were made on class work and on the examinations at the end of the term.

"I've just got to have one 'first' on my report," said Judith to herself as she put away her books after morning school. "I've just got to—Daddy'll be awfully disappointed if I don't." And then, taking her place in the line that was filing into Big Hall, she whispered to Nancy, "What're we going to have this morning?"

"I'm not sure," said Nancy, "but I think Ruth Laughton's going to speak. I saw her going into Miss Meredith's study this morning."

The last period of Friday morning school belonged to Miss Meredith.

"It's like a grab-bag," Nancy had inelegantly told Judith; "you never know what you are going to get—sometimes it is a lecture, sometimes Miss Meredith reads us a story, sometimes we have carol singing—I do like that—and during the War we had talks from people who had been there. Once we had a Polish Countess who spoke the funniest English, but she was awfully brave, and once a man from Serbia. He was in the Red Cross and he told us a terrible story about the state of the Serbian children. We held form meetings the Monday following and voted to give up candy for a whole term, all of us, and we sent the money to him for the relief work. I think it's the nicest time of the week."

Judith too was coming to look forward to that last hour of the school week, very often to schoolgirls a wasted hour at the fag end of things.

This Friday an Old Girl was to speak to them. Miss Meredith held that a school like York Hill, in order to justify the time and effort, the money and brains, the service and consecration put into it, should send out girls who would be leaders and workers in everything which would make for the betterment of the community in which they lived, and unconsciously the Nancys and Judiths of the School, through these Friday morning glimpses of the great world of service, would be steadily and surely prepared for the part which they were to play. Social service, as such, was not talked about; most girls dislike what they call "preachments," but when Form Four decided to make baby clothes as a Christmas shower for the crêche where an Old Girl worked, and when Form Five promised a woolen sweater from every girl for the Fourteen Club at the University Settlement, social service became a real and vital fact in their lives. For, as Judith learned, knitted sweaters mean work, and wool costs money, which had to be deducted from an already painfully shrunken allowance, and baby clothes, although fascinating and cute, represent many hours of careful stitching.

Meanwhile the seeds planted on Friday mornings grew and flourished until "Noblesse oblige" became a natural and an actual attitude towards life. Social service of some sort or other, after one left school, was an established fact like unlimited tea-parties and dancing partners. And Miss Meredith and many of her staff made it the business of their lives to see that it should be social service of the right kind.

About once a term the Old Girls' Association provided a speaker. Miss Meredith had entertained many distinguished guests who had spoken in Big Hall, but none were made more welcome than the Old Girls, for the Head Mistress knew the appeal which they alone could, and did make. To-day the speaker was to be Ruth Laughton, a nursing sister decorated for gallantry by the King. Catherine had been a Junior when Ruth was Captain of South House, and she had pointed out to Judith Ruth's name on the tablet in Big Hall where the names of House and School captains were printed in letters of gold.

Judith considered, as Form Five marched into the Hall, what it would be like to carry out wounded soldiers under fire. Nursing Sister Laughton must be big and strong and brave, perhaps she was always brave and did not really mind the explosions. What was courage, anyway? And then, before she could decide this puzzling question, Miss Meredith was coming down the centre aisle with her distinguished guest. The School gave a thunderous welcome and settled back after Miss Meredith's brief introduction to hear a thrilling story.

Form Five confessed among themselves afterwards to a distinct feeling of disappointment when the speaker came forward. She was small, "not a bit pretty," the girls decided, and her voice seemed tired and lacking in vitality. The decoration on her breast appeared to be the only significant thing about her. Evidently Ruth was nervous.

"If she is not afraid of bombs, she is afraid of us," thought Judith, for the Sister's face grew white, her lips dry, and her assertion that she was glad to be back at dear old York Hill seemed to be all that she could remember of her speech. Three hundred pairs of hands had clapped her a warm welcome, but now she confronted three hundred pairs of critical eyes. She faltered, began again, and finally looked appealingly, a schoolgirl once more, at her Head Mistress.

"Never mind about your own experiences just now, Ruth," said Miss Meredith's calm, reassuring voice, "we'd like to hear a little more about the children's hostels in the north of France. We are all interested because we are sending clothes to Jean Warner to distribute."

And then a miracle happened, the whole School saw it. Ruth was transformed before them, her eyes brightened, her shoulders straightened, her voice had an inspiring ring in it as she told the story of the heroism of other Old Girls.

She had an interesting story to tell and she told it well: even the First-Form wrigglers sat with their eyes glued on her face as she told of the brave fight which was being made for the life and health of the children of Europe. "There is one thing especially I should like to tell you," she finished, looking down into the sea of upturned faces, "wherever I found a York girl—and you know my duties have taken me into all sorts of queer places these last four years—whether she was a V.A.D. ambulance driver, a nurse in hospital, a Y.W.C.A. secretary, or a Child's Welfare worker, always the record was the same, that when a York Hill girl undertook something, she put it through—especially if it were a hard job! That's what the General said when he pinned on Gwen's Mons Star—'Another of the ladies from Canada! They have taught you out there to put things through with a will!' York Hill Old Girls look to York Hill present girls to maintain the record of the School."

And if the applause meant anything, it surely stood for a determination on the part of her listeners to maintain the York Hill tradition.

Without considering the matter overmuch, Judith was convinced that the thing she was "to put through" during these last few weeks of term was hard study, and she bent to her tasks with a will.

The School seemed suddenly to become very busy, though about what Judith did not know. Much whispering was heard in the "Jolly Susan"; Nancy and Josephine looked very mysterious, girls from all parts of the School seemed to be in the same secret, and Judith heard tantalizing phrases, "scenery committee"—"scene shifters"—"costume committee"—"the Play." Very soon she herself was in a big secret, for a meeting of all New Girls was called by the School Captain, and Eleanor explained that the New Girls would be entertained at a play in the last week of November; that the custom was that the New Girls should return the compliment by an entertainment given during the last week of term; that since the New Girls were decidedly in the minority, two of the prefects and she herself would help in any way they could; and that, in a word, she was now ready to receive nominations for the various committees.

An exciting hour followed. To her dismay Judith found herself on the Costume Committee and she hated sewing. Sally May gave her little comfort—"just be glad you don't have to paint scenery; that's a dirty and hard job if you like," said Sally May. "Miss Ashwell makes us work like demons. If she didn't work like a demon herself, we just wouldn't do it," was her sage comment. Committee meetings multiplied. The play chosen was to be kept a secret from its audience and a delicious air of mystery pervaded the whole School.

After much discussion and help from Eleanor and Miss Marlowe, the New Girls chose the "Christmas Carol." Many other things were suggested, but Scrooge and Tiny Tim had apparently a warm place in their affections, and the appropriateness of the Christmas story for the end of term was irresistible.

The choosing of the cast was a difficult and a tedious job, and Miss Marlowe and Eleanor spent much time trying out various candidates, but at last the list was complete, and, a little to her relief, and, it must be confessed, a little to her regret, Judith was not included. She had never acted, and she had a firm conviction that she could not, so that the regret was merely that she didn't like to think that other people had the same conviction.

Her membership on the Costume Committee was no sinecure. Coveted Saturday afternoon and evening leisure had to be given up to the stitching of long seams. Mathilde LeBrun, who was another Josephine in that her brain seemed to be in her fingers, was convener of the committee, and under her direction Judith sewed and cut out, and, it must be confessed, ripped. Tiny Tim's coat and trousers were her task, and although the smallest of the new girls, Edith Holland by name, had been chosen for this rôle, Judith found the utmost difficulty in making her look like a Tiny Tim. Twice did she make and un-make that wretched little suit, but she was nothing if not conscientious, and at last it was finished.

"Twelfth Night," which was the Old Girls' play, was a huge success. Nancy and Josephine had been so excited all week that Judith had found it about impossible to keep her own attention on her lessons. Catherine must be a chief character in the play, decided Judith, for Catherine's room was the centre of numberless committee meetings and endless discussions, and Genevieve Singleton—who, to Judith's envy had established herself as Catherine's chief messenger—ran hither and thither, bursting with importance. Nevertheless the secret was kept, and as Judith sat with Sally May and Frances Purdy and all the other new girls on Friday night and listened to the noise behind the green curtain, she felt that she could bear the suspense no longer.

And then, when the curtain rose, the Master Magician waved his wand and Judith, who had seen very few plays, was transported to a land of beauty, romance, and sweet adventure. Helen made a noble Duke, and Catherine an enchanting Viola. Judith had never quite recaptured the thrill of delight she had felt when on the opening night of term she had first seen Catherine, but now to the charm and witchery of first impressions of beauty was added the knowledge of Catherine's sweetness and gentleness. Nancy might be a witty Maria, and Josephine a rollicking Sir Toby; Judith had eyes and ears for Viola only, and as the play progressed she envied passionately the Duke who seemed criminally stupid in his misunderstanding of Viola's love. The surprise of the play was Genevieve Singleton's Malvolio. Even Judith was moved out of her trance of adoration to laughter and admiration.

"That was real acting," said Sally May with the air of a theatre habitué as Malvolio pranced off the stage in the immortal scene of the yellow stockings and cross-garters.

After the last bravos had died away and the actors had bowed their thanks before the footlights, both audience and players were refreshed with lemonade and cakes, and Judith transferred her envy to the fortunate ones who stood talking over the evening's triumph with Catherine and Genevieve and the rest of the cast. She envied Genevieve who had had such a success, and she wished, but did not dare, to join the group. "Perhaps," thought silly Judith, "if I run upstairs now and get her room ready for her, Catherine may kiss me good-night." Judith was on the verge of what is technically known as a "crush."

Meanwhile preparations went forward in earnest for the "Christmas Carol," and "All costumes must be finished for Monday. Full rehearsal at eight o'clock in the Big Hall." So ran the Order-in-Council.

"I'm certainly glad Tiny Tim's costume is done," thought Judith as she ran downstairs for the rehearsal; "four more days till the literature exam. I'm going to work like everything."

"Come on, Judy," Sally May hailed her as she found her place behind the curtain where she was to help shift scenery; "you're late, but who ever heard of a rehearsal starting on time?"

"Seems to be some sort of a row on," said Judith as a distinct groan reached their ears. "What's up?" she asked as they joined the group on the stage.

"Marjorie Jones has measles," answered Eleanor, their stage manager: "come here, all of you, and think hard. Who can take Scrooge at such short notice? Is there any new girl with a good memory? It's the longest part by far."

Various names were proposed and rejected for one reason or another, and then Eleanor's eye fell on Judith, who saw her consider for a moment, speak in a low tone to the two other prefects; then very reluctantly she answered the summons, "Judith, come here and read this page for me, will you, please? Perhaps you'll do."

Judith read the page and a tiny feeling of resentment began to make itself felt. She hadn't been asked to do anything nice, or anything she wanted, and now they weren't even asking her if she would be willing to take Marjorie's place.

"I guess you'll do," was Eleanor's uncomplimentary comment when Judith had finished.

"There's really no one else," she said, turning to Patricia, "and I think Judy can be word-perfect by Friday. I'll coach her every spare minute myself. Come along, Judy," she added, "and read over the part before we begin."

Somewhat breathless from this prompt decision, Judith obediently took the manuscript and seated herself at one corner of the stage. Suddenly as she read, the full meaning of this new turn of events flashed into her brain. The final term examination in literature was listed for Friday morning, and Judith had planned to spend all her spare time between now and then in the thorough revision of her work, for there was still much to be done, and this examination would really decide whether she or Joyce or Phyllis would head the list.

For a long ten minutes Judith read her part and at the same time debated within herself, while Eleanor settled some difference of opinion about exits and entrances. Self number one tried to hoodwink self number two—"Top Self" and "Deep-Down Self," Judith as a little girl had christened these two voices within her. "Daddy would like you to come out first; you oughtn't to disappoint him. Lessons must be done. Just go and tell Eleanor you can't do it and then your time will be your own."

"No," said Deep-Down Self, "be fair, Judy. You know you can't act well, you won't be a success like Genevieve. You don't want Catherine and the others to see you fail, and honestly, do you want to come out first for Daddy's sake or for your own? I really believe you don't think enough fuss has been made over you. You'd rather work at your literature and come first, perhaps, but you can memorize quickly and they need you. Which ought you to do?—never mind whether it's hard or not."

Judith had always been honest with herself and she knew quite well what the real issue was.

The struggle was hard, the hardest, perhaps, which Judith had ever fought. Mechanically she turned the pages while the argument continued within her. She seemed to have no way of deciding, when suddenly she remembered Nursing Sister Ruth's words, "York Hill girls have the reputation overseas of being willing to tackle any job—no matter how hard—and of putting it through." Top Self hadn't a chance after that. Filling in here seemed her most immediate duty and Judith settled down grimly to her task.

The rehearsal was long and tiring, and twenty times during the first hour Judith was tempted to give up. But she did her best, and although Eleanor was distracted by all the numberless things demanding attention, she found time to stop and say at the end of the first act, "Good work, Judy! I knew I could depend on you. You'll make a first-rate Scrooge, and you are a brick to get to work without any fuss." And although Judith did not believe the remark about her acting, her face flushed with pleasure and she determined that she would not spend another moment in questioning. This job must be put through.

And it was. She woke early in the morning and learned her part by the light of Nancy's flashlight. She cut her recreation time and scamped her lesson preparation. She thought and lived Scrooge, and as she had a good memory she was word-perfect before Eleanor had thought it possible. Eleanor and Patricia coached her whenever they could, and Miss Marlowe gave her Wednesday evening and Thursday afternoon.

Friday morning, and with it the literature examination! Judith read the paper with a sinking heart. She would not fail, but, as she had guessed, the extra reading which she had planned to do during these last few days would have given her paper "The little more, and how much it is" which would have lifted it to the first rank. Came Friday afternoon with its last rehearsal and then the fateful night.

Judith will never forget the thrill of terror that ran through her as the curtain rose and she saw the rows of faces staring at her out of the semi-darkness. For an instant she was paralyzed with terror, and it was only the audience's delight at finding Frances arrayed as Scrooge's irrepressible nephew that covered the gap between "Merry Christmas, Uncle," and "Bah! Humbug!"

The first short scene was wooden enough in all conscience, but Judith remembered her words, and as the story progressed she got a better grip on herself surprising and delighting Eleanor and those who were in the secret by her spirited acting.

But at the end of Act Three, Nancy, who had slipped behind the scenes to congratulate her chum, and to tell her that her wig was the least bit askew, was surprised and alarmed to find Judith almost in tears.

"I can't do the last act, Nancy, I simply can't. My face feels all stiff and solemn. I can't laugh and joke, I can't, no matter how I try"—and two tears actually rolled down her cheeks. She was tired out, and the very imagination which had made it possible for her to be for the moment the gloomy old miser, now made it seem impossible for her to change him in a few minutes into a jolly, generous, incarnation of old Father Christmas.

Nancy was horrified and distracted. She did her best, but with seemingly no avail, and then she had one of those inspirations, which seem almost heaven-sent. Hurrying back and learning that there were still four or five minutes before the curtain would rise, she sought Catherine, who luckily had left her seat during the interlude.

"Captain," she said, saluting, "there is one of the crew who needs your help; can you come at once?"

And then, as they neared the stage—

"It's Judy, Cathy," she whispered; "do buck her up. She has been such a brick, but she is so tired that she feels that she can't do the last act."

Catherine waited for no more explanations, but went swiftly behind the curtain, where she found Judith trying to look cheerful, but making a dismal failure of it. "Careful," said Cathy to herself. "I mustn't be sympathetic or she will break down."

Judith looked up, and instead of the dreaded warning that the curtain was going up, here was Catherine saluting her merrily.

"Good work, Judy! The 'Jolly Susan' needs a first mate; can I induce you to accept the job?" And she put a steadying arm round the new mate's shoulders. "You've been splendid; we're all proud of you, and especially we of the 'Jolly Susan.'"

No more question of can or can't. Judith felt that she could do anything for her captain and here was a chance. She threw herself into the unforgettable scene of Scrooge's awakening, and the whole school was infected with the joyousness of her declaration: "I am as light as a feather. I am as happy as an angel. I am as merry as a schoolboy. A Merry Christmas to everybody, a Happy New Year to all the world. Hullo, here, whoop! Hullo."

And every one was quite ready to agree with Scrooge's declaration at the end of the scene, "Wonderful party, wonderful games, wonderful unanimity, won-der-ful happiness!"

The New Girls were cheered to the echo by the School, and the party which was voted a great success ended with cake and lemonade and a delightful Sir Roger de Coverly in which every one took part.

Judith, dancing with Bob Cratchit, felt supremely happy, and her cup was filled to overflowing by Miss Meredith's words as she said good-night.

"Congratulations on your success, Judith, you gave us a fine presentation of Scrooge, and Eleanor tells me you had very little time for preparation."

And then the delightful whispered conferences upstairs after "Lights Out" bell had rung—Catherine turned a deaf ear, for discipline must occasionally be relaxed.

"Did you see Mr. Fezziwig's coat, Judy?"

"Wasn't Mrs. Cratchit too funny for words?"

"Wasn't the ghost splendid?"

"I shivered all over when he was speaking," Nancy declared; and so on and so on, until Judith fell asleep and dreamed that she was dancing the Sir Roger with Miss Meredith arrayed as Mrs. Cratchit, and that, so arrayed, Miss Meredith had proceeded to the platform and had read out the term's marks beginning with Five A. First, Judith Benson; second, Joyce Hewson; third, Nancy Nairn.

It was a good thing that Judith had the fun of her dream because in the lists read out after prayers next morning our heroine stood fourth, in Five A, but that didn't spoil her morning, such a happy morning. Desks were tidied, Christmas presents tied up, suitcases packed, and at twelve o'clock a short Christmas service was held in Big Hall.

The carols which they had been learning the last few weeks at morning prayers were sung now with a right good will to the accompaniment of the School orchestra. And then Miss Meredith, having read the beautiful Christmas story, explained the meaning of its message so clearly, so simply, and yet so earnestly, and with such a passionate longing that from York Hill there should indeed radiate "Peace and good will towards all men," that not the stupidest nor the most frivolous girl but was touched to a sense of higher ideals and nobler living.

Every girl in the School knew that the Head Mistress was humbly striving to embody in her own life the high ideals she held before her pupils, and because of this they listened. Doubtless some of the seed fell by the wayside, some into hard and stony ground, some was choked by the deceit and riches of this world, but other seed fell into good ground and brought forth abundantly, "some thirty, some sixty, and some an hundred-fold."

CHAPTER VII

CHRISTMAS HOLIDAYS

The Christmas holidays brought a much-needed rest.

"No parties these holidays," said Aunt Nell firmly, as she ushered Judith into a pretty sunshiny room; "bed at nine o'clock, breakfast at nine o'clock, and any amount of skating and tobogganing in between. I promised your mother that you should have a very quiet time."

But a very quiet time was not just the holiday that Judith had planned to have, and after a long night's sleep and a peaceful day devoted to letter-writing she was lively as a cricket and ready for anything.

Christmas shopping absorbed the first two days: Aunt Nell found it tiring, but to Judith the shops all glittering with Yuletide gaiety were wholly fascinating. There were toys to be bought for six-year-old Doris and little Bobbie and Baby Hugh, and something very nice for Nancy. Nothing seemed good enough for Nancy, but at last she found a little string of white coral faintly touched with rose which she was certain would look "just perfectly lovely" with Nancy's roseleaf complexion, and, after much anxious calculating as to what money would be left for pocket money during the holidays, the corals were finally bought and sent off to Quebec.

Up to the day before Christmas the weather had been very uncertain, and Judith, who had bought Bobbie a new sled was afraid that she would have to pull him on bare sidewalks, and that the stories of Santa Claus and his reindeer would fall rather flat if there were no snow on the ground to add a touch of reality to the tale.

But on Christmas Eve to every one's joy the snow fell softly but steadily all day, and next morning the sky was so blue, the sun so bright, and the ground so dazzling white in its snowy covering, that Judith running out to the verandah fairly danced with joy.

"Do come out and see!" she cried to Aunt Nell; "it's exactly like a Christmas-card Christmas if only a little English robin would hop into the picture."

Stockings had already been emptied and their contents exclaimed over, and no wonder Judith was happy. Perhaps Santa Claus had an especially soft corner in his heart for schoolgirls whose mothers were far away at Christmas-time. Judith had never had such enchanting presents—a string of beautiful amber beads from Daddy; the daintiest of shell-pink crêpe kimonos with satin slippers and cap to match from mother; a pretty camisole from Nancy; a woolen skating-set of palest primrose from Uncle Tom; and—joy of joys! a new white and silver evening frock from Aunt Nell.

Judith promised to take Bobbie for a sleigh-ride, but ran upstairs to have another peep at the new frock first, and Aunt Nell found her gloating over it.

"I know," she said, smiling at Judith's raptures; "I've been there myself. I'm sure your mother thought two frocks ample for a sixteen-year-old, and I expect you have worn them so often already that you never want to see them again. Hannah shall help you freshen them up with a new flower or a bit of gauze, and I hope you will have jolly times in the new one."

Judith folded away the delicious bit of finery in its tissue wrappings, and then, standing at her dressing-table and looking dreamily and happily into the mirror, she made a picture of herself dancing in her silver frock with Catherine, admired by Nancy and Josephine, and envied by all the girls of South House, and she privately resolved at once to save enough out of her allowance for silver shoes.

"Hurry, hurry!" shouted Uncle Tom, and hastily donning her new skating outfit Judith joined the group in the hall.

They had glorious fun in the snow. Doris and Bobbie, rolled up in furs so that they looked like little 'possums, had turns riding in the new sled to the park, and then the whole family were packed into the big toboggan and Uncle Tom had more fun even than Bobbie. Oh, it was good to be alive!

Next morning brought a welcome letter from Sally May who was spending the holidays with Nancy in Quebec. Judith had just been thinking about them and wishing she could compare notes about Christmas presents, and have a really good gossip.

"Quebec is the most enchanting place," wrote Sally May; "you know how I've hated learning Canadian and British history—well, here the history is real—Nancy's father is awfully keen about the monuments and things and I'm getting to be keen myself. Jack has a couple of R. M. C. boys here for the holidays, and then there's His Lordship Brother Tim—Mrs. Nairn is a dear and is giving us an awfully good time. If only you were here, Judy, it would be perfect."

If only she were! Judith sighed and wished she had two big brothers—or at least that Nancy had included her in the invitation. She was right in her surmise that Sally May had been chosen because she was so far from home, but she couldn't help wishing—

Judith had heard Aunt Nell talking to a gentleman in the drawing-room across the hall, and now, to her surprise, Aunt Nell left him and came into the library looking somewhat puzzled.

"Mr. Nairn, Nancy's father, is here, Judith. I find that Mrs. Nairn and I are old friends. I hadn't guessed that your Nancy's mother was the Elizabeth Dalton I knew years ago. She has sent a very kind invitation for you to spend the New Year's week-end with them. Mr. Nairn is going to Quebec by to-night's train, and could take you with him and bring you back on Tuesday. I don't know whether I ought"—but at the sight of the ecstatic joy on Judith's face she did not finish her sentence. "Run along, dear, and pack the new frock. I don't need to ask you if you want to go. You have been a good child and I think you have had enough rest. Come first and be introduced to Mr. Nairn. It is kind of him to take you."

A radiant Judith packed a club bag and suitcase. Could Uncle Tom and Mother have guessed that such a fairy-tale was going to happen when they planned their gifts?—But, of course not. Where were her skates and plenty of handkerchiefs? Silver shoes she must have sometime, but here were the old white ones in the meantime.

Nancy and Sally May were in the limousine waiting for the travellers at the station next day, and as Judith caught sight of them she realized with a joyous leap of her heart how homesick she had been for the sound of Sally May's pretty voice and the sight of Nancy's dear, merry face.

Ever so many things had happened, and better still were going to happen. Sally May had had her hair bobbed, and very chic it looked curling under the rim of her little fur hat. Nancy had a thrilling tale of Christmas presents to tell, and they had not reached the end of the Christmas happenings when the car drew up before a comfortable-looking, rather old-fashioned house surrounded by what was evidently a big garden under a thick mantle of snow.

Mrs. Nairn's welcome made Judith feel at home at once, and she gave her aunt's messages to her hostess so prettily and so modestly that Mrs. Nairn was quite charmed with Nancy's new friend.

At dinner the sons of the house appeared, and with them Tom Southam, Jack's roommate at college. Jack had the same merry blue eyes and sunny smile as his sister, and Judith forgot to be shy with him. Thomas was a cheery youth, whose chief interest at the dinner-table was the food, and Judith gave him scant attention. But Tim, the elder brother, who had been in the Flying Corps and had several enemy machines to his credit, who still limped from injuries received during an air-fight, and whose grey eyes had the keen, piercing, and yet dreamy look of the genuine bird-man, was sufficiently a hero to prove undeniably attractive. Tim was courteous and kind, but from the height of his five-and-twenty years a trifle condescending, and indeed he was wishing within himself that "Mum wouldn't fill the house with such kids."

The boys had planned to go skiing next day and after some private suggestions from Mrs. Nairn, they asked the girls to come and watch the fun. Neither Sally May nor Judith had ever been on skis, but here was a splendid chance to try.

"Drive us over to the Ramparts, Tim, please," said Nancy as they started off. "I don't want Judith to be in Quebec another hour without seeing our view."

"Right you are," answered Tim, "we'd better go while it's clear—though, of course, the only way to see Quebec is from the river."

"I always get thrills," said Nancy, "when I come down the river and see the big rock and the town. Think of being Jacques Cartier—the first to see it. For a while, you know, I used to put at the top of my letters, 'Quebec—the Rock Fortress of New France.'"

"Cheek, that's what," said Jack; "I hope you apologize to Wolfe when you do it—there, by the way, is the Wolfe-Montcalm Monument—see, shining over the tops of the trees—I bet you can't recite the inscription, Nan, for Judith, who ought to improve her mind."

"Lost your bet," returned Nancy promptly—"a pound box, if you please—no, half a pound will do, for I can't say it in Latin, but I certainly can in English.