Judy of York Hill

"Bravo—I'll make it a pound—but of course you looked it up to show off to Sally May."

"Well, I did look it up," confessed Nancy, "but Father promised to take us to see the sights as soon as Judy came and he would have disowned me if I didn't know that much."

They had reached the Ramparts and Judith caught her breath in amazement at the wonderful scene. Away below them flowed the majestic St. Lawrence, its snow-clad banks pierced here and there by tiny villages each with its heavenward-pointing spire; to the north were the Laurentian Hills, now glistening in a dazzling white mantle; at their feet was the town, quaint and picturesque, its spires and monuments reminders of its romantic past.

"There's the Ursuline convent, Judy," said Sally May, eagerly pointing out the group of buildings. "Mr. Nairn told me the most interesting thing about it—there's a lamp there that was lighted over two hundred years ago by a girl, Marie de Repentigny—just imagine all the things that have happened since that flame was lit."

"En avant—forward march," said Jack; "this is not Mr. Nairn's personally conducted tour—we, I might observe parenthetically, intend to ski this afternoon."

They bundled into the motor once more and were soon on the slopes a little lower down where several flying figures could already be seen. It was an ideal place for the thrilling sport—for there were a number of high places where experts could take high jumps, and lower slopes in plenty for the learners and the more timid, and great snowy fields beyond where the whiteness was broken by the gay-coloured caps and scarves of tobogganers and skaters.

Tom took Nancy down to one of the ponds to skate, while Tim and Jack gave Judith and Sally May their first lesson.

Tim proved a splendid teacher and Judith made such progress in the management of the long clumsy skis that at the end of an hour the boys left Nancy in charge of their pupils, and went off to try some of the higher jumps.

Judith found that she couldn't do as well without Tim's precept and example, and neither she nor Sally May was sorry when Nancy declared they could have just one more jump—they had no idea how stiff they would be to-morrow.

Judith stood for a moment enjoying the scene. The sky was still blue, but there were bands of colour in the west and the shadows of the pine trees had lengthened considerably. She drew a deep breath of unconscious enjoyment drinking in the wonderful air that tasted like clear spring water, and then, making sure that both skis were quite straight, she pushed off.

For a moment like a bird she felt herself flying through the air. How glorious! Then quite suddenly came a sense of suffocation and thick darkness. In some way the long curved wings on her feet had tripped her and she had pitched head foremost into a deep snow-bank. Nancy, who saw her disappear, halloed to the boys as she sped to the place where Judith was buried, and they appeared with magical swiftness.

They pulled Judith out—not without difficulty—and wiped the snow off her face.

"Are you hurt?" said Jack anxiously.

Judith struggled to get her breath.

"It's—too—beautiful," she said, without opening her eyes, her mind evidently still on the river view,—"perfectly glorious!"

Jack burst into relieved laughter.

"Judith's a game little thing," he said to his mother later on; "I suppose we shouldn't have left them so soon, but she seemed to get the hang of it very quickly—she slid into that bank as neatly as an arrow—I'm mighty glad she isn't hurt."

Judith could hardly keep her eyes open at the dinner-table, and she was glad enough to accept Mrs. Nairn's suggestion that she go to bed early.

Nancy and Sally May perched on the foot of the bed ready to talk over the day's happenings, but found to their astonishment that Judy seemed asleep almost as soon as her head touched the pillow. They tiptoed gently away, but they need not have been afraid of wakening her.

"Doesn't she look sweet?" whispered loyal Nancy to Sally May as she turned off the bedside lamp. Judith was smiling happily, for in her dreams she was flying, flying through sunlit skies, and Tim, of the grey eyes and the half friendly, half quizzical smile, was flying beside her.

CHAPTER VIII

CASTLES IN THE AIR

Next morning Judith could scarcely move; her limbs were stiff from the unaccustomed exercise and one shoulder was bruised and wrenched from her fall, so Mrs. Nairn kept her in bed all morning and gave her much petting and mothering.

The plans for the afternoon had included a skating party on the river, ending with a drive out to the Nairns' summer cottage, which had been opened in preparation for this week of winter sports. A neighbouring farmer's wife had promised to have a roaring fire ready for the skaters when they should appear about five o'clock, and the farmer himself was to meet them at the river with his big sleigh. Clearly Judith could not skate to-day, so other plans were made for her. Nancy, of course, must be with the skaters, since she was the hostess, but Sally May insisted on staying at home with Judith. Naturally this embarrassed Judith, for she knew that Sally May loved skating, and an outdoor party of this kind would be a novelty to a Southerner. Finally Jack talked things over with his mother, and, as Judith declared that she was well enough to go, Mrs. Nairn agreed that she should drive with Jack to the cottage and he would leave her there with Mme. Berthier, while he rejoined the skaters on the river.

Tim, to Judith's disappointment, declared that he had an engagement and couldn't come.

"I can't think what's happening to Tim," grumbled Nancy as they changed into warm clothes for their long drive; "usually he's a dear about helping to entertain, but he's not a bit like himself, he looks so glum and 'grouchy.'"

"Oh, Nancy!" Judith protested, "I don't see how you can say such a thing! I think he looks just lovely!"

"Just lovely," Nancy laughed wickedly; "he'll be pleased when I tell him."

Poor Judith crimsoned.

"Oh, Nancy," she begged, "you wouldn't, surely you wouldn't. I just meant that he had nice eyes."

But Nancy would make no promises.

Promptly after an early lunch the skaters set off, and Jack appeared with a horse and a little old-fashioned cutter which he had borrowed from an uncle who scorned motors and still clung to his horse. Judith was tucked up in a fur robe in the cutter and off they went.

"It's almost as good as skiing or flying," laughed Judith as the light sleigh flew over the snow and the bells on the horse jingled a merry accompaniment to their talk. It was another day of magical colouring—all blue and gold and dazzling white, and "Little Oaks" was reached all too soon in Judith's opinion. To their dismay there was no friendly column of smoke announcing the fire that Mme. Berthier had promised.

"It's a good thing the Berthiers are only a mile away," said Jack; "whatever can have happened?"

He came out of the little whitewashed cottage with a grave face. "Jacques is away at the lumber camp and Toinette and the two younger children are down with flu—Toinette seems very ill; luckily Jeanne is old enough to do the nursing, but they need a doctor, and I'm afraid I'll have to go off at once. Nancy will be disappointed, but it can't be helped. We'll pin a note on the door for her as we go back—it would take too long to open the house and get a good fire going—and a wood fire wouldn't keep in all afternoon anyway—and I couldn't leave you alone—"

"Oh, please, please," begged Judith, "do let me stay—couldn't that small boy by the door be coaxed to stay with me for company—I couldn't bear to have Nancy's party spoilt."

Judith knew how to be very persuasive and Jack finally gave in. Little Pierre came with them to carry the wood, he was told.

Jack opened up the house, carried in the baskets of provisions, and lit a fire of blazing logs.

"I'll 'phone to you when I get in, and if you should need anything, or if you feel lonely, ring up Mother in the meantime."

"I shan't have a minute to spare for feelings," declared Judith, "Pierre and I have plenty to do."

She didn't quite realize how much was to be done when she watched Jack drive off. The living-room to be swept and dusted—that would come first—and no small task when one's arms and back are bruised and aching; then to the kitchen, and judge of her dismay when on opening the baskets she found that, though there were cakes and fruit and salad stuff in plenty, of bread there was only one small loaf. Whatever could—oh, here was a small bag of flour and a tin of baking powder. Judith groaned as she remembered hearing Nancy tell Sally May that Mme. Berthier was a splendid cook and had promised to make heaps of waffles and hot biscuits for them to eat with their baked beans and salad.

Twenty hungry skaters appearing in an hour and one small loaf to feed them! Judith had never made waffles, but she had made baking-powder biscuits once or twice, though only, of course, in small quantities. Her first thought was to walk to Mme. Berthier's cottage and ask for directions. No, that wouldn't do—the precious hour would be gone. And Nancy must not be disappointed.

"Put on some more wood, Pierre, please. I want a good hot oven," she called to her little helper, and then as he looked blank she tried first her scanty stock of French words and then showed him what to do.

While she was thinking, she was rapidly unpacking the baskets and setting the table, disregarding meanwhile the twinges of pain from her hurt shoulders. At last everything was ready but the biscuits—she couldn't remember, try as she might, the proportion of baking-powder and flour and milk. A mistake would be such a tragedy! Then just as she had decided to make three or four batches and hope that one or two might be good, she suddenly thought of the telephone.

"Well, I am a silly, petit Pierre, now we'll be all right—Yes, Mrs. Nairn, it's Judith—Jack will explain—please tell me how to make biscuits!"

The explanation must have been easy to follow, for when Nancy and her party arrived a little later three pans of beautifully browned fluffy tea-biscuits were ready to put on the table. Judith had never been as proud of anything in her life as of those same biscuits, and when later the company toasted her in hot cocoa and sang, "For she's a Jolly Good Fellow," with Nancy and Jack looking their special thanks, Judith decided she could never be any happier than she felt right then.

Mr. Nairn was as good as his word next day and took them on a sight-seeing tour ending with a delightful luncheon at the Château Frontenac. Judith had never lunched in such a big hotel and felt very important and grown-up. Jack and Tim refused to be instructed on historical matters, but were on hand for the luncheon.

"I guess you two have won Dad's hard heart and no mistake," Jack confided to Judith while they waited for Mr. Nairn, who was speaking to an acquaintance. "I see the favors are 'chien d'or' bonbon dishes," pointing to the quaint little china dishes. "He always presents a copy of 'The Golden Dog' to highly honored visitors."

"Your father has been telling us about it," said Judith, "and he promised me a copy when we get home."

"I'm coming back to sketch here some summer," announced Sally May; "Quebec's simply full of places wanting to be painted."

After the luncheon the boys took them home, and as Judith was still tired from her exertions of the last two days, they voted to spend the afternoon at home, and curled themselves up in comfortable chairs in the sitting-room prepared to discuss a box of chocolates and the universe in general.

"What're you going to do after school, Judy?" demanded Nancy; and then without waiting for an answer—"I believe Mother is going to let me train to be a nurse. I've just been crazy to be a nurse ever since I was about ten. Mother has laughed at me and said I would get over it, but she sees that I really mean it, and I think she is willing now. I don't know where I'll go. Florence Matthews says you can get the best training in New York, but Mother thinks New York is too far away, and anyway I have to take a Domestic Science course first."

"You'll look perfectly sweet in a uniform, Nancy," said Sally May; "I simply adore the kerchiefs the nurses wear in some of the hospitals. It's too bad the war is over. Wouldn't it have been thrilling to nurse soldiers!"

"I'm going to be an artist," Sally May continued, "with a studio in New York. I'm going to buy all sorts of lovely embroidery and pottery in the East—I know a perfectly lovely shop in Shanghai—and I'll make a gorgeous room. I'm sure I could make it perfectly fascinating, full of atmosphere, you know," she continued vaguely. "I'll have afternoon tea every day and invite heaps of people, interesting people, who do out-of-the-ordinary things. Patricia Caldwell's cousin had the loveliest time. Patricia says her studio is just like an old-fashioned French salon."

"What about your pictures?" asked Judith slyly.

"Oh, of course I'll work hard," said Sally May happily. "I simply love to draw."

"What are you going to be, Judy?"

"I'm not sure," said Judith slowly, "but I think I'd like to be a teacher."

"A teacher?" chorused the other two in surprise. "Why, Judy, what a funny idea!" said Sally May.

"I don't see why it's funny," Judith objected. "I think it would be splendid to be like Miss Marlowe or head of a school like Miss Meredith."

"Well, you'll never get married if you are a teacher," said Sally May with finality; "at any rate, not for ages and ages."

"Why not?" said Judy.

This was a poser.

"W-e-l-l—you'd have to learn so much, you see."

Judith laughed. "I hadn't thought of that, but I thought you were going to be an artist," she added teasingly.

"But not all my life," expostulated Sally May, and Judith and Nancy laughed to think of Sally May's picture of a hard-working artist.

Judith considered the matter of her future seriously as she dressed for dinner.

It might be nice to be married—think how lonely she and Mummy would be without Daddy—but of course she couldn't marry Daddy; and then she laughed at herself as she remembered Daddy's story of the small girl who sobbed that she didn't ever want to get married because, as she couldn't have daddy, she'd have to marry a perfect stranger.

"Perhaps some one like Tim would be nice," thought Judith, and after the fashion of most sixteen-year-olds she began to weave a shadowy romance with a Prince Charming as its central figure. Tim had walked to the Château with them this morning, and although he had not condescended to talk beyond the merest civilities, this silence had merely served to enhance his romantic value in Judith's eyes. She wondered what he was thinking of. Perhaps he was living over again a battle in the clouds—as a matter of fact, Tim was wondering why he hadn't received a certain letter which he had hoped for on Christmas Day. Judith hoped he would like her new frock, and wondered how many dances he would ask her for on New Year's night.

The Nairns were a musical family. Nancy always went to the piano and played for her father after dinner, sometimes Mrs. Nairn joined in with her violin, and to-night Tim appeared with his 'cello.

Judith loved to attend symphony concerts and the tuning-up of the orchestra never failed to give her delicious thrills, but she had never had a speaking acquaintance—so to speak—with a 'cello before this, and the beautiful mellow tones delighted her more than anything she had ever heard before. As she undressed that night she revised her plans for the future. She would devote herself to music and study hard so that when they were married she might be her husband's accompanist. "On wings of music" they would soar, and when they did come back to earth it must be to a bungalow, a dear little grey-stone bungalow. She spent a happy time planning the furnishing of her music-room and fell asleep before she had decided on the respective merits of old oak and mahogany.

Next day began with "Happy New Year" and ended with the jolliest of family parties. All the members of the house-party spent a busy day, for Mrs. Nairn had plenty for the two maids to do in the kitchen. Sally May was discovered to have a talent for decorating, so she and Jack and Tim hung evergreens and holly and placed ferns and flowers where they would show to the best advantage, while Nancy and Judith whisked about with dusters and brushes.

"Music in the living-room, dancing in the drawing-room and hall, and cards upstairs in Mother's sitting-room," said Nancy as they set the small tables. "That's what we always have, and then everybody dances a Sir Roger de Coverly—you should see Uncle Phil and Aunt Maria dancing—and afterwards we have supper."

They had a picnic tea at six o'clock in the sitting-room as the maids were arranging the supper-table in the dining-room, and then came the fun of dressing.

Judith had kept her new silver frock as a great surprise, and now it was thrilling to burst into Nancy's room in all her new finery. Nancy and Sally May said it was "perfectly sweet," and even Jack, "who never notices" (according to Nancy), looked and whistled his admiration as Judith came downstairs, her eyes shining, her cheeks glowing with excitement, and her pretty frock swishing about her in a highly gratifying manner.

Guests were arriving at an unfashionably early hour, since it was largely a family party, and Judith was introduced to a bewildering number of cousins and cousins' cousins and aunts and uncles.

But where was Tim? He had not been home for tea, and although Judith listened and watched there was no sign of him.

"Tim went out early this afternoon to pay calls and he isn't back yet," Sally May informed Judith. "I think Mrs. Nairn is rather worried about him."

The younger set had been dancing for an hour or more and Jack had proved an attentive host, but Judith was still half unconsciously looking for Tim when suddenly she saw him in the doorway with an exquisitely pretty girl beside him. Perhaps it was Tim's radiant look which he was making no effort to hide, perhaps it was his partner's radiant looks which she was trying to hide, but however it was Judith had the quick conviction that this was a very special partner. The newcomer was slim and graceful, and Judith saw with sudden envy that her hair was like spun gold and her eyes as blue as forget-me-nots.

Tim danced with no one else, and in spite of Jack's attentions and no lack of interesting partners, Judith began to feel a little disconsolate. However, it was hard not to be merry at such a merry party; there was happiness in the very air.

The Sir Roger was a great success, and Uncle Phil, aged seventy-two, upheld his reputation as the gayest dancer of them all.

At supper-time Nancy and Judith were helping to serve the little tables in the library when Judith saw Tim with his partner come in and go over to Mr. and Mrs. Nairn. Nancy suddenly squeezed Judith's arm.

"Oh, Judy, Judy, they're engaged! I'm sure they are! Look at Tim! We were pretty sure he was in love with her, and Lois is such a darling!"

Then she rushed over to put her arms around Lois, and Judith was left alone feeling bereaved of husband, home, and career at one cruel stroke.

"The nicest party I ever was at," said Sally May enthusiastically as the three said good-night after a long discussion of the evening's fun, "and I think you looked nicer than anybody else, Judy. I do hope you won't get conceited about the way you look in that new frock. I know I should."

"The nicest party I ever was at," thought Judith before she fell asleep, "and the very nicest people. Jack is a brick—he's been awfully kind to me. I wish I was half as pretty as Lois Selkirk. What would it feel like to be engaged?—I guess it would be exciting! However, then I wouldn't be going back to York Hill—and that will be exciting next term and no mistake. Oh, how glad I am that I've got Nancy!"

CHAPTER IX

THE ANONYMOUS LETTER

What fun it was to get back to York Hill!

As Judith stood in the front hall waiting her turn to sign the register, she almost laughed aloud as she remembered how, standing in this very spot, she had clung desperately to Aunt Nell five short months ago. How different it was now! She could hardly wait to get over to South, and see Nancy, and Catherine, and Jane, and Josephine, and all the rest of them.

She peeped into the drawing-room, and there sat a stiff, solemn little figure—a new girl, no doubt—and, yes, here was Eleanor bringing Peggy Forrest to introduce to the newcomer. And as Judith ran across to her own house, she felt a warm glow of gratitude that Miss Meredith had chosen Nancy to be her "pilot" during those first difficult days.

Cries of welcome greeted her in the corridor.

"Hi, there, Judibus! Had a good time?"

"Sally May was looking for you, Judy."

"Good old Scrooge!"

"Merry Christmas, everybody—Happy New Year to all the world," quoted Judith promptly, seizing her letters and making her way through the crowd around Miss Marlowe's door down to the good old "Jolly Susan" and Nancy.

Yes, there was Nancy's pretty yellow head, and in another minute she was looking into Nancy's merry eyes and trying to answer three questions at once and say "hullo" to Josephine and Jane and Sally May.

Judith was the last to arrive, so they all crowded into her room and sampled Aunt Nell's Christmas cake—thoughtfully provided for the occasion—and the big box of chocolates which Josephine's brother had sent.

Five tongues wagged merrily in spite of cake and candy, for there were endless things to tell—Josephine had been to her first real dance, and Jane had been down to New York with Phyllis Lovell, and you may be sure that Nancy and Judith were not behind the others in their accounts of "perfectly gorgeous" times. And when Catherine joined them and added her tale of a gay winter fête in Winnipeg, Judith felt that no home-coming could be happier.

"Oh, isn't it nice to belong!" said Judith to herself as she dressed for supper. "I wonder how that new girl is getting on—I guess she's in our form when Eleanor got Peggy for her—I wish I could do something to make her feel at home—"

Josephine's head appeared in the door and she whispered mysteriously, "Come on down to the common room when you've finished."

"What do you think," she said when Judith joined her, "that mean Genevieve Singleton has been trying to get in here in Jane's room! Jane said once at the beginning of last term that she wished she was down in Peggy Forrest's cubicles, but that was ages ago. Genevieve went to Miss Marlowe and said that Jane wanted to change her room, and may she please have Jane's room, as she hasn't been very well during the holidays and her mother doesn't want her to climb stairs. Miss Marlowe sent for Jane, and you should have heard her when she came back! Genevieve is in Catherine's room now telling her how heartbroken she is, I suppose. Silly thing, I wish she would try holding my hand."

Judith laughed at Josephine's disgusted expression, and blushed a little as she remembered her own foolishness about Catherine.

"Genevieve's queer, isn't she? I can't make her out—you remember how crazy she was about Helen, and Helen didn't seem to like her a bit."

"She's a silly owl," said Josephine decidedly, "but—my word—wasn't she a dandy Malvolio?"

At supper Judith, who was talking as hard as any one else, realized what a Babel of sound they were making when she saw the bewildered look on the face of the new girl whose name she learned was Florence Newman. She smiled across at Florence in a friendly manner and said, "Did you know that we're going to dance afterwards—give me the first spare one you have, will you—and I want to introduce you to Josephine Burley—she's from Alberta, too—and she's a perfect dear, although she doesn't look it."

The talk about Christmas presents and parties and new frocks and next term's doings buzzed on, but Florence felt less lonely and frightened. The "girl from Alberta" sounded friendly and comforting: she would know what this turmoil meant after the silence of the prairies.

Judith was as good as her word and shared with Peggy the duty of "piloting" the new member of Form Five. But she found Florence very quiet and unresponsive, and gradually the excitement of the new class in figure-skating and the inter-form and house hockey matches absorbed her attention.

There was plenty of hard work done in the various classes, and the staff congratulated themselves that the School was in good working form, but, judging from the conversation in the sitting-room and at table, the girls apparently did nothing but think and talk and play hockey and figure-skating.

Judith did not join a hockey team, but Josephine was one of the Junior captains, and as she kept the crew of the "Jolly Susan" well informed as to the "points" of her team, Judith was an interested "fan" at all the matches.

There were two cups given for the fancy skating and Judith and Nancy resolved to enter the competition. After a long morning in the classroom they could hardly wait to get out to the rink to begin again on the figure eight. A beautiful curve seemed the most important thing in the world.

The rink these zero days was a pretty sight. Miss Meredith, on her way out for a walk, used to love to stand for a few minutes and watch the charming scene. "What lovely things girls are," she would murmur to herself as they flashed by in their bright-coloured caps and coats, their cheeks glowing and eyes bright from the wholesome exercise in the ozone-laden air.

Judith did not win a cup, "but it was great fun trying for it, Mummy," she wrote to her mother, "and Patricia did beautifully. Aunt Nell says I have lost my stoop, so perhaps that's my reward instead of the cup, and I think I must have gained another five pounds. We're so hungry when we come in for supper that I believe we'd eat our books—if there were nothing more appetising!

"We had great fun last night at a sleighing party—the Domestic Science Form invited forty of us and you may be sure we accepted. We were bundled up in all the warm clothes we owned, and there was lots of straw in the bottom of the sleigh. We packed into two big sleighs, and as soon as we got out into the country we sang songs, and tooted horns, and had an awfully good time. Josephine said she was 'glad to goodness' it was a Domestic Science party, for the eats were sure to be good, and they sure were! I never was so hungry in my life."

Then it was Five A's turn to entertain, and after an enormous amount of talking they decided on a skating party. The invitation list gave the committee a great deal of trouble. It grew and grew until they realized that they never could afford to feed such a large and hungry mob. Nancy, who had been elected Form President on her return, took the difficulty to Miss Marlowe and she came out of the study with a beaming face.

"Miss Marlowe's a brick," she announced. "She says that if we are going to have a hurdy-gurdy and coloured lanterns and a moonlight night, why not ask everybody; the House'll provide cocoa and Chelsea buns, and we can get any extra cakes we like ourselves." And so it was happily arranged.

Nancy proved herself a born organizer, and on Friday evening each Five A girl shared in the duty of being hostess. Even Florence, who remained persistently quiet and difficult to know, was given her share of work to do. Sally May and her committee were responsible for decorating the supper-room, Peggy Forrest was to look after the coloured lanterns, Judith was to see that the smiling Italian and his wife, who took turns at the hurdy-gurdy, each had a rest in the warm kitchen and some supper, "and be sure," cautioned wise Nancy, "that the maids keep back enough for our own supper afterwards."

Friday afternoon saw Form Five A hard at work getting ready for their guests. Nancy flew hither and thither; she worked out on the rink helping with the lanterns, and down in the supper-room with the decorations, and then she was off to the housekeeper's room with a list of special requests. She was making a splendid Form President, every one agreed, and that was very high praise, for the post was by no means an easy one to fill.

So far Nancy's chief difficulty had been in keeping silence when the form was lined up ready to lead into morning prayers, but later on in the year she was to tackle the problem of how to deal with persistent petty cheating which remained undiscovered by the authorities. The Form Mistress may be a wise counsellor and a constant friend, but the Form President is often—as Nancy was later on—kept from seeking advice by the schoolgirl's horror of "telling tales."

By six o'clock everything was ready for the skating party, and Five A went in to supper with a good appetite and the happy consciousness that they were going to have a good time.

"Glistening snow, tingling air, glittering stars, shining moon," said Judith gleefully, as she and Sally May waltzed on the ice, while Peggy was turning on the coloured lights. "It's going to be a perfectly blissful party."

And it was. The night was perfect to begin with, and the Chinese lanterns and the music of the hurdy-gurdy all combined to form a scene of magic enchantment that fairly entranced beauty-loving Judith.

The snow lay about the rink in a great glistening white bank, splashed here and there by a pool of coloured light, far away glittered the stars in a dark blue winter sky, and over all the moon shed a pure, cold, white light.

Form Five didn't stop to think about the beauty around them, but they enjoyed it nevertheless. What a good time they had! They waltzed—those who could—and they "cracked the whip," and they hummed the tunes the Italian was industriously grinding out, and they laughed and shouted and were perfectly happy. Judith had three "bands" with Nancy, and two with Catherine who looked exquisitely lovely, and what more could heart desire? Indeed, as she and Nancy drank their third cup of cocoa and divided the last piece of chocolate cake, she agreed enthusiastically that she had never had such a "perfectly gorgeous time in all her born days!"

The fine cold weather lasted for almost six weeks, and then quite suddenly came an unmistakable thaw.

"If only it had come in January," sighed Miss Evans as she surveyed the dirty pond, which had once been a rink, "but it is too late in the season now to hope for steady skating again."

She was justified in her pessimism; the skating season was over. Every girl in the School regarded the dull weather almost as a personal insult, and every teacher in the School realized that the most difficult weeks of the year had now to be faced, for unless precautions were taken, sickness and mischief were bound to flourish in this in-between-seasons time. Wise Miss Meredith marshalled her forces and took counsel with the Heads of Houses; the gymnasium staff put on extra dancing classes, and indoor basket-ball matches, but in spite of all their efforts many of the girls seemed languid and uninterested.

Nancy, who seemed to hear more news than her mates in the "Jolly Susan," burst into Judith's room late next afternoon during the dressing hour.

"What do you think? Genevieve Singleton got an anonymous letter in the evening mail and she is upstairs now crying in her room."

"An anonymous letter," repeated Josephine from the next room. "I'd like to know what sort?—"

"Yes," said Nancy excitedly, paying no attention to Josephine, "nobody knows who wrote it, and it was about Catherine." She paused to enjoy the full effect of this mysterious bit of gossip.

Judith, whose hair was only half-done, put down her brush and demanded impatiently—

"What about Catherine?"

"Well, you know very well, Judy, that Genevieve has a crush on Catherine. Why, Cathy had fairly to put her out of her room the other day, and on Wednesday evening, when we were dancing after evening prep., I heard her tell Genevieve that she wouldn't dance with her again until she stopped being such a goose."

"But the letter?" said Judith.

"I'm coming to that. It was printed and I can't remember it exactly, but it was something like this:

"What's a perfect shame?" asked Josephine pointedly.

"Why, the meanness of the person who sent that letter," said Nancy; "whoever did it, is a mean horrid thing, every one says so."

Every one was having one opinion or another, for the news spread like wildfire throughout the house, and at tea-time poor Catherine knew that this choice piece of gossip was being discussed at every table. She was not long left in ignorance as to the fact that some of the girls thought that she herself had written the note in order to get rid of an unwelcome visitor, who was very difficult to snub. Other girls, who had resented the prefect's attitude towards crushes, expressed great sympathy for Genevieve, and there was much speculation as to the probable author of the letter.

Catherine took counsel with Eleanor and they decided that it was a tempest in a teapot and that Genevieve would be quite all right by to-morrow. However, next day Genevieve's eyes were still red and she began to assume the attitude of an early Christian martyr.

Catherine, who had been very much vexed by the whole affair, felt remorseful. "Poor Genevieve," she thought, "she's feeling very badly. I can't help wondering why she let the others see the note; but there is no use judging; I'd better go and say good-night to her." This last was looked upon as an act of special favour and condescension on the part of a prefect, and Catherine felt that she was being very magnanimous.

In the visiting time before "lights out" bell, she tapped at Genevieve's door and to her dismay Genevieve flung her arms round her neck.

"Oh, Catherine, say you didn't mean it."

"Mean what, you silly?" replied Catherine, crossly realizing that every girl within hearing distance was pricking up her ears. "Surely you don't imagine that I would stoop to write an anonymous letter."

"No-o," stammered Genevieve, "but I am sure you don't like me"—and she began to sob afresh. "I can't bear you to dislike me. Do say that I may still come to your room sometimes."

Catherine was only human, if she was eighteen and a prefect, and although annoyed with Genevieve, she was touched by the genuine distress on the girl's face.

"Of course you may come, silly," she said. "Dry your eyes and do try to be sensible and don't talk that way any more," she added, sitting down on the edge of the bed, where to Genevieve's delight she sat and gossiped about sundry School matters—to the great edification of the surrounding cubicles—until the bell rang.

Next day, to the astonishment of the inmates of the "Jolly Susan," Genevieve simply haunted Catherine's room, and on the following day they could hear poor Catherine getting rid of her.

"Really, Genevieve," they heard her say as she opened the door, "you are too foolish. Do run along; I must finish my essay for Miss Marlowe, and I dare say you have something to do," with a sarcasm not lost upon her hearers, who grinned appreciatively, for Genevieve was noted for the ingenuity with which she escaped anything like work.

Next day when the girls hurried out of afternoon study as the five o'clock bell rang, they made their usual wild rush for the mail-box. One would have thought that every girl in the school expected most important news. Suddenly a little choking cry was heard, and Genevieve, who had taken out her letter and was standing at one side of the group, turned white, as she drew out from its envelope another printed letter. Here was sensation, indeed! Several of her friends pressed closely around her to read it.

Tears ran down Genevieve's face as she re-read this precious epistle and then crumpling the paper in her hands she ran to her room. Sympathizing friends followed, and "Poor Genevieve!" was heard on all sides.

Judith had been a distressed spectator of this scene. How sorry Catherine would be! How sorry she was for Catherine! Whoever could be writing the letters?

This, indeed, was the sole topic of conversation in the "Jolly Susan" during the dressing-hour, and before the evening was over the School was enjoying a thoroughly good gossip. One amateur detective had suggested that jealousy must be the motive of the unknown writer, for most of the girls dismissed the suggestion that Catherine was the author. Some one else contributed the story of Genevieve's unsuccessful attempt to obtain a room in the "Jolly Susan," and then some one, who had overheard Sally May's indignation thereat, suggested Sally May as a likely culprit.

As was inevitable these mere suppositions grew by their many tellings into "facts," and by the next evening many of the girls were convinced that Sally May, "who is absolutely devoted to Catherine, my dear," was "wildly jealous of Genevieve," and was actually "seen putting a letter into the box."

Miss Marlowe, who remains in the background in this story, but whom we must never forget, sits in the midst of South House like some omniscient and benevolent providence, decided that something must be done to stop these mischievous wagging tongues, so she summoned her prefects and said frankly:

"A little bird has told me something about these anonymous letters. I know they are very trivial and silly, but when one girl begins to be accused by the others, it is time to clean up the matter. From what I know of Sally May, I cannot believe that she has written them. Don't tell me anything more about it. I leave it to you; please do your best to get them stopped." And she left them to solve the puzzle.

The prefects held a meeting at once and decided that the matter was not serious enough to call a special house meeting. Such meetings called and addressed by the captain were held on very special occasions, and this—"Well, this is too silly," said Patricia Caldwell, giggling. "Poor Cathy! its a pity you are so bewitching. I don't know how you will manage your affairs after you leave school," she added teasingly. "I'm afraid the morning papers will have to devote front-page space to the duels fought in Miss Catherine Ellison's honour."

Catherine could stand being chaffed by her peers and equals, but she really hated the gossip of the younger girls.

It was decided that every prefect was to keep ears and eyes open and report to Eleanor anything suspicious. A special watch was to be kept on the mail-box. Two prefects were to make it their business to saunter past the box whenever they could and keep an eye on pigeon-hole "S." Perhaps they might catch the criminal at the box.

There was much laughter about it, and with the exception of Catherine they rather enjoyed the importance and the mystery. They realized, however, that so much gossiping was bad for the tone of the house. "It must be stopped."

CHAPTER X

JUDITH PLAYS DETECTIVE

While the prefects were sitting in solemn conclave, Judith at her desk, writing to her mother, found that the story of the week's doings centred about Genevieve and the mysterious letter.

"She is hard to describe, Mummy," she wrote; "she isn't exactly pretty, but her face changes so often when she is talking that she is interesting to listen to. She doesn't play many games and I don't see very much of her, but you remember I told you how clever she was as Malvolio in 'Twelfth Night.' She acts awfully well and she just loves doing it. And she's always getting frightfully fond of somebody and feeling badly if they don't like her." Judith sat rolling her pen absent-mindedly up and down her blotter as the picture of Genevieve filled her mind.

Perhaps it was a matter of "thinking of angels and hearing their wings"; at any rate, just at this moment, Genevieve, returning from a fruitless attempt to catch Catherine in her room, knocked at Judith's door.

"Come on down and see me, Judy," she begged; "I've got some biscuits and some Washington coffee and I'll beg some hot water from Mrs. Bronson."

Judith who loved coffee needed no second bidding, and was soon enjoying a steaming cup and listening to Genevieve's woes; but Genevieve was scarcely well started on the subject of the letters when a heavy step was heard in the corridor and she jumped up in alarm.

"Throw the coffee out the window, Judy," she begged—"that's Miss Watson doing laundry—she's in Joan's room now." And with amazing swiftness she emptied her laundry bag on the bed, covered the contents with her eiderdown, spread out two dainty sets of immaculate French underwear, and was seated with a darning-basket and a pair of stockings in her hand, before the astonished Judith could take in the significance of her actions.

"Come in," said Genevieve sweetly as Miss Watson knocked. "Oh, is that you, Miss Watson? I'm just finishing my stockings."

Miss Watson, who was short-sighted and a bit indolent, hated the weekly task of inspecting the newly returned laundry in search of missing buttons and rents, all of which were to be recorded in her little black book and checked off when the owners testified that the said garments had been made whole. So remembering the immaculate clothes which awaited her each week in Genevieve's room, she made a cursory examination of the dainty undies and checked O.K. opposite Genevieve's name.

"There's a funny odor in here," she commented as she turned to go; "you haven't—"

"Yes," said Genevieve politely, "I've just had a hot drink. Mrs. Bronson thought I'd better have one because I felt so tired."

And Judith, watching with wide-open eyes, to her amazement saw Genevieve's sensitive mobile face actually grow tired and sad-looking while she watched, and then the moment Miss Watson was safely out of sight, with a slight grimace and shrug Genevieve was smiling triumphantly at her own cleverness, and slyly watching the effect of it all on Judith.

"You'll keep it dark?" she asked, realizing that wholesale neatness would arouse Miss Watson's suspicions and that the game would be up.

"Certainly," said Judith a little stiffly, wondering that Genevieve would ask her—Nancy wouldn't have, nor Josephine; but then neither would Nancy have taken advantage of Miss Watson's short sight in order to present each week the same set of underwear kept especially for the purpose.

"Yes; certainly she's clever, but she's got queer ideas about some things," thought Judith as Genevieve began again on the meanness of the person who wrote the anonymous letter.

"I'd give anything I've got," was Genevieve's parting word, "if I could find out who did it."

"So would I," was Judith's thought as she dressed for a walk. "We've just got to find out, for Sally May and Catherine look perfectly wretched—as if Sally May would; but some of them believe it. How Genevieve can act! She just hoodwinked Miss Watson completely; looked like a good little prig who'd done everything she ought to do—and she was thoroughly enjoying herself. I guess she'll go on the stage when she leaves school—it would be interesting to have people applauding. I believe she was glad I was there to see her do it—and I believe—she was glad the girls were round to sympathize when she got the letter—"

Perhaps it was because of her determination to help Sally May and Catherine, perhaps because of the little scene she had just witnessed, or perhaps for no particular reason at all, suddenly a new, and at first glance a crazy, idea popped into her mind.

What if Genevieve enjoyed an audience so much that she wrote the anonymous letter herself!

"Well that is a silly idea—think how she cried and cried—yes, but she had Cathy sympathizing with her—"

Judith started out to find Nancy to share her idea, but before she found her she decided she'd say nothing about it—it was too far-fetched. Nevertheless, she determined to keep an eye on Miss Genevieve.

Next morning, according to the prefects' plans, Patricia and Catherine haunted the front corridor. Patricia even took up a post just inside the sitting-room door and watched through the crack, but the corridor was deserted all morning. Helen and Esther took the afternoon watch and had no better luck.

Esther saw the mistress distribute the evening mail, putting several letters into pigeon-hole "S," which had been empty until now, and then came a rush of fifty girls crowding round the box. Esther reported afterwards to Eleanor that whoever did it managed very quickly, for she was watching all the time. Genevieve put up her hand, drew out of pigeon-hole "S" another printed letter, and with a faint cry collapsed in a dead faint. At least so her condition was described to those few who were not privileged to be present. Ambulance classes had not been held in vain at York Hill, and in less time than it takes to tell Genevieve found herself on the sofa in the housekeeper's room, where she proceeded to indulge in an old-fashioned fit of hysterics.

Judith, who had helped carry her in, wanted to stay and see, if possible, whether Genevieve were shamming, but Mrs. Bronson shooed them all out saying that Genevieve must have an hour's rest and then she could go to the Infirmary.

Judith returned to the corridor where she found excited groups discussing this third terrible letter. Some of the girls talked with lowered voices and several looked almost as white as Genevieve had, and when our heroine entered the "Jolly Susan," it was as little like its name as possible. Sally May was sobbing audibly and Nancy was trying in vain to comfort her.

"Horrid things! I hate them all. Why should they think I would do such a nasty trick?" she heard between the sobs.

Josephine appeared in Judith's doorway.

"It's a shame, isn't it?" she whispered. "I would like to knock their silly heads together. I don't wonder Sally's mad, and I believe that Catherine is crying, too."

Judith was horrified.

"Catherine crying! Why in the world should she cry?"

"Well, you know," said Josephine, "it's rotten for her, and probably she believes that Miss Marlowe thinks she has been silly, too. I don't know for sure, but she wouldn't let Eleanor in a few minutes ago, and her voice sounded shaky."

This was awful! A prefect weeping!

Two days passed without any further development and Eleanor was beginning to hope that the nine days' wonder was at an end. On Wednesday evening, however, Judith heard Genevieve's protest when Catherine hurried off to a gymnasium class, after a vain effort to get rid of a now increasingly unwelcome visitor.

"You don't have to go yet, Cathy. It's five minutes before the bell will ring. Do stay and talk to me; I'm awfully miserable."

But Catherine was evidently exasperated and held the door open for Genevieve, who had no choice but to go too.

"Now," said Judith inelegantly to Nancy, "Genevieve will have another spasm."

Privately she resolved to play the detective.

She awoke next morning to hear the rain falling steadily. "Ugh," she thought, "a rainy day and my Latin isn't finished—two horrid things to begin with." And then she remembered her plans of the night before. Instantly she was out of bed; she wouldn't try to keep her secret any longer. Nancy should share it, but she wouldn't tell Sally May until she had caught Genevieve. Nancy was impressed by Judith's cleverness in thinking of such a thing, but doubtful about Genevieve's guilt.

"Why, she cried and cried; I saw her," Nancy kept repeating. "She couldn't have done it herself."

But Judith was not to be shaken in her resolve, and leaving the study room a little before one o'clock she settled herself in Helen Richard's cupboard to watch. Fortunately for Judith's plan Helen was in the Infirmary with a sore throat and through the keyhole of her cupboard Judith had a clear view of the letter-box.

At a quarter-to-one Miss Marlowe put out the mail, but no one else came near the box until one o'clock when every one came as usual. Then, when everything was quiet again, Judith slipped out and caught up with the others as they went down to the dining-room. Before dinner was quite over, she asked permission to leave early, and she hid herself once more in the cupboard.

The afternoon seemed interminably long, and as the cupboard was stuffy and close, if it had not been for Nancy's chocolates Judith felt that she could not have kept awake. Her knees ached horribly, for she was in a cramped position, but she never dreamed of giving up, so sure was she that something would happen.

And something did happen.

At a quarter-to-five the mail was put out, and as no one had appeared, Judith was beginning to think that she would have to watch another day, when suddenly she saw Genevieve come swiftly down the corridor, pause for an instant at the box, slip in a letter, and then vanish as quickly as she had come.

Judith could hardly wait to get the letter into her own hands. Yes, it was the now familiar printed envelope.