Polly's first year at boarding school

(And in spite of the gasp of surprise, Miss Stuart continued as if she had said nothing surprising.)

“Congratulations, girls, and may—” Miss Stuart’s voice was completely drowned in the cheer that went up.

Some one dragged Connie to the piano, and for the rest of the evening they sang school and basket-ball songs and cheered all the six subs in turn.

Of course Polly and Lois were wildly happy, and the entire Freshman class shared in their joy. They boasted of having broken a record and reminded everybody of what might be expected of them when they were lofty Seniors.

It was only when Polly and Lois were alone in their rooms after the “lights out” bell, that they remembered Betty.

Fifteen minutes later, when everything was very quiet along the corridor, two ghost-like figures stole out of two doors and met at a third across the way, and tapped gently.

Betty sat up in bed.

“Who is it?” she whispered.

“It’s Polly,” answered one ghost.

“It’s Lois,” answered the other.

A minute later, when they were both curled up on the bed, Lois found Betty’s hand and squeezed it.

“Betty, dear, I’m so sorry,” she said.

“So am I,” agreed Polly. “It’s the only disappointment in this glorious day.”

“You know you’re cut up about it, dear; no use pretending,” pursued Lois.

“We saw you leave long before the bell. Oh, Bet—” but Polly was cut short.

“Saw me leave? I should think you might have; I didn’t leave; I fled. But not because—well not because of what you think, I saw the Spartan coming.”

“Then you were not in the ‘blues’ all evening?” asked Lois doubtingly.

“Certainly not,” Betty assured her. “I was studying my Latin, and now do let me go to sleep.”

It sounded very well, but as Polly and Lois each gave her a good-night kiss, they noticed a suspicious dampness about her pillow.

They stole safely back to their rooms, conscious of having broken a rule for a good cause and, who knows, perhaps it was because the cause was good that they were not caught.

CHAPTER V—THE THANKSGIVING PARTY

Betty was sitting on top of the grand piano on the platform in the Assembly Hall, kicking her feet and sucking a very large lemon by means of a stick of candy used as a straw.

“Thanksgiving comes but once a year,” she chanted to no one in particular, adding, with a heartfelt sigh to give the words emphasis:

“Thank goodness.”

“Why so grateful?” questioned Florence Guile pausing in the act of erecting a would-be gypsy tent out of a miscellaneous assortment of shawls. Then, attracted by the gurgling sound of Betty’s lemon, she straightened up, and pointing an accusing finger, demanded:

“Betty Thompson, are you daring to suck the lemon we were saving to write the fortunes with?”

“Well, yes I am,” Betty admitted, dodging under the piano and smiling impishly from this point of vantage.

“Now, Florence, you are selfish,” she teased; “it’s bad enough having no Thanksgiving vacation, but after the way I’ve worked my fingers to the bone for you, you shouldn’t, no, you really shouldn’t begrudge me a lemon.”

Florence tried hard not to smile in the face of Betty’s mournful expression, and made an attempt at rescuing the stolen fruit.

The above took place at ten o’clock on Thanksgiving morning. The Assembly Hall was filled with busy girls, and it was evident that preparations of some kind were under way.

Owing to an epidemic of mumps the girls had been kept in school over the holidays, and for their amusement, and to ward off any chance of the more serious epidemic known as “homesickness,” the Seniors had been bidden to entertain.

Florence, having unsuccessfully pursued Betty twice around the hall at a rate highly unbecoming a dignified Senior, paused for breath, and Lois, Polly and Angela, who had watched the chase with interest, came to her assistance, and captured the lemon from the now unresisting Betty.

“Here it is, at least what’s left of it,” said Lois, presenting it to Florence. “And we’ve finished the spider web in History room. What else can we do for you!”

“Thanks, ever so much,” Florence replied. “That settles the little children, they will be in there by themselves. Now if you’ll only struggle with that tent, I can’t make it look like anything.”

“Don’t worry about it, I think I can,” Lois assured her, “it’s for the gypsies to sit in and tell the fortunes, isn’t it!”

“Yes, but it will never be large enough,” Florence responded dolefully.

“Well, let them sit at the door of it,” suggested Angela; “that will be just as picturesque and not nearly so hot.”

Florence looked with admiration at the girls before her.

“What wonders you are,” she said. “You’ve done all the work so far, it’s lots more the Freshmen’s party than the Seniors’.”

“But you and Louise can’t be expected to do it all,” replied Polly, decidedly. “And you know you’re the only two that count,” she added, lowering her voice so that the other Seniors, who were willingly, but unsuccessfully, attempting the decorations at the other end of the room, would not hear her.

Florence, a little confused at such frank praise, said hurriedly:

“Well, you’re dears to do it anyway and now, if you’ll do something with that tent I’ll fly to Louise. I promised to help her with those fortunes. We have to write one for every girl, and it will take ages.”

“Poor dear, and to think I sucked up half the lemon,” said Betty contritely. “I’ll go get you some milk, it’s just as good,” she finished, starting for the door.

“You can’t,” Angela called after her. “The storeroom’s closed.”

Betty, already out of the room, whirled around on one toe, and holding to the side of the doorway for support, poked her laughing face around the corner.

“Then, I’ll steal it from the cat,” she said.

For the rest of the morning, Angela and Polly, under the able directions of Lois, who was undoubtedly very artistic, worked over the tent and succeeded in making it look quite habitable.

“It’s not perfect but I guess it will do. I wish we could get a big kettle,” Lois said, as she stood off with her head on one side to get the effect.

“Well, can’t we,” questioned Polly. “There’s sure to be one in the kitchen.”

Angela, who was busy with the finishing touches, remarked hopefully:

“The lights will be dim tonight and that ought to help.”

Lois walked to the edge of the platform and asked some of the Seniors who were still busy at the other end of the room, to come and see if the tent was all right.

After they had eyed it critically, and suggested one or two unimportant changes—thereby asserting their superiority—they pronounced it perfect. The three girls sat down for a well merited rest.

In the mean time, Florence and Louise, in the latter’s room, were racking their brains over the fortunes.

Before the lemon was used up, Betty appeared with a half a glass of milk, but she absolutely refused to tell where she had found it.

“Well, it doesn’t much matter anyway, as long as it wasn’t the cat’s,” Louise laughed, giving up trying to discover. “But now that you’re here you may as well stay and help us with these things.”

“My massive brain is at your service,” Betty replied, flopping on the bed, and preparing to make herself thoroughly comfortable.

“Haven’t you done any of them yet?”

“Dozens,” answered Florence, “like ‘you will grow wise and wax fat’ that will do for anybody, but some of the girls must have special ones.”

“Who are they?”

“First, there’s Mary Reeves.”

“Oh! say she’ll make the team her first year in college,” suggested Louise.

“Who next?”

“Madelaine Ames, what about her?”

Louise looked puzzled.

“The professors refused to teach her music any more,” said Betty, doubtfully. “Says she’s incorrigible—like that, through his nose.”

“Good, we’ll say she will go on a concert tour, and take the world by storm. Now who?”

“Well, there’s Agnes Green,” Louise hesitated.

Agnes was one of the Seniors, with little or no popularity; a girl, lacking the essentials of a leader, and yet always refusing to conform or follow. Seddon Hall called her a grouch, and passed her by.

“Ugh! I hate her,” exclaimed Betty; “leave her out.”

The two older girls exchanged glances. They agreed heartily, but loyalty to their class-mate kept them silent.

“We can’t, she’s a Senior,” Louise said quietly.

“Well then, condemn her to a horrible end with my love,” Betty replied.

Florence ruffled her hair and looked thoughtful.

“She’s rather fond of the boys,” she said. “We might say that she will be the first in the class to marry.”

“Weak,” Louise criticized, “but it will do. Now who?”

“Luncheon, by the sound of that,” laughed Florence as the big gong sounded in the lower hall.

“We’ll have to finish these later—come on.” And after a hasty dab at their hair, they hurried out to join the line.

Thanksgiving dinner was a very jolly affair. Each table was decorated with flowers and fruit, and each had a turkey to itself.

Mrs. Baird had her soup with the Seniors; her turkey with the Juniors; her salad with the Sophomores; her dessert with the Freshmen; and her coffee and nuts with the faculty.

It was noticeable that each table enjoyed itself the most and laughed the heartiest during the course that she ate with them.

The afternoon passed quickly, and by six o’clock the girls and faculty were all tramping into the Assembly Hall, that in the dim shaded light resembled a wooded dell, fit background for the gypsy camp that occupied one end of it.

Supper consisted of chicken salad, all kinds of sandwiches, cake, lemonade and ice cream. Just the sorts of things it’s fun to eat, sitting on the floor, picnic fashion.

In spite of the big dinner, every one ate heartily.

By eight o’clock the musical program was over. Edith Thornton’s little Irish Songs received their well merited applause. Two or three amusing recitations were given and then the fortune telling began.

The younger children were sent into the History room to entangle the spider web of every color twine that wound in and out all over the room. Every child was given her end of her color string, and they at once set out to discover the prize hidden somewhere, and tied firmly to the other end.

In the big room, some of the lights were put out and the girls sat in hushed groups talking in whispers.

Every once in a while, a Senior dressed as a gypsy would single out a group and lead it to the camp, where Louise and Florence as fortune tellers would select their fortunes from a big black pot (Polly’s discovery) and read it out in a sing-song voice. If it was one of the special ones, it would be received with peals of laughter from the listening girls.

Angela, Connie, Lois, Betty and Polly sat in a circle in one corner of the room. They completely surrounded and hid from view what had been the choicest plate of cakes.

Polly looked with admiration at Betty as she finished her seventh piece.

“Bet, dear,” she asked, “how do you manage to eat so much. The rest of us are birdlike beside you.”

“I concentrate,” was the reply, “it’s really very simple.”

“Will some one kindly divert her attention elsewhere for a while then,” Angela requested, “for there’s only one piece left and I mean to have it.”

The others, as soon as they too perceived this lamentable fact, made a frantic dive for the dish, but just who would have carried off the prize will never be known, for at that moment, one of the gypsies, catching sight of the group, called to them:

“You’re wanted on the platform. They are waiting to tell your fortunes, hurry up.”

Scrambling to their feet, the girls followed their guide to the tent and waited.

Very slowly Louise stirred the contents of the black pot, and silence fell upon the room as she held up an apparently plain sheet of white paper.

“Betty Thompson,” she chanted, and after holding the slip over a candle until the words written in milk appeared brown and mysterious, she read:

“You will become a famous Latin scholar, but you will die an early death from indigestion.”

Roars of laughter greeted this prophecy, for all knew how Betty hated Latin.

Florence Guile read the next.

“Connie Wentworth,” she droned, “you will make a world wide reputation as an actress, starring first as Lady Macbeth.”

The old girls understanding the allusion to Connie’s escapade of the year before were delighted. Then came Angela’s fortune and Louise read it with a smile.

“Upon reaching your second childhood, at the age of eighty-two, you will begin a strenuous and athletic life. Basket-ball and paper chases will be your chief joy.”

“What a doom,” groaned Angela, as she staggered from the platform amid hearty cheers.

Florence nearly burned up Lois’ fortune which came next, and had some difficulty in reading it.

“You will achieve success as a great artist and excel in stage settings. You will have one friend of whom you will never tire,” she finally announced.

“I engage you at once,” cried Connie, when the laughter subsided. “You can design all the scenes for my plays.”

“That’s easy,” Lois retorted. “All you need is a staircase, a nightgown and a daub of red paint.”

“Polly Pendleton,” announced Louise, and the girls stopped talking at once, “you will become a Joan d’Arc and plan successful marches for many armies, after having been selected captain of basket-ball in your Senior year and leading the team to brilliant victories.”

“Mercy! all of that?” gasped Polly, half laughing, half serious.

The girls clapped and cheered her until Mrs. Baird mounted the platform.

“I think,” she said, “this has been a splendid Thanksgiving. I’m sure we’re all very grateful to the Seniors. I can’t say I wish all the fortunes to come true, for that would be a calamity, but I hope the nice ones will, and now, good-night.”

The party was over, and the girls swarmed through the door laughing and talking.

Polly and Lois found themselves alone in the Assembly Hall. It looked strangely bedraggled and lonely, like a starched party dress after the party.

They started for their rooms together—Lois said:

“Well, it’s all over, but wasn’t it fun?”

“Rather, the fortunes were great.”

“Yours was the best of all.”

“Yours is more likely to come true.”

“They both might.”

They separated at Polly’s door and entered their own rooms.

Among the many things that filled their thoughts, the fortunes were soon forgotten. They did not know that at a future date, Polly, after three splendid years at Seddon Hall, and Lois, after a longer time, would look back with amusement tinged with wonder, at the truth of those same fortunes.

CHAPTER VI—A RAINY DAY

“Finished your outline, Betty?” Lois called out as the girls were leaving the schoolroom after the last bell one afternoon.

“Certainly not,” answered Betty excitedly. “I started to read just the first scene, but when I got to ‘By my troth, Nerissa, my little body is a-weary of this great world,’ at the beginning of the second scene, why I just read on all the last period.”

It was the first lesson of the Freshman class on “The Merchant of Venice.” They had finished Goldsmith’s “Deserted Village,” and this was their first taste of Shakespeare.

“Hadn’t you read it before?” questioned Polly. “I have, and I adore it.”

“Adore what?”

It was Lois speaking, of course. She had a habit of coming up unexpectedly and hearing the last couple of words of a sentence.

“The Merchant of Venice,” explained Polly. “Have you started it?”

“Yes. I read it, the last two periods. I’m as far as ‘My Daughter! O my ducats!’ I nearly died laughing over Launcelot Gobbo.”

It was a miserable day; the sun seemed to have abdicated in favor of his brother, the storm cloud, and the rain was falling in torrents. Betty turned disconsolately towards the window. They were standing in the schoolroom corridor.

“Looks as if we were in for another deluge,” she groaned. “Not even a chance of a let-up. Now, if it would only freeze!”

“What can we do?” sighed Lois. “Assembly Hall will be mobbed by the lower school girls, and you know the noise they make.”

“I have it!” exclaimed Polly. “Let’s get permission from Miss Porter to use the English room, and then each take parts and read ‘The Merchant of Venice’ aloud.”

“Polly, you’re a genius; it’s the very thing,” chorused Lois and Betty.

They started off in the direction of the classroom, but as they passed the Bridge of Sighs, they were stopped by the two Dorothys.

“Where are you going? Come on up to the corridor. Miss King has lent us the electric stove from the infirmary, and we’re going to make candy,” they invited.

“It’s quite regular,” added Dot Mead, by way of explanation. “We have permission.”

Dot had often tried to inveigle the three girls into joining various midnight feasts and forbidden larks of which she was the originator, but had always found them singularly unresponsive.

Don’t think they were prudes, far from it, but they had learned through close observation that not enough pleasure could be derived from breaking rules to compensate them for the loss of the faculty’s respect and trust. And, above all, their loyalty and love for Seddon Hall prompted them to keep the few simple rules required of them.

Betty regarded the two girls with lofty disdain and assuming an attitude peculiar to the long-suffering chaplain, began in imitation of his manner:

“There would seem a certain amount of er—er—one might say—attractiveness in your suggestion to an outsider, Dorothy, my child, one, let us say, not familiar with your ability as a cook. For me, however, the invitation holds no charms. Last time, if you’ll remember, you put hair oil in the taffy in place of the vanilla. I need hardly refer to the disastrous results.” And clasping her hands behind her back, the wicked little mimic walked off down the corridor, adding over her shoulder: “Good afternoon, my dear young ladies, good afternoon.”

By this time the girls were holding their sides with laughter. Finally Dorothy managed to ask very weakly:

“Then what are you going to do?”

“There’s not the slightest use in telling you, for you’d never believe it,” Polly answered. “Still, as you’ve asked, I’ll tell you. We are going to study.”

This startling announcement was too much for the Dorothys, and when Lois and Polly left them, to follow Betty, they were lying in mock faints on the corridor floor.

The three girls proceeded to English room and knocked gently on the door.

“Come in,” called Miss Porter’s voice from the other side.

She was a short, dark, little lady, with glowing black eyes and unlimited enthusiasm. She was very bashful out of the classroom and the girls, as a whole, knew very little of her. Just now she was correcting Senior papers and was a little surprised at being interrupted.

As the three girls entered the room Lois, ever the spokesman in serious matters, began:

“Oh, are we disturbing you, Miss Porter? We didn’t think you’d be busy and we wanted permission to sit in here and read ‘The Merchant of Venice’ aloud.”

“You see,” added Polly, “we thought it would be fun for each to take parts and—and—” she was floundering for words.

“And act it,” finished Miss Porter. “Do you really like it, girls? I am so glad. Sit down, of course.” Then regretfully: “I’ll be finished in a minute.”

Betty caught the regret in her voice and exclaimed impulsively:

“Won’t you stay? It would be so much nicer; you can’t have anything to do on this miserable day.”

Lois and Polly added their pleas to hers and in the end Miss Porter remained.

They decided that Lois take the part of Portia and Jessica; Polly, Nerissa and Bassanio; Betty, Antonio, Gratiano, and Lorenzo, and they all insisted on Miss Porter being Shylock. They took turns with the smaller parts.

They had rather improvised stage property, but they managed to get on somehow until they reached the casket scene.

“Now what under the sun are we going to use for the caskets?” demanded Betty.

“We might use the ‘Standard Dictionary’ for the lead one,” suggested Miss Porter; “and here’s the ‘Cyclopedia of Names’—that might do for the silver one.”

“I’ve found the very thing for the gold casket,” announced Lois, who was standing in front of the bookcase: “A complete set of Shakespeare in one volume.”

“The very thing,” they agreed.

The stage setting was arranged and the play continued. Betty constituted herself the musician and sang: “Tell me where is fancy bred, etc.,” to a tune all her own.

An hour passed and they started the fourth act.

“I don’t feel a bit like a judge,” announced Lois, “and, Miss Porter, you ought to have a beard, but never mind. Let’s see; this is the court room and—”

“The judge ought to sit in a prominent place,” interrupted Betty. “I know—a chair up there.” And she swung a light cane visitor’s chair on the English room’s dignified and highly polished oak desk.

The stage ready, the scene began. Bassanio pleaded with Shylock for Antonio’s life, but Shylock gloatingly demanded his pound of flesh. Portia, as the learned judge, made answer.

“A pound of that same merchant’s flesh is thine: The Court awards it, and the law doth give it.”

Shylock rubbed his hands together joyously and gurgled: “Most rightful judge!”

Portia: “And you must cut this flesh from off his breast: The law allows it, and the court awards it.”

Shylock: “Most learned judge! A sentence! Come, prepare!”

Then Lois rose and, holding up a warning arm, began with suppressed excitement, while they all watched her, intent on the coming speech.

Portia:

“Candy,” called a voice from the hall, and in a second the door opened and Uncle Roddy, preceded by Mrs. Baird, entered.

Lois nearly toppled off the desk in her surprise and Miss Porter, who had fallen, groveling on the floor, at the words “no jot of blood,” scrambled to her feet with a very red face.

“Uncle Roddy!” exclaimed Polly, “where did you come from?” And she threw her arms around his neck.

“From Buffalo, my dear,” answered Uncle Roddy. “I found I could stop over here for a couple of hours on my way home. I am so glad I did, for I wouldn’t have missed this for the world. Please introduce me to the rest of the company.”

Mrs. Baird made the introductions and then turned to leave them. Before she closed the door she said:

“Girls, if you have been at this all the afternoon, I think you might be excused from study hour.” Then to Polly she added: “I’ll send tea to the reception-room at once.”

Of course Uncle Roddy insisted on “the companies” joining them for tea. Miss Porter had to decline the invitation on account of a special class at 4:30, but Betty and Lois accepted with pleasure.

After they were comfortably settled in the reception-room, Uncle Roddy asked:

“Miss Farwell, are you, by any chance, related to Doctor Walter Farwell?”

“I should think so,” laughed Lois. “I’m his daughter. Do you know him?”

“I used to go to college with him. We were great pals, then, but after we graduated he went West and I went to England, and we lost track of each other.”

“I’ll write him about you this very night,” answered Lois excitedly. “Isn’t it fun to think you know each other?”

Uncle Roddy smiled. “I’d like to see old Walter again,” he said.

The tea arrived and Polly served. Every one did justice to it and the hot buttered toast.

“How long had you and Mrs. Baird been listening at the door, Mr. Pendleton?” inquired Betty as she dropped four lumps of sugar into her cup.

“Long enough to feel sure that you will make a very great actress one of these days,” laughed Uncle Roddy.

“Actress!” she exclaimed, taken by surprise. “Certainly not! I intend to write.”

The secret was out and Betty, who had never intended telling any one her one great wish, was terribly confused.

Uncle Roddy, however, was deeply interested, and he talked books with her for the rest of his visit. He was greatly surprised that any one so young should have read and appreciated so much.

Polly and Lois joined in the conversation every now and then, but contented themselves most of the time with the candy that Uncle Roddy had brought, which, by the way, was five pounds instead of one.

When his time was up, the three girls escorted him to the door.

“I’ve had a splendid time,” he told them. “I’ll surely send you that book,” he added to Betty, and then turning to Lois he called: “Don’t forget to give my regards to your father.”

After a last kiss and hug for Polly, he closed the front door, and the girls watched him jump into his cab.

“Do you know, Polly,” announced Betty, as they returned to the corridor, “I adore that uncle of yours.”

“So do I,” agreed Lois; “he’s a duck, and I’m so glad he and Dad know each other.”

Polly smiled happily.

“Funny thing,” she replied, “but do you know, so do I.”

As the carriage jogged through the mud on its way to the station, Uncle Roddy decided that visiting and having tea with three very interesting and lively young ladies was much more entertaining then he had expected.

CHAPTER VII—BETTY’S DUCKING

Betty was bored. The impatient look in her eyes and the disgusted expression of her mouth could be described by no other word.

She leaned dejectedly against a big tree on the edge of the pond and watched the girls skate round and round in dizzy circles. A white boy’s sweater enveloped her slender body and accentuated the forlorn droop of her shoulders. Her white berry cap was pulled rakishly over one ear.

There was nothing apparently in the scene before her to warrant dissatisfaction. The sky showed a cloudless front, the sun was shining with determined cheerfulness over the snow-covered grounds, and the pond was frozen over with smooth mirror-like ice that beckoned invitingly to the most exacting skater.

Her wish of the previous chapter, that the rain would freeze, was certainly fulfilled.

Besides, it was Saturday morning, study hour was over, and the rest of the glorious day was free, yet, despite all these blessings, Betty was bored.

Polly and Lois, who were among the laughing group of girls on the ice, separated themselves from the rest and skated over to her.

“What’s the matter, Bet, why aren’t you skating?” questioned Lois.

Betty pulled off a strip of bark from the tree, broke it up into little pieces and threw them one by one into the pond.

“What’s the use?” she answered. “I’m sick to death of going round and round and round again on this silly pond, stumbling every minute over some girl that doesn’t know how to skate.”

Polly and Lois exchanged glances.

“Why, Betty, you’re positively peevish; what side of the bed did you get out of?” Polly laughed.

“Perhaps I am; anyhow, I’m sick of this. Why can’t we skate on the river where there’s more room?”

“I suppose we could, if we got enough girls together, found a chaperone and got permission,” said Lois slowly.

“Oh! but wouldn’t that be wonderful!” Polly exclaimed, “let’s do it.”

Betty brightened up, and looked a little more cheerful at the prospect of a lark.

“Who’ll we get to go?” she demanded, now thoroughly alive.

“Angela and Connie.”

“They can’t skate well enough.”

“Never mind, let’s ask them.”

“Oh, all right, who else?”

“We don’t want too many.”

“How about Louise?”

“And Florence?”

“Of course, if they’ll come.”

“That makes seven.”

“Isn’t that enough?”

“Who for chaperone?”

“Miss Stuart.”

“She’s sick.”

“Miss King then.”

“The Infirmary’s full, she wouldn’t be able to.”

“Miss Porter?”

“She’s gone to New York with the other teachers, to the opera.”

“I forgot, who’s left?”

“The Spartan.”

“Never!” objected Betty strenuously, “it can’t be—why, we’d no sooner get to the river than her feet would be cold, or her nose or her hands, and we’d have to turn back; besides, she doesn’t skate.”

“All the better,” Lois said; “we can build her a nice little fire and make her quite comfy on shore, out of the breeze, and then leave her.”

“Now, Bet, don’t be so particular, she’s our only hope,” reminded Polly.

After a good deal of persuasive arguing, Betty finally consented, and they started off to ask the other girls.

They found Angela and Connie coasting on the big hill.

“Wait a second, you two,” Betty called to them.

They pulled their sleds off the track into a snow bank and came over to her.

“What do you want?” asked Connie; “isn’t the coasting great?”

“Yes, but the skating is better,” said Lois, “specially on the river.”

“Elucidate,” said Angela.

Polly began:

“Well, it’s this way,” she explained; “Betty’s in a fearful mood, the worst possible stage of grouch, nothing suits her. The pond’s too small, and she objects to the girls who don’t know how to skate as well as she does; she says they’re in her way. Well, there’s nothing for her but to walk it off. We thought a select, mind, a very select number of girls and a chaperone, and an afternoon on the river, where she’d have plenty of room, might soothe her. Will you and Connie come?”

“With the solemn understanding that if you crack the whip, I don’t have to be end man,” answered Connie, thinking of the many times she had been sent spinning across the ice.

“I’ll go because it’s a select party,” laughed Angela. “And because I’m tired of this hill. Who else is going?”

“We thought we’d ask Louise and Florence, and perhaps they’ll want some of the other Seniors; we had to have some old girls along and they’re the nicest,” Betty told her.

“Have you got permission?”

“Not yet.”

“Who’s going to chaperone?”

“The Spartan.”

“You’re joking.”

“We are not.”

“But—”

“She’s the only one left, the rest of the faculty are in New York, or busy.”

“Who’s to ask her?”

It was Angela who asked the question, and Lois pointing at her answered:

“You.”

“Never!”

“You must!”

“But why?”

“Because you are the only one who has recited intelligently in class for the past week.”

Angela gasped in astonishment tinged with amusement.

“It’s a plot,” she announced tragically, “and I’m the victim. Oh, very well, I’ll do it,” she ended stoically as if the deed in view was one of awful villainy.

“Be very polite to her,” cautioned Polly. “Tell her we want her very much, and don’t let her say no. Bet, you have to ask Mrs. Baird.”

“Oh, make Lois.”

“No, you have to, Lo and I are going to ask Louise and Florence.”

“I like that—”

“Come on, we must hurry,” Lois interrupted her, catching Polly’s arm and starting for the house.

Angela followed holding tightly to Connie, who she insisted had to come with her to back her up.

“I’ll meet you in your room, Lo,” Betty called over her shoulder as she parted from the rest under the Bridge of Sighs, on her way to Mrs. Baird’s office.

Polly and Lois left Angela and Connie waiting to learn if the permission were granted before venturing to ask the Spartan, and hurried on to Senior Alley.

They found Louise and Florence in the latter’s room, studying.

They were delighted with the idea when Polly explained it to them, said they didn’t care to include any of the other Seniors, and stopped work to go up to Lois’ room and wait for Betty. They had been there only a few minutes when she burst in upon them.

“It’s all right, we can go,” she announced delightedly. “Mrs. Baird was adorable about it, she suggested that we take a couple of the older girls, and I told her we were going to ask Louise and Florence. She said that was good, and she smiled; I know she wanted to laugh when I told her we were going to ask the Spartan to chaperone.”

This was true; Betty’s face had been so cast down when she explained that Miss Hale was the only available teacher, that Mrs. Baird, who understood girls as few women can, had difficulty in suppressing a smile.

At that moment Angela and Connie entered the room.

“She won’t go,” they announced in unison, “says she feels a cold coming on.”

“I knew it!”

“That’s too mean.”

“There’s not another teacher left.”

“What’ll we do?”

“Leave it to me,” Louise said slowly. “I think I can fix it, I’ll go talk to her. Wait here for me.” And she was gone.

The girls waited, carrying on a fragmentary conversation, and in less than fifteen minutes Louise returned. She was met by a volley of questions:

“Will she go?”

“What did she say?”

“Tell us the worst.”

“How did you fix it?”

She put both fingers in her ears in protest.

“Stop talking so much and I’ll tell you,” she said. “Miss Hale is not going, but Mrs. Baird is.”

“No!”

“Really!”

“She’s a darling.”

“What a lark.”

The girls were overcome with surprise and delight.

Lois managed to say a whole sentence without being interrupted.

“Louise, you’re a wonder, how did you ever manage it!”

“I explained about Miss Hale’s cold and asked her if she could think of any one else. She suggested going herself and of course I wouldn’t leave until I’d made her promise that she would.”

“Does she skate?” inquired Angela.

“She used to, but she said she didn’t think she would today. She’s going to take a book along.”

“We’ll build her a fire,” said Lois.

“Out of the wind,” added Polly.

“Let’s take a steamer rug,” Betty said, not to be outdone, and the rest added other suggestions.

The plans that had been offered earlier in the morning for the utter obliteration of the Spartan were now converted into plans for the ease and comfort of Mrs. Baird.

At three o’clock every one was ready to start, the girls armed with skates and hockey sticks. Mrs. Baird, dressed in a rough tweed walking suit, carried a book, and looked, save for her gray hair, as young as either of the Seniors.

“Come along,” she called, “we’ve a long walk ahead of us and time is flying.” And off they started.

The steep descent that led to the river from Seddon Hall proved to be, not only long, but very tedious. The path was completely hidden by the snow, and an unseen tree root or stone caused many a trip up that terminated in a long slide down hill.

It was so funny to see some one suddenly plunge up to their waist in deep snow, and then roll, arms and legs in the air, for five or ten feet, that the girls were in hysterics most of the walk.

When the river was finally reached without mishap and too much loss of time, they were weak from laughing.

“Well,” announced Mrs. Baird, tears of mirth in her eyes; she had had her share of troubles too, “we will not go back that way, we would never reach home. We’ll go through the village by way of the station. Now don’t bother about me, get on your skates,” she added, as she saw the girls spreading out a steamer rug and collecting bits of wood for a fire.

But they insisted on making her comfortable first.

Polly and Betty made a fire and Louise and Florence fixed the rug in a small enclosure made by a clump of bushes, and situated directly under a big overhanging rock.

When these preparations were over, Mrs. Baird settled down comfortably and opened her book, and the girls put on their skates.

“Say what you please,” said Polly, “it’s not as smooth here as it was on the pond, and there’s a crack over there.”

This was true. The sun had been shining steadily, and in spots the ice had melted on the river, leaving an inch or so of slush on the surface.

“Never mind, we can keep away from it, we’ve the whole place to ourselves,” exulted Betty, looking out over the expanse of ice, and not seeing a single person in sight. “Come on!”

Off they glided each by herself, at first, to get the swing. Then they organized a hockey game, and for a while they skated furiously.

“Fifth time for you, Bet, you’re a wonder,” Florence called as Betty sent the flat disc sailing past Angela, through the goal posts that were serving in place of cages.

“Oh! I can’t stop those, they come too fast; somebody change places with me,” said Angela. “This is too strenuous for me.”

“Oh, nonsense,” cried Polly. “Get in the game, Ange, come on up in the center, I’ll play guard, if you like.”

“All right.”

“Everybody ready?”

“Play.”

“Zip,” sang the puck, darting here and there, in obedience to the click, click of the busy hockey sticks.

Florence and Lois were fighting over it. Polly, Betty, Connie and Louise tried to interfere, and for a minute there was a wild skirmish. In the excitement, Angela, who was hovering around the outside, got in some one’s way and fell flat.

“Stop, Ange is down.”

“What did you do that for?” Angela demanded, as she sat up and rubbed her back. “I thought I was keeping out of it.”

“Did you hurt yourself?”

“No, not much, but I’ve had enough.”

“So have I.”

“What will we do next?”

“Let’s crack the whip,” suggested Betty. “You lead, Con.”

“Not I, I can’t go fast enough.”

“Louise, you lead.”

“All right, who’s on the end.”

Lois opened her mouth to speak and stopped. She was looking over Louise’s shoulder. Coming toward her were four boys dressed in the uniform of the Military School that was situated on another hill along the Hudson, about five miles north of Seddon Hall. She knew who they were at once, for she had often passed groups of them in the village, or met them when out on a straw ride.

“Look,” she said in an undertone, for the boys were already within ear shot.

The girls turned.

“Oh! the dickens,” exclaimed Betty crossly, “why couldn’t they have gone somewhere else?”

Mrs. Baird had also seen the new arrivals and noticed the girls’ hesitation. She beckoned Louise to her side.

“Don’t pay any attention to them,” she said, “and I’m sure they won’t disturb you.”

Louise nodded and returned to the girls.

“Let’s play hockey again,” she suggested.

“What about the boys?” inquired Connie.

“Don’t pay any attention to them.”

“Well, come on, let’s start,” Florence whirled into position. But Angela’s eyes were glued to the group of boys.

“Stop staring,” Betty whispered.

“I can’t help it, I never saw a boy with redder hair.” Instinctively they all turned.

“Carrots.”

“Brick top.”

“Stop, this is terrible, let’s start something.”

“All right, get ready.”

“Go!”

They took their positions and were again skirmishing after the puck.

“Oh, let’s quit, I’m dead,” Angela pleaded weakly, after they had played for a time. She had been buffeted about until she was completely winded.

“All right, lazy, you rest and we’ll crack the whip,” teased Betty.

As she said it, she took a chance whack at the puck with her hockey stick and sent it spinning. Over the ice it flew, while the girls looked on in fascinated horror, for it was heading directly for the boys, and never stopped until it had landed at the feet of the red-headed one.

“Betty!” gasped Lois.

Angela giggled outright. Then, for almost a minute there was absolute silence. All eyes were centered on the puck.

At last the red-headed boy lifted his stick and sent it back.

Betty called “Thank you ever so much,” and he answered:

“Don’t mention it,” and pulled off his military cap, completely uncovering his fiery head. Then he and his friends skated off in the opposite direction.

“It is red, and no mistake,” laughed Florence.

“It’s a wonder it doesn’t melt the ice,” Angela answered. “What’s the matter, Bet?” she added.

“You’re all very unkind, he can’t help it,” Betty replied, straightening up. “I’m sure he’s most polite. I like him,” she finished decidedly.

The girls didn’t know whether to tease her or not, so, to change the subject, Louise suggested the forgotten game.

“Get ready for crack the whip,” she said. “Bet, you lead.”

“All right, get ready—”

“Who’s on the end!”

“Polly.”

“Go ahead—”

The girls put their hands on one another’s shoulders, forming a long line, and Betty started off, skating fast and keeping straight ahead. Suddenly, when everybody was going like the wind she gave a sharp turn to the right and the girls went pell mell in every direction.

It was loads of fun and very invigorating. They played it over and over again, each girl taking a turn to lead.

“Polly’s first this time,” called Louise, “and Betty’s last.”

“Be merciful, Poll,” Betty panted, taking hold of Lois’ shoulders.

“I will not,” laughed Polly. “Get ready—Go!”

Off they started for perhaps the sixth time. They were now well out from shore, and in places the ice was quite slushy. Polly raced ahead, never giving a thought about anything but the joy of sailing along with the wind in her face.

As she made the quick turn, the ice under their feet gave a sickening longdrawn “whirr-r” followed by a sharp crack.

For a minute there was pandemonium—what followed came very much more swiftly than it can be told.

There was a wild dash for firm ice—a startled scream and then the horrible picture of Betty struggling, and up to her neck in the water.

Lois and Polly made frantic efforts to reach her, but at every attempt the ice gave another warning crack.

Mrs. Baird, on the shore, called desperately for help, and the other girls stood rigid with fear.

It seemed an eternity, and then, the red-headed boy came, quickly, purposefully, and took command. He sent his friends for ropes and boards, while he himself lay down flat on the ice and wormed his way towards Betty.

She was still keeping up. Luckily the hole was small and she was wedged in between two big chunks of ice.

Lois and Polly stood helpless, waiting. Finally he called to them: “Get the rest and form a chain to me. Some one catch hold of my feet—Easy now.”

The girls obeyed quickly and he crawled along until he could touch Betty. Very skillfully he took hold of her under her arms.

“Don’t struggle,” he warned her. “You’re all right.” And mustering every bit of his strength, he pulled her gently on to the ice beside him. “Now pull me back,” he ordered.

When his friends returned with the rope, she was safe on shore rolled up in the steamer rug, and Mrs. Baird was beside her. He was the center of an admiring and relieved crowd of girls, who were all talking at once.

Still master of the occasion he dispatched one of his friends for a carriage, and another for a warm drink. “And,” he added severely, after he had given them their directions, “don’t be so blame long about it this time.”

The warm drink arrived first—it was in a flask—and Mrs. Baird administered it sparingly.

Then the carriage arrived and she left Betty and came over to the others.

“You have been splendid,” she said to the red-headed boy. “I have no words in which to thank you. I shudder to think what we would have done without you.” She pressed his hand gratefully. “Thank you,” she repeated, with a hint of tears in her voice.

The red-headed boy, though a hero, was easily embarrassed.

“Oh, please,” he stammered, “it was all right. Nothing at all. Here, let me help you get her in the carriage,” he added hastily, glad of anything that would put a stop to these embarrassing thanks, and because he wanted one more look at Betty.

This wish was of course mere curiosity. If a chap saves a girl’s life, surely he had the right to know what she looked like, or so he argued with himself.

“Thank you, if you will,” Mrs. Baird replied.

And together they lifted Betty into the back of the carriage. The steamer rug enveloped her like a mummy cloth, but as they got her safely on the seat, one corner of it fell away, and revealed to the red-headed boy her white face and blue lips, that tried so bravely to smile up into his eyes.

The carriage jogged off at a snail’s pace—Mrs. Baird knelt on the floor beside Betty, the girls walked along the road easily keeping up with it.

The red-headed boy watched the queer procession; he still held his hat in his hand, and his flaming hair was the last thing the girls saw.

Hours later, safe in the infirmary, surrounded by hot water bottles and woolly blankets, Betty opened her eyes—she had been asleep—and encountered those of Mrs. Baird.

“What was his name?” she asked drowsily.

“My darling child, I forgot to ask him!” exclaimed Mrs. Baird; “how very remiss of me.”

Betty’s gaze wandered around the room, then her eyes closed again.

“Doesn’t matter,” she said slowly. “He’d always have been just the red-headed boy to me.”

CHAPTER VIII—CUTTING THE LECTURE

Polly awoke with a start and bounded out of bed as the rising bell clanged down the corridor.

“I knew it, I knew it; my Latin won’t be finished and the Spartan will be furious,” she exclaimed to the four walls, “but I did intend to get up early. Well, it can’t be helped now; hateful stuff, anyhow.”

For two days the snow had been falling, and the coasting had been perfect. As might be expected, lessons had suffered. The girls would come into study hours flushed with excitement, their blood tingling and their eyes sparkling, and it was only the most studious that could get down to real concentrated work.

It was Friday morning, and a particularly glorious day. The grounds were covered with snow three feet deep, the main hill where the girls coasted had been shoveled out, stamped down, and refrozen until it resembled a broad ribbon of ice with high banks of drifted snow on either side.

The fir trees were weighed down to the ground, icicles hung from the porches of the school building, and the gym looked like an ice palace.

This enticing scene, with sunshine over all, made Polly look longingly from the corridor window on her way to Latin class, a couple of hours after we left her thinking of her unprepared lesson.

“I wish it were the last period instead of the first,” Lois whispered, catching up with her and linking her arm in hers.

“So do I, for a lot of reasons,” groaned Polly. “In the first place, I haven’t my Latin finished, and in the second, well, it’s a crime to stay indoors on a day like this.”

“Really, girls, I must remind you, there is no talking allowed in the corridors.”

The Spartan was upon them. One never heard her coming; she wore rubber heels.

“You will admit you were talking, I suppose, Marianna?” she inquired.

“Certainly I will admit it. I was talking. I don’t crawl, Miss Hale.” And Polly sucked in her under lip, a danger sign that she was angry.

“I was talking, too, Miss Hale,” spoke up Lois.

The Spartan paid no attention to this, however, but marched off down the corridor. Two minutes later she confronted them in Latin class. Polly was still sucking in her under lip.

“Papers for the day on my desk, if you please.”

“My Latin is unprepared,” announced Polly with deadly calm. “And,” she added, “I have no excuse.”

“Dear me!” And Miss Hale raised her eyebrows until they disappeared into the depths of her large pompadour. “And is there any other girl whose Latin is not prepared, and who had no excuse?” she inquired.

As no one answered she continued:

“And may I ask why your Latin is not prepared? Don’t you like Latin, Marianna?”

“No, I do not, Miss Hale,” Polly answered, dangerously polite.

“You don’t like Latin, so you don’t prepare Latin; how very unfortunate!”

“I never said that was the reason I was unprepared. I told you I had no excuse.”

Polly was getting very angry, still she might have controlled herself if just at that moment Miss Hale had not lifted a restraining hand and said, “Tut, my dear,” in her most irritating manner.

Have you ever noticed the effect “Tut, tut,” has on an angry person? Sometimes it’s quite dreadful. Polly was no exception. She stamped her foot, threw her Latin book violently on the floor and marched out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

Punishment followed as a matter of course. Polly had expected to be sent to Mrs. Baird. She did not know how thoroughly the Spartan disapproved of her superior’s gentle lectures, preferring more drastic measures.

It was not until after school, however, that she learned her fate. It was in the shape of a note that read as follows:

“Kindly keep silence for the afternoon; report in the study hall and make up today’s lesson, the advance lesson, and translate the first ten lines of story on page 35. Bring work to my room.”

“Hard luck,” sympathized Lois, reading over Polly’s shoulder. “That means no coasting. I wish I could help you.” Then putting her arm around her. “There, dear, never mind, don’t cry.”

“I’m not,” denied Polly, hastily daubing at her eyes, “but if you stay here any longer, I will. Go on, or I’ll blub.”

Lois left to hunt up Betty, who had completely recovered from her ducking and again grinned joyously on the world. Together they went out to coast. As they passed the bulletin board Lois stopped and read:

There will be a lecture on anatomy, by Miss F. Tilden-Brown, in Assembly Hall, at 8 P. M. tonight.

“The dickens there will,” exclaimed Betty. “Anatomy forsooth, and by Miss Tilden-Brown. Nothing a woman with a name like that could say would interest me.”

“That’s right, think of yourself instead of poor Polly. Latin all afternoon and anatomy all evening.”

Betty looked thoughtful.

“Hum; she’s already in a sweet temper,” she mused. “I see trouble ahead.”

At 4:30 Polly, with her finished papers in her hand, crossed the Bridge of Sighs and knocked at Miss Hale’s door.

“Come in,” called that lady.

She was attired in a flowered kimono and was in the act of brushing her mouse-colored hair.

“My papers, Miss Hale,” announced Polly in her most frigid tones.

“Very well, if you will put them on my table, please.” Then as she turned to leave the room the demon in the Spartan prompted her to add: “Have you nothing to say? You know it is customary when one has thrown books about, to—”

“Oh, an apology,” interrupted Polly. “I suppose Mrs. Baird would wish it.” And looking straight into Miss Hale’s watery blue eyes, she said: “I apologize.”

It was insolence, of course, but, after all, an entire afternoon of Latin demands some outlet.

As Polly reached the corridor, Lois and Betty met her.

“Poor darling, are you awfully tired?” Lois asked. “We did miss you so; the coasting was—” but Polly interrupted her.

“Lois, if you dare tell me what a good time you had I’ll never speak to you again.” Then as she saw her surprised look, she added, laughing: “Don’t get worried, I’m just awfully cranky and my head is splitting.”

“Better wash your face in cold water,” suggested Betty, “and stop thinking of Latin. For instance, contemplate the joys of this evening in the arms of Miss Tilden-Brown and anatomy.”

“What!” yelled Polly. “A lecture tonight. Oh, that’s too much. I’m going to cut,” she announced.

There was silence for a full minute. They had reached Polly’s room by now. Then Lois said very solemnly:

“I’ve never cut before, but if you’re determined to do it, I’ll go with you.”

“So will I,” echoed Betty, springing up from the window seat. “I’d brave anything—lions, Cæsar’s ghost, or the whale that swallowed Jonah—rather than listen to that lecture. Besides, I couldn’t desert you, Polly. Where will we go?”

“Coasting, of course,” Polly answered. “There’s a gorgeous moon.”

“We will be caught,” remarked Lois, “but then we’re all willing to face the consequences.”

That evening at 8:15 when the girls were all seated in Assembly Hall and Miss Tilden-Brown was expatiating on the evil results of tight lacing, three figures, standing on top of the hill, were silhouetted against the sky.

The moon was there, as Polly had predicted, making the snow sparkle with its blue-white rays. The silence was broken only by the crunch, crunch of the snow, as the three girls pulled their sleds into place.

“You go first, Polly,” said Bet. “It’s your party, and we’ll follow close behind so the goblins won’t get you.”

“I’m off, then,” and Polly threw herself flat on her sled.

It was great sport. The track was so icy that the runners made sparks as the sleds whizzed down the steep hill.

About nine o’clock Mrs. Baird stole from the Assembly Hall and sought the rest of her own room. She had grown fearfully tired of Miss Tilden-Brown’s endless talk, and heartily sorry for the girls.

As she reached her dainty chintz-hung sitting-room, she lifted the window and stood looking at the big full moon and breathing the cool night air. Presently a joyous laugh rang out, followed by another. Mrs. Baird looked puzzled and leaned farther out of the window.

The laugh had been caused by Betty forgetting to steer and tumbling into a snow bank, thereby blocking the way for Polly and Lois, who were following close behind, so that they all landed in the drift.

“Somebody pull me out,” sang Polly.

“Sorry, can’t oblige,” came Lois’ muffled tones. “I’m on my way to China.”

“Betty to the rescue. Whose foot is this?”

“Ouch! Oh, let go!”

“That was a mix-up.”

“Where are the sleds?”

After much scrambling they managed to regain the track.

“Lucky thing we were not all killed,” Betty reflected.

“Serve us right for cutting,” commented Lois.

“’Bout time to go in, isn’t it?” Polly inquired regretfully.

“Yes, it’s all over,” replied Betty. “And now the consequences. Wonder what part of the anatomy Miss Tilden-Brown is discussing now?” And she chuckled gleefully.

Mrs. Baird smiled broadly and closed the window. A few minutes later she met the girls in the lower hall.

“Why, girls, where have you been?” she inquired.

“Out coasting, Mrs. Baird,” Lois answered. “We cut the lecture,” she added, nervously twisting the third finger of her red mitten.

“Perhaps you had better come into my office and tell me about it,” suggested Mrs. Baird, and she led the way down the hall.

They were in the office just ten minutes, but in that time Mrs. Baird found out all she wanted to know. Polly’s afternoon in the study hall, Betty’s dislike for lectures, and Lois’ love for adventure. She finished the interview with these words:

“I did not expect it of you girls in the past, and I am not going to expect it of you in the future. I look to you as holding the position of wholesome examples in the school. Your fault tonight was not very great, but it was a step in the wrong direction. Pull yourselves up, and now, good-night.”

As the girls turned to go, she added with a smile:

“I promise you all, there will be no more lectures on anatomy.”

They walked thoughtfully back to the corridor. As Betty opened her door she said:

“For two years I’ve been trying to find an adjective to describe Mrs. Baird and the nearest I can come to one is ‘saint,’ and that doesn’t suit her at all. Good-night.”

“Good-night,” answered Polly. “I suppose there will be no more cutting.”

“No, I suppose not,” agreed Lois, “but, cricky, I wouldn’t have missed tonight.”

They all laughed guiltily, and then as they heard the rest of the girls trooping out of Assembly Hall, stole quietly into their rooms.

An hour later Miss Hale and Mrs. Baird were alone in the faculty room, finishing a conversation.

“I can’t understand,” Mrs. Baird was saying, “why, when you bend a girl to the breaking point, you are surprised that she breaks. You know it is near Christmas and they are all tired.”

“Our ideas of discipline are very different,” Miss Hale returned stiffly.

“Well, after all, you will admit I am the head of the school,” Mrs. Baird reminded her, smiling good-naturedly to soften the rebuke.

“Certainly, to be sure,” Miss Hale stammered, rather lamely. “I think I’ll be saying good-night.”

When she had gone, Mrs. Baird sank into a big chair before the hearth.

“It was breaking rules, of course,” she mused, smiling into the fire, “but I can’t help loving them for wanting to coast instead of listening to anatomy lectures. It shows they’ve healthy minds anyway, bless them.”