sang Phœbe, trying to out-Alice Alice.

"How disgustingly greedy you are! I call it quite indecent. You don't deserve anything, except plain bread and scrape."

Mabel crossed the passage laughing; but as she opened the kitchen door her mirth was changed to mourning. There, with his fore-paws upon the table, stood Raggles, the shaggy yard dog, devouring scones as fast as he could gulp them down his capacious throat. Mabel uttered a cry of dismay, and, catching up the rolling pin, which was the nearest thing at hand, flung it at the intruder, who snatched a last mouthful, and bolted hastily through the back door.

"Oh, Dora! Aldred! Come and see what's happened!" cried poor Mabel, bursting into the sitting-room, oblivious of the fact that a model hostess ought not to air such domestic catastrophes in public. The visitors did not stand on ceremony, however, but seized the opportunity to make a dash for the kitchen, into which they had been longing to peep.

"I never dreamt of Raggles coming in! I thought he was tied up!" wailed Dora.

"We oughtn't to have left the back door open," said Aldred.

"It was so hot; one can't have the place all stuffy! Oh, the wretch! I wish they'd choked him!"

"Has he taken every one?" asked the disconsolate guests.

"All except three, and as he seemed to be licking the whole plateful, I don't suppose anybody would care to try what he's left!" replied Mabel.

"My lovely scones! And I had split them and buttered them!" moaned Dora, almost in tears.

"Well, we have the potato cakes, at any rate. Luckily, I put them on the top of the stove, to keep hot, and Raggles didn't find them out."

"We'd better eat them quick, before any more accidents happen," advised Aldred, hastily pouring the water on the tea, and heading the procession back into the sitting-room.

The potato cakes were a huge success. That was the universal verdict. They were light, and hot, and buttery, and the only fault to be found was that there were not nearly sufficient of them. Mabel handed the plate round with impartial justice, and there were only two apiece.

"Just enough to make one want more!" sighed Ursula, consuming the last delicious crumb.

"There's plenty of bread and butter, if you're hungry."

"But I'm not bread-and-butter hungry!"

"I'm sorry we've no jam!" apologized Dora.

"Oh, don't!" begged Aldred, who still felt humiliated at the fate of the blackberries.

"She didn't mean it!" interposed Mabel the peacemaker. "I vote we have some buttered toast, and anybody can hold it who likes to volunteer."

When Miss Drummond arrived at six o'clock she found the visitors gone, the tea-things washed, and the whole of the wee establishment in apple-pie order; while three flushed, rather tired little maids-of-all-work stood at attention, ready for her tour of inspection.

"Housekeeping isn't quite so easy and simple as it appears on the surface, is it?" she remarked. "In its own way, it has as many difficulties as Latin or mathematics, and needs as much learning. It's a very useful art, however, and worthy of cultivation. You'll have gained a little experience even in this one brief experiment, and your mistakes will teach you what to avoid next time. You have done very nicely, though, and I shall give you each a good report. Have you enjoyed your day at the cottage?"

And all three girls answered: "Immensely!"

CHAPTER V

Out of Bounds

Miss Drummond encouraged the girls to talk to her, and tried to make the whole atmosphere as homelike as possible, allowing a tolerable amount of liberty, so long as it did not degenerate into licence. She would discuss topics of the day, books, music, art, or any other subject with her pupils, trying to make them talk easily and naturally, and take an intelligent interest in what was going on in the world.

"Conversation is like a game of ball," she would sometimes say; "it must be thrown backwards and forwards from both sides. There is nothing so aggravating as to be obliged to talk to a person who will persist in only answering with a negative or an affirmative. I have racked my brains sometimes to think of fresh topics, when all my leading remarks have been received with a 'Yes' or a 'No'. That is what I call dropping the ball. When you see people are making an effort to entertain you, it is only fair to play your part as well. I know you plead shyness, but shyness can be conquered if we try to forget ourselves, and think only how we can give pleasure to others. It is really a form of self-consciousness, and ought to be fought against as well as any other fault."

Games were not compulsory at The Grange, though Miss Drummond liked all to take part in the weekly matches. But she considered it was inadvisable to train girls to care for nothing but cricket and hockey, and wished them to take up a number of small interests, such as they could carry on afterwards at home. During recreation time she allowed specially chosen recruits to help her in superintending the garden and greenhouse, the poultry yard, and the bee-hives that were her particular hobby. These country occupations proved very popular, and to be one of Miss Drummond's "outdoor helpers" was an honour much sought after and keenly appreciated.

There was a large shed in the yard, where a joiner's bench had been fitted up, and on wet days this was devoted to carpentry or chip-carving, some of the best efforts being reserved for a small annual bazaar, generally held in aid of the Missionary Societies.

Sewing and embroidery were much encouraged. Miss Gray, the art mistress, taught the girls to design their own patterns, and had obtained some pretty results in appliqué and Oriental work. She was an enthusiast in handicrafts, and allowed many pleasant variations from the usual drawing course, thinking clay modelling, gesso, stencilling, wood-staining, and pyrography as important parts of an art training as line or brush work. The weekly afternoon spent in the studio was a revelation to Aldred, whose really artistic nature revelled in all these hitherto unknown delights. She took to them like a duck to water, and was absolutely happy moulding clay, or stamping backgrounds with the poker-work apparatus. She would have spent her whole leisure in the studio if that had been allowed, and would often beg a piece of clay, with which to practise modelling by herself.

Music, also, was not neglected at Birkwood. There were lessons in theory and harmony, as well as in piano playing and class singing. Sometimes the girls were taken to afternoon concerts, but these dissipations were generally reserved for winter, as there were so many other things in summer to fill up the days.

One Wednesday half-holiday, when she had been at The Grange for about a month, Aldred was sitting on the steps of the sundial, in company with Dora Maxwell, Myfanwy James, and Phœbe Stanhope The sundial was a place of general rendezvous in the garden. Here, as a rule, the tennis sets were arranged, sides chosen for croquet or basket ball, leaders elected, and disputes settled. It was as popular a spot as the market cross in a country town, and during play-hours was the universal centre for the whole school. The four girls had brought out books, and were enjoying reading, with intervals of chatting. Mabel was having a music lesson, so for once Aldred was apart from her almost inseparable companion.

"It will be so jolly when we begin hockey on half-holidays!" said Dora. "It's really been too hot for it so far; I quite agree with Miss Drummond in that."

"I'm always glad when the cold weather sets in, and we can settle down to all our ordinary winter arrangements," said Myfanwy. "I like the long evenings, when it's dark by tea-time, and we can sit round the fire and talk; it's really far more fun than the summer term."

"I love the summer best," said Aldred. "I like the flowers, and the leaves on the trees, and the birds singing. Winter seems lonely without them. I think it's so melancholy to have days and days without any sunshine!"

"I don't mind the evenings being dark, but I hate getting up before it's light," said Phœbe. "It's miserable to have to turn out of bed at seven o'clock on chilly November and December mornings. I'm never like the good boy in the story-books who gets up readily; it's always a wrench for me."

"We've hard enough work to rouse you, certainly," admitted Dora. "If it weren't for us, you'd be sweetly slumbering when the breakfast bell rings. I can't imagine how you'd manage if you had a room to yourself, instead of being in No. 5. Who wakes first, Aldred, you or Mabel?"

"Both together, generally," replied Aldred. "I don't see how anybody could sleep through such a fearful clatter as the bell makes. It gives me a horrible start every morning. It's worse than an alarm clock?"

"Oh, you'll get used to it in time!" declared Phœbe. "And then perhaps you won't notice it any more than I do."

The conversation was interrupted at this point by Freda Martin and Blanche Nicholls, two of the prefects, who came past arm in arm.

"What are you four doing here?" asked Freda briskly. "Why aren't you playing tennis with the others?"

"There isn't room," replied Phœbe. "The Fifth Form girls have got up a tournament, and they'll keep the courts all the afternoon."

"Can't you have a round at croquet, instead?"

"We don't feel inclined."

"Basket ball, then?" suggested Blanche.

Dora leaned back against the stone shaft of the sundial, and yawned luxuriously.

"No, we're simply enjoying doing nothing," she confessed.

"You lazy little wretches, you ought to be ashamed of yourselves! Get up and take some exercise! Look here! if you care to run in and ask for your exeats, you can come with us for a stroll to Chetbourne. There are two of you apiece for us, so it will be just right to make 'threesomes'; only, quick's the word, and don't forget to bring your gloves!"

The members of the Lower School were not allowed outside the grounds of the Grange without a teacher, except in very special circumstances; but the Sixth Form girls had the right of taking walks within certain bounds, if they went three together, and might occasionally extend the privilege to some of the younger ones, on the understanding that they were considered responsible for the latter. Each was only authorized, however, to give two such invitations in the course of a term, so that the lucky chance could fall to the lot of but a favoured few. In any case, no girl might pass through the gate without an exeat or special order from the head mistress, who always entered in a book the names of those who thus had leave of absence.

Phœbe, Aldred, Dora and Myfanwy sprang up with an absolute howl of joy. They had never anticipated such a piece of good fortune. The prospect of an outing was delightful, and they rushed at once into the house to secure the necessary permits from Miss Drummond, getting ready and returning with such record speed that the two prefects could not complain of being kept waiting. It was a beautiful afternoon in the middle of October, so warm and fine that it seemed more like the height of summer than autumn. Dahlias and hollyhocks were still in full bloom in the garden, the trees had scarcely begun to change colour, and, though the swallows had left, an industrious sparrow, mistaking the season, was flying with a piece of hay in her bill, as if actually contemplating another nest. The sun shone with an almost August glare as the girls left the Grange and started for their walk over the downs; but there was a pleasant breeze to temper the heat, and, as Freda declared, the dash of the waves always had a cool sound, at any rate. The road ran parallel with the cliffs, so that for the whole of the two miles they had an uninterrupted view of the sea, which lay calm and sparkling, with a gleaming sail here and there, or the smoke of a Channel steamer on the horizon.

"I've never been to Chetbourne," announced Aldred. "I suppose it's very jolly, with a promenade, and all that sort of thing?"

"It's the ordinary kind of seaside place," said Blanche Nicholls. "It's generally very full in the summer."

"Are there any entertainments on the pier?"

"Oh, yes!—pierrots, and a band."

"Shall we have time to go and hear them?"

"We're not allowed. Our bounds stop just at the beginning of Chetbourne. We mayn't go into the town, nor along the promenade."

"Why, what a swindle!" exclaimed Aldred. "I thought we were going to have some fun!"

"Isn't the walk enough for you?" asked Freda.

"It's very nice; but it would have been amusing to see a few niggers, or some performing dogs."

"The post office is our limit," said Blanche. "We always call a halt there. They have a splendid set of picture postcards, and some nice Goss china. A good many of us are collecting Goss."

"Then mayn't we go the least little scrap farther?" pleaded Aldred.

"Not a step!" replied Freda decisively.

Aldred said no more, and the six walked on, chatting of other matters, until they reached the outskirts of the town. The post office was a large shop, of a kind common at seaside resorts. A variety of miscellaneous articles were on sale—shell boxes, photograph frames, wicker baskets, cheap ornaments, and materials for fancy-work—and the younger girls found their allowances burning holes in their pockets, and stayed so long choosing souvenirs that their elders waxed impatient.

"Haven't you finished yet?" said Freda. "You must have turned over every postcard in the box. Blanche and I want to go to the bookseller's. I think we might leave you here for ten minutes. You'll be all right till we come back," and she departed with her fellow-prefect to a shop opposite.

The others finished their purchases and paid for them, then stood waiting until their escorts should return. The post office was a long building, and had two glass doors, one of which opened on to the main street, while the other led into a side road. To the latter door Aldred strolled leisurely, and stood gazing out at the general prospect.

"Is that the beach down there?" she asked Phœbe. "I almost think I can see bathing vans."

"Yes; this road leads directly to the parade. It's only about half a minute's walk."

"I should like immensely to take a look at the sea front."

"It's a beautiful promenade," said Dora. "It seems a shame you can't see it."

"Couldn't we just run down to the end of the road, and have one peep?"

"What about Blanche and Freda? They'd never let us."

"They wouldn't see us go out at this door, and we should be back before they were."

"All right! I'm ready, if you are."

"There can't be any harm in walking a hundred yards," added Phœbe. "Come along, Myfanwy!"

With one accord the four girls rushed out of the post office and tore down to the sea front. The promenade looked most inviting. The spell of warm weather had brought a number of autumn visitors to Chetbourne, so that there was quite a revival of the season. Children were digging on the sands, the seats and the shelters were full of people reading or chatting, and the constant stream of parasols, white flannels, and light dresses passing up and down opposite the Marine Hotel again suggested the month of August, rather than October.

"I believe the niggers are still here!" exclaimed Myfanwy excitedly. "Or perhaps they went away, and have come back again. Don't you see them at that corner by the tea-rooms?"

"There's certainly somebody with a banjo," said Phœbe. "I can't see for the crowd. Oh! I caught a glimpse then of a tall white hat and a red-striped jacket."

"I wonder whether it's the niggers or the pierrots?" said Dora.

"Do let us go and see!" begged Aldred. "It's such a very little way, we shan't be two minutes."

She seized Dora by the arm, and began to urge her in the direction of the music. Dora did not need much persuasion, and, as Phœbe and Myfanwy offered no remonstrance, they all marched briskly along the promenade. There was a spice of adventure in that, for they knew that they had no business to be there, and that if they were seen and recognized they might be reported to Miss Drummond, and get a severe punishment for breaking bounds. In any case, there were the prefects to be reckoned with. Blanche and Freda would be returning to the post office, and would be extremely angry to find that they had not waited.

"We'll manage to square them somehow," said Phœbe. "I don't think they'll tell Miss Drummond, although they'll probably scold."

"Of course, we shan't really stay a moment," maintained Dora. "We'll just rush straight there and back. They surely can't be very cross at that."

Yet, when they actually arrived at the rather congested corner where the light-hearted negro minstrels, with carefully blacked faces and striped collars, were making merry, they found it impossible not to stop and listen to the songs and jokes. The leader of the troupe was a humorist, and above the average of such performers; he kept his audience well amused, and it was not until he had sent round the inevitable hat, and bidden a polite adieu to the company, that the girls thought of stirring. Even then, their attention was at once claimed, first by a man with performing birds, and then by a Punch and Judy show. The poor little canaries were really clever, while the tragedy of wicked Mr. Punch is an ever-thrilling drama, and his squeaky voice has a peculiar fascination of its own. Time passed rapidly, and the four runaways began suddenly to realize that not only had they been gone much longer than a few minutes, but that they had wandered almost the whole length of the promenade.

"Why, we're nearly at the pier!" exclaimed Dora.

"We must turn back at once," said Phœbe.

"Let us buy a few chocolates before we go," suggested Aldred. "Isn't there a shop here, or an automatic machine?"

"There's a kiosk on the pier-head," replied Dora. "They sell the most delicious American popcorn there, in little boxes tied up with striped ribbons."

"Then we'll get some."

"It's a fairly long way to the end of the pier."

"Well, when we've been away so long already, I can't see that a few extra minutes matter."

"'As well be hung for a sheep as a lamb'!" quoted Phœbe.

"Yes; Blanche and Freda will wait, and they'll scold in any case."

"You'll have to pay for me, then," said Myfanwy, "for I haven't any money left."

"All right; I have plenty," responded Aldred, putting down her pennies on the counter of the toll gate, and pushing hastily through the turnstile. "Now we can run, if you like. How jolly it is on these boards! You can just see the water through the chinks."

The pier was even more interesting than the promenade. There were so many different kinds of automatic machines, which, by the magic of a penny in the slot, would set a team of miniature cricketers to work, and cause mimic soldiers to drill, or ships to sail across imitation oceans. There was a little chalet where cheap jewellery and the polished stones of the neighbourhood were displayed; a fruit shop, and an emporium for sticks and fishing-rods. All these seemed to attract Aldred, and delayed her so much that the others were obliged to take her by the arms and tug her along towards the confectionary kiosk. She had just made an investment in chocolates and popcorn, and the girls were turning to hasten back along the pier, when Dora had an idea.

"Look!" she said; "the steamer's just starting. It always stops at the jetty, and it will take us to the other end of the promenade far faster than we can walk. It's only a penny fare."

"Yes, it would save time," agreed Phœbe. "Come along!"

The bell was ringing, so without waiting to ask questions the four ran down the steps and across the gangway on to the vessel. They were not a second too soon, for she started directly they were on board. The deck was rather crowded with passengers, but the four made their way to a fairly quiet corner, and managed to find seats. Several little coasting steamers ran between the pier, the jetty, the North End, and the lighthouse, and were much patronized by visitors in summer. It would only take a few minutes, so the girls calculated, to reach the first landing-place, which was close to the post office. Blanche and Freda would no doubt be waiting for them in a very irate frame of mind, but perhaps might be cajoled into not reporting the matter at head-quarters.

"Freda is particularly fond of popcorn, I know," said Myfanwy.

"We'll all cry peccavi, and say we're sorry," added Phœbe. "We certainly never intended to be away so long as this. It must have taken us half an hour."

"Perhaps they'll think we've started home," suggested Dora, "and imagine we're waiting for them on the downs."

"Well, we shall very soon see; we're nearly at the jetty."

"I wonder why so many people are taking portmanteaux with them for this tiny, little voyage?" commented Aldred, looking round at the passengers, most of whom seemed to be encumbered with some impedimenta in the way of luggage.

"How funny! I never saw them on one of these steamers before," replied Myfanwy. "Perhaps the people are visitors going to stay at the North End."

"There's the jetty," announced Dora; "we shall be off directly. Hallo! Why aren't we stopping? Oh, Phœbe! Myfanwy! Aldred! Look: we're actually going past it!"

CHAPTER VI

An Awkward Predicament

"Sorry, miss, but it can't be done! The captain won't stop the steamer for anybody," said the man, smiling.

"Not if we went and asked him ourselves?" begged Phœbe eagerly.

"Not for the Queen of England!" returned the purser, as he waited, shuffling the tickets and some loose change suggestively in his hand.

The girls felt in their pockets in vain. Most of their substance had gone on postcards and popcorn, and all they could muster among them was sevenpence-halfpenny.

"I'm afraid we haven't enough money. We only expected to pay penny fares to the jetty."

Dora's voice trembled a little. She felt so upset, she scarcely knew what she was saying, and the others looked equally solemn and concerned. The purser rubbed his chin, as if in doubt.

"It's an awkward case, certainly," he said. "I can't think what they were doing at the pier-head to let you come on without tickets. This boat goes to Everston, you see, and stays the night there, so we can't take you back to Chetbourne. You'd best get off at Sandsend, and walk home along the shore. I'll make it all right with the captain about the fares."

Were ever four wretched girls in such a predicament? It was a judgment with a vengeance on their naughtiness. To be carried away by the steamer and set down at such a remote place as Sandsend seemed an appalling prospect, and they were quite aghast at the idea.

"Well, we have got ourselves into a scrape!" exclaimed Phœbe, as soon as the purser was out of earshot.

"I was so sure it was the ferry-boat!" sighed poor Dora. "I feel as if I were to blame for proposing it."

"It wasn't your fault more than anybody else's," said Myfanwy. "I suppose we ought to have stopped to ask."

"We were in such a hurry!"

"How far is Sandsend from Birkwood?" asked Aldred.

"Six miles. It will take us a most fearfully long while to walk, and it's four o'clock now."

"Oh, dear! We shan't get in till supper. What will Miss Drummond say?"

"There'll be a regular hue and cry after us."

"What will Blanche and Freda do?"

"I suppose they'll go back, when they can't find us, and report us as missing. They wouldn't dare to stay in Chetbourne too long, and be late for tea."

"We're having a free excursion on the steamer, at any rate," said Aldred.

Dora appeared to think that a decidedly doubtful advantage. She was not a good sailor, and the sea was rough now that they were outside the bay. Phœbe, too, began to show signs of distress; and Myfanwy, usually so rosy and talkative, had suddenly grown unwontedly pale and pensive. Aldred was the only one who enjoyed the voyage; to the others it was the reverse of pleasant, and they were much relieved when the vessel at last arrived at Sandsend. They scurried across the gangway on to the quay with almost undignified haste.

"Oh, it is nice to feel oneself on terra firma again!" ejaculated Dora.

"Or 'terra-cotta', as the old lady remarked!" laughed Aldred. "I'm afraid you wouldn't appreciate a yachting cruise, Dora."

"I certainly shouldn't. Nothing would induce me to go. I should be lying in my berth the whole time, in a state of utter collapse and misery. No yachting for me, thank you!"

"We'd better ask somebody which is the right way," said Myfanwy. "We don't want to make any more mistakes."

They found, on enquiry, that the high road ran inland over the downs, and that, instead of it being only six miles to Birkwood, as Dora had supposed, it was in reality nearer nine.

"The road twists, and goes round by Greenstaple," said the old sailor who directed them. "It's only a matter of five miles if you went as the crow flies, but you'd maybe get lost on the downs. It's about the same distance along the coast, if you care to go by the shore. The tide won't be up yet awhile, and you'd have ample time to get round the headland, if you stepped out fairly well."

The beach sounded so much the most attractive route that the girls at once decided in its favour. It was a consideration to save four miles, and they all preferred the seashore to the hills. If they walked fast, they calculated that it would not take more than a couple of hours, and they would get back to school just before dark.

"We must 'step out', as the old man advised," said Phœbe. "No one must slack off, or lag behind."

It was all very well to make good resolutions, but quite another matter to keep them. The beach near Sandsend was an especially fascinating part of the coast. It abounded with little, shallow pools among the rocks, where such a variety of beautiful anemones, madrepores, sea-cucumbers, and other marine objects might be seen that it almost resembled an aquarium. None of these treasures were to be found at Birkwood, where the cliffs were of a different geological formation; indeed, these particular few miles of shore were a noted spot for zoologists, and could show more choice species than anywhere else within a radius of fifty miles. It was not astonishing, therefore, that the girls stopped to marvel at some of these flowers of the sea, to watch the anemones stretching out their delicate, brilliantly coloured tentacles, to admire the corallines or the many strange forms of zoophytes, to chase spider crabs, and to pick up rare shells, and gather some of the lovely seaweeds that fringed the pools. They quite forgot the time, and went dawdling on from one interesting rocky basin to another, wishing they had a glass jar, or a bucket, in which they could carry some specimens back to the Grange.

"Don't you think we might put a few anemones in our handkerchiefs?" suggested Aldred.

"Not an atom of use! They die directly they're out of water. We tried it once before, and it wasn't a success," replied Phœbe.

"We'll tell Miss Drummond about the place, and ask her to bring us for an expedition some day," said Dora. "The school aquarium needs replenishing badly."

They had been walking, or, rather, strolling for about an hour when they reached a small bay, which lay between two promontories. The water here was so low that they decided they might as well cross the sands, instead of keeping close under the cliffs; they made a bee-line, therefore, for the opposite headland, jumping over the narrow channels that intercepted their path. On the flat sandbank they found at least a dozen large jellyfish, left stranded by the tide. Aldred insisted upon picking up some of these and restoring them to their native element; and she kept poking about in so many heaps of seaweed, and investigating such a number of species, that the other girls began to despair of ever getting her back to Birkwood.

"We shall be all in the dark if we don't mind!" remonstrated Phœbe. "We've been sauntering along as if we had the whole day before us."

"And as if there were no tide! Just look behind you!" exclaimed Myfanwy.

Phœbe turned round uneasily. What she saw was enough to make her shout wildly to the others, and set off running as fast as she could towards the cliff in front. All the time they had been amusing themselves with the jellyfish, the water had been creeping stealthily and silently up, and had flowed in an ever-widening channel between them and the land. Except for a narrow space, which led to the rocks at the end of the promontory opposite, they were entirely cut off; and unless they cared to swim it was utterly impossible for them to reach the beach.

Most of them were good runners, and could do well enough at the school sports; but it seemed quite a different matter to race with the tide, and much too risky a performance to be appreciated. They just reached the rocks before the sands were entirely covered, and were obliged to splash anyhow through pools, getting their feet horribly wet, for there was no time to stop and take off their shoes and stockings.

Once on the promontory they were safe enough, and they began to make their way back towards the mainland, scrambling over the rocks, which were slippery and slimy with seaweed, and becoming extremely draggled in the process. There were several claps of distant thunder, and rain, which had been threatening for some time, suddenly descended in a drenching stream. The tide came thundering in, dashing great waves against the rocks, and sending showers of spray to join the rain.

The girls plodded steadily on, hoping that they would soon regain the beach; but it was hard walking, and they were getting wetter every minute. All at once they came to a full stop. In front stretched a channel of water so broad that through the blinding rain they could barely make out the opposite side, against which some very ugly waves appeared to be beating. They gazed at each other in blank dismay.

"Perhaps it's nothing but a creek, and we can get round it," said Myfanwy. "I'm used to this kind of coast in Wales. Let us try to our left; it looks fairly promising."

She led the way, and the others followed as best they could. It was a forlorn hope, however. The end of the promontory was completely surrounded at high water, and was temporarily turned into an island; and for the time being they were as completely stranded as a crew of shipwrecked mariners.

"I'm afraid it's no use," confessed Myfanwy, at last. "We've got ourselves into a tight place, and we shall just have to stay here until the tide goes down."

"Unless we could manage to swim," suggested Dora, looking dubiously over the channel to where some heavy breakers were booming against what seemed through the spray to be a steep and jagged precipice.

"Impossible!" exclaimed Phœbe, without any doubt in her voice. "We should be dashed to bits in that rough sea. There isn't a spot where we could land, even if we could struggle across. It would simply be madness."

"I don't want to try!" declared Aldred, with a shudder. "I can't swim, to begin with; and even if I could, I shouldn't venture through those waves. But what are we going to do?"

"Stop here till we can get off, I suppose," said Phœbe, shrugging her shoulders. "There's nothing else for it. We're in no particular danger, that's one comfort!"

"Let us climb higher up on to the rocks, and perhaps we may find some place a little out of the rain," proposed Myfanwy.

After considerable hunting about, they did at last come upon a ledge that shelved over so as to form a kind of cave; and creeping underneath, they squatted as close together as they could.

They were feeling the very reverse of jolly. It seemed anything but delightful to be sitting in a cramped position, wet through, without the chance of a meal, and with the prospect of spending perhaps the whole night in such unenviable surroundings.

"I'd give a great deal to be back in the classroom, learning my German prep.!" groaned Dora.

"I suppose an adventure never feels nice at the time," said Myfanwy.

"No. I can't help suspecting that Stanley, and Shackleton, and all the explorers didn't enjoy the fun of the thing until they got home and wrote books about it," agreed Aldred.

"It sounds so thrilling when you read it," continued Myfanwy; "but when you're cold and wet and hungry, it takes the romance away."

"I wish we hadn't eaten all our sweets," lamented Phœbe; "I'm simply starving!"

It had grown rapidly dusk; there was not even light enough to see their watches, but they calculated that the time must be about half-past six. They were not sure when the tide would be at the full, nor how soon it would go down again sufficiently to enable them to cross on to the mainland.

"We certainly can't stumble over these rocks in the dark," said Aldred. "Unless there's a moon, we're fixed here until morning."

"I can't remember whether there's a moon or not," sighed Dora. "The sun doesn't rise particularly early either—not until about six, I believe."

"What will they be thinking at the Grange?" said Myfanwy, whose tears were beginning to wander slowly down her cheeks at the misery of the prospect in store.

As to that, no one liked to hazard a guess. In all the annals of the school it had never been recorded that any girls had been lost before; and they knew that Miss Drummond must be in a fever of anxiety on their account. The rain kept on steadily, and the time passed by slowly—very slowly; the long hours seemed interminable. It was most forlorn and wretched to sit crouched under the rock, with the dripping rain beating in upon their wet clothes, listening to the sound of the water dashing below them.

"It's like a horrible nightmare," said Phœbe. "I wish I could wake up, and find myself in my own bed in No. 5!"

"It's so much worse now it's dark," groaned Aldred.

She was in a very dejected frame of mind, and would have burst out sobbing like a baby if she had not been too proud. Her friends were also in low spirits, and did not keep up their usual flow of jokes and chatter. All four snuggled as close together as they could, to keep one another warm, and sat silent, listening to the waves and the rain, till kind Mother Nature sent merciful sleep, and for a while at least they were able to forget their troubles.

Aldred had a long and confusing dream. She thought that she saw Mabel in danger of drowning, and that she plunged boldly into the sea, swam easily to her aid, and brought her back to shore amid the cheers of the school; and that Mabel was saying: "I knew you would come to the rescue. It's not the first time you have done a heroic deed!"

She woke with a start. The words seemed so clear, she could almost believe Mabel had really spoken them. Certainly she had done nothing particularly heroic that day; indeed, her conscience told her that she was mainly responsible for that unpleasant adventure. It was she who had begged the others to leave the post office, and urged them to go down the promenade and along the pier. But for her it would not have occurred to them to break bounds; they would have waited until Blanche and Freda returned, walked straight back to school, and considered that they had had an enjoyable afternoon, without transgressing rules. None of them, however, had accused her of this. They appeared perfectly ready to take the full blame—indeed, they had hinted that, as a new girl, she would probably escape the consequences of the escapade more easily than they.

"After all, it's mostly their fault, for they'd no need to come, even if I asked them," she decided hastily. "I'm not bound to explain everything and get into extra trouble. No one is likely to ask who suggested it."

She tried to stretch her cramped limbs, and felt so stiff that it was pain to move. But it was worse to remain in the same position; so, making an effort, she dragged herself up, and crept out from under the rock. The rain had stopped, and a full moon was shining outside, so clearly that she was able to consult her watch and ascertain that it was a little after ten o'clock. She roused the others immediately.

"Look—look!" she cried, shaking them eagerly. "It's bright moonlight! The tide will have gone down. We must try to get on to the sands at once."

Yawning and stretching, the girls emerged from the cave. It was sufficiently light for them to see their way over the rocks, so they set off without further delay in the direction of the shore. They were now able to cross easily at the place where the channel had stretched a few hours earlier, and found themselves, after a considerable amount of scrambling, on the beach at the farther side of the promontory.

It was the queerest walk home that they had ever experienced. Sands are generally associated with blue sky and bright sunshine, and those seemed very eerie and weird and strange in the moonlight, with the deep, dark shadows under the cliffs, and the sea gleaming silver in the distance. With one consent they took each others' arms. Aldred certainly did not feel sufficiently courageous to walk alone; moreover, she was tired, and could contrive to lean upon both Phœbe and Myfanwy, who were kind enough to pull her along without remonstrance.

The sands on this part of the shore were not very firm, and the girls' feet sank with every step, while they stumbled now and then over stones or clumps of seaweed. It took a long time to cover the three miles to Birkwood; the distance seemed twice as far as it would have done by day, and they were thankful when at last they found the path which they knew led up the cliffs to the Grange.

There was a light in the house; they could see it gleaming when they were still quite far off, and it seemed to hold out a promise of food and rest. As they opened the gate, the gardener's wife came running out of the lodge. She gave a shriek at the sight of them, and rushed straight up the drive to tell the news: and the four had barely arrived at the door before Miss Drummond herself came hurrying to meet them.

"Girls! Girls! Where have you been?" she cried, with such a look on her pale face that they realized for the first time what she must have suffered during all the hours of that anxious night.

Freda and Blanche (as the girls had supposed), not finding them at the post office, had imagined that they must have started home, and had returned without them. They had been greatly dismayed, when they arrived at the Grange, to discover that the four had not come back. They reported their absence at once, and a teacher started for Chetbourne, to try to find them. When darkness fell, and they were still missing, Miss Drummond, in the greatest alarm, applied to the police, and bands of searchers were looking for them in various quarters. It had never struck anybody that they could have gone on the steamer to Sandsend, which lay in the opposite direction to Chetbourne.

The four truants were very glad indeed of the hot baths and basins of bread and milk that were waiting for them. They did not equally appreciate doses of camphor, but did not dare to remonstrate, being only too thankful that Miss Drummond had forborne as yet to scold. The Principal's chief object was to get them to bed, and to ward off any risk of colds or rheumatism that might follow their many hours of exposure in wet clothes. Fortunately, her prompt measures had the desired effect, and no evil consequences ensued. The girls were allowed to sleep late the next morning, and when they arrived downstairs seemed quite free from all aches, pains, coughs, sneezes, and other suspicious symptoms. They were in dire disgrace, however, for now that Miss Drummond was reassured as to their health, she turned her attention to their conduct.

"I'm most dreadfully sorry about it," said Mabel to Aldred that evening. "You see, Miss Drummond has always trusted us so entirely at the Grange, and this is the first time anybody has ever gone out of bounds. She says it shakes her confidence in us. I'm afraid she'll stop all exeats for the Lower School. Of course, I know it wasn't your fault. You're a new girl, and how could you tell we weren't allowed on the promenade? You only went where the others took you. You'd no idea you were breaking the rules, had you?"

Aldred was brushing her teeth at the moment, therefore a grunt was her only means of reply. Mabel took it as the required denial.

"I was sure you hadn't," she declared triumphantly. "A girl who can do such splendid things always lives up to them. It was a mean trick to play on Blanche and Freda, when they had invited you all for a walk, but I was certain you weren't capable of it. Naturally, you're ready to take your share of the scolding (I shouldn't have tried to get out of that myself); but I'm so glad that I, at any rate, know you don't really deserve it!"

CHAPTER VII

False Colours

"Baldur the Sun God is dead!" said Aldred, looking out of the window one damp afternoon at the cheerless prospect, and recalling Miss Drummond's lesson on Northern Mythology. "Loki has killed him with the piece of mistletoe, and he will never return to Asgard. All the Æsir are weeping for him, and the earth will be given up now to the frost giants and the spirits of the winds."

"Won't he ever come back?" said Mabel, falling in with her friend's humour.

"Just for a little while; but he always has to go in the winter, like Proserpine, who was bound to spend half the year with Pluto in Hades. I suppose there's no country, except the lost Atlantis, where it keeps summer all the year round."

"Why, you sound quite melancholy!"

"So I am."

"But why?"

"I don't know, except that it is so sad to see the summer gone."

Aldred could scarcely explain her attitude of mind, though she was conscious that the change in the world without affected her strongly. She had an extreme love of nature, an intense appreciation of beautiful things. No ancient Greek ever joyed in the sunshine more than she, or took greater pleasure in the scent of the flowers, or the blue of the sea and sky, or the song of the birds in springtime. Her artistic, poetical temperament was highly sensitive to all outward impressions; she was so keenly alive to the great, dramatic human tragedy and comedy that is being enacted around us, so in touch with the wonder and mystery of life, that what would pass unnoticed by many was to her the very essence of being.

Few people had ever sympathized with this side of her disposition. Her father had not realized it, Keith could not understand it, and Aunt Bertha had repressed it sternly. Modern schoolgirls are certainly not sentimental; they are more prone to laugh at poetic fancies than to admire them: and Aldred knew that on this score she would probably meet with ridicule from her form-mates. In consequence, she confined herself in public to the practical and prosaic, and, with the exception of an occasional private confidence to Mabel, kept her reflections locked in her own bosom.

There was certainly nothing in the atmosphere of the Grange to foster any tendency towards morbidness. The days were so fully occupied as to leave no time for dreaming. Though Aldred was clever, it took her whole energies to secure the place that she wished in the school. She was determined to be head of her Form, and, holding that object in view, toiled with a vigour such as nothing else would have wrung from her, and which would have caused unfeigned amazement to her former governess. It was not all plain sailing, for Ursula Bramley and Agnes Maxwell were also good workers; and even Mabel, though not specially bright, was very plodding and conscientious. Aldred soon found that she had to revise entirely her old method—that a careless German exercise could completely cancel a brilliant score in history, and that she must give equal attention to every subject if she wished to chronicle a record. The little tricks she had practised on Miss Perkins were not equally successful at Birkwood: she had tried reeling off her lessons very fast, so as to gloss over mistakes, but Miss Bardsley would allow her to finish, and then say: "Yes; now you may repeat it again, slowly. I did not quite catch the second person plural;" and Aldred, to her disgust, would be compelled to reveal her ignorance in a more deliberate fashion, and take the bad mark that ensued. She was at first a venturesome guesser, till her many bad shots drew scathing comments from her teachers and smiles from the rest of the Form.

"Even Lorna Hallam knows that Sir Philip Sidney didn't write the Faerie Queene, and she's supposed to be our champion bungler!" observed Ursula Bramley sarcastically, on one occasion. "As for history, you muddle up Thomas Cromwell with Oliver Cromwell! You'd better get an elementary book, and learn a few simple facts."

The girls would not tolerate Aldred's conceit. She quickly discovered that if she wished to be popular, it was unwise to claim too much credit for her achievements. The week after she arrived she had taken her place among the others at a singing lesson. Miss Wright, the mistress, began to teach the class the old English ballad, "Should he upbraid"; it was one with which Aldred happened to be familiar, so she at once took the lead and sang away lustily, beating time in a rather marked manner, and accomplishing the many little runs and trills with an air as if she considered herself indispensable. At the close of the lesson, as they were filing out of the room, she could not resist remarking to Ursula Bramley:

"It was a good thing I knew that song so well, wasn't it?"

"Why?" asked Ursula pointedly, looking her straight in the eyes.

Thus cornered, Aldred could hardly say that she thought the class would have managed badly without her aid; her tact told her that the remark would be unpalatable and indiscreet, so she quickly changed her ground.

"Oh! only that I find it difficult to learn new things," she replied, in some confusion.

"Indeed! Well, I suppose you'll improve when you've been here a little while," returned Ursula, with a meaning smile that was partly a sneer, and made Aldred decidedly red and uncomfortable.

During the earlier part of the term, try as she might, Aldred was not able to see her name in the coveted position of heading the list for the Fourth Form. One week she failed in geometry, another in French; if her German was correct, her arithmetic proved inaccurate, and some unexpected slip would pull her down. At the end of the sixth week, however, she at last dared to hope. She was aware that she had done unusually well, both in the ordinary class subjects and in the Friday morning examination; while Ursula, her chief opponent, had had an exercise returned, and received a bad mark for botany. The lists were always posted up on the notice-board in the corridor just before tea-time on Saturday afternoon, and there was generally a rush to read them. On this particular Saturday, Aldred determined to be the first to cull the news. She was too proud to allow herself to seem anxious, so she hung about the corridor, pretending that she was searching for a lost piece of india-rubber, and that she was thrillingly interested in the view of the dripping garden through the side window. At last Miss Drummond appeared, pinned the papers neatly on to the notice-board, and re-entered the library. Aldred strolled up as casually as she could; but Mabel, who had also been on the look-out, was before her.

"You're top! You're top!" shrieked the latter. "There it is: 'No. 1, Aldred Laurence.' Oh, how lovely! You've beaten Ursula by twenty marks. It's splendid! Come and see for yourself!"

Though inwardly she felt she had satisfied her ambition, Aldred took the announcement with the greatest outward sang-froid.

"Oh! am I?" she replied nonchalantly. "No, I don't want to see, thanks; I can take your word for it."

"How calm you are! I should have been fearfully excited if it had been: 'No. 1, Mabel Farrington.'"

"What's the use of getting excited? Let us go into the dressing-room, and wash our hands for tea."

Mabel linked her arm affectionately in that of Aldred, and accompanied her down the passage, talking as she went.

"I knew you would come out top, dearest!" she said. "You were certain to, as soon as you had grown used to the work here. It's always difficult for a new girl, when she has been accustomed to a different teacher; but I think you have fallen into Birkwood ways marvellously quickly. Don't you feel proud?"

"Not particularly."

"Well, I do, for you! To think of being twenty marks ahead of Ursula! It's a tremendous score! How do you manage to be so clever?"

"I'm not clever. It's sheer good luck, I expect."

"No, it's not good luck," said Mabel, putting back Aldred's dark curls with a caressing hand. "It's something far more, only you're too modest to acknowledge it. You're behaving just as you did at Seaforth. Oh, I've heard about that episode! We all know of it, though you may think it was done by stealth."

"What episode?" gasped Aldred, suddenly red to the tips of her ears.

"Don't blush so, darling! I won't speak about it again, if you'd rather not; but I should like to tell you how much I admire you, not only for what you did, but for the way you've tried to make nothing of it afterwards. It's only one girl in a thousand who would have had the courage to rush into that blazing house, and crawl upstairs and down again; or the presence of mind to tie a wet handkerchief over the little boy's mouth. I should never have thought of that, I'm certain. Do you mind my mentioning it to you just this once?"

Now was Aldred's chance. The occasion when she might deny her identity with the heroine of the fire had come at last! How easily the mistake could be corrected, and the matter set right! She looked nervously at Mabel, and words struggled painfully to her lips.

"I—I'm afraid—you——" she began.

"Yes, dearest?" There was a little thrill in Mabel's voice.

"You're—you're thinking too—too well of me——" stammered Aldred, trying desperately to take the fatal plunge.

Mabel simply smiled. Her blue eyes were gazing into her friend's with adoring affection; her face showed how deeply her feelings were stirred, and how earnestly she meant all she had said.

"I was at Seaforth——" continued Aldred.

"I know that."

"But—but——"

Oh, how hard it was to utter her confession! In the act, Aldred's resolution failed her; she stopped again, and was silent. Her embarrassment was most apparent.

"Would you really rather not speak of it, dear?" said Mabel gently.

Why did Aldred hesitate? Opportunity, like an angel of light, still tarried, and held open the door of honour. If she could only screw up her courage to the sticking-point!

"All right! If you don't like me to mention it, I'll say nothing more. I'm satisfied now I've let you know that your deed isn't absolutely hidden under a bushel. You're famous, in spite of yourself. You darling! I only wish I were worthier to be your friend."

Aldred shrank back at the words, and, disengaging Mabel's clinging arms, made an excuse to hurry away. She had the grace to be thoroughly ashamed of herself, and to feel that she could not bear any more praise at present.

"Why didn't I tell?" she moaned, in an agony of remorse. "I know I'm mean, and dishonest, and horrid, and the exact opposite of what she supposes. What would Keith say, if he knew? He'd never forgive me. He scolded me for not explaining that Mr. Bowden had painted part of my picture, and this is twice as bad. Keith is so absolutely honourable! I suppose I ought to go to Mabel now, and put things right. No, I can't! I simply can't! It would be worse than ever. I couldn't force myself to say it—the words would choke me!"

A letter from Keith had arrived only that morning, a particularly nice, jolly letter, full of chatty news and of such affectionate enquiries about her own doings at school that it seemed to bring her into closer touch than usual with her brother. She wanted so much to stand well in Keith's opinion; and she recalled with a groan what he had said to her in the cornfield about her sketch: "Of all the sneaks, you're the biggest!" and, "Be a little straighter in future, if you want to keep chums with me." Yes, she was a sneak; it was not a pretty epithet, but it was a true one. In Keith's eyes this affair would be serious; he would never tolerate such conduct for one single moment. If she wished to act up to his principles, she must undeceive Mabel immediately, her own self-respect told her that. Yet she could not bring herself to do it, and for a whole week she wavered, her conscience reproaching her bitterly, and her pride pleading and ever pleading to put off the evil moment.

"It's impossible to tell her straight out," she decided at last. "I'll write a letter and give it to her; that will be much easier, because I needn't stay to watch her read it. I know Keith would have gone and owned up; but then, I'm not Keith—I always mind things so much more than he does."

Having resolved to make an explanation through the medium of pen, ink, and paper, she retired, when tea was over, to the empty classroom, and set herself to the unwelcome task. How difficult it was! She scribbled sheet after sheet, and tore up one after another. Her confession looked so bald and paltry when she saw it in black and white! It seemed so awkward to explain adequately how the mistake had arisen. After five fruitless attempts, she at last managed to arrive at a result which, if it did not satisfy her, at least contained the truth. She placed it in an envelope, and addressed it to Mabel Farrington, then stood turning it over and over in her hand. Was this letter to break their friendship?—so small a thing to have such a fateful result? Well, if it must be, she had better let it be done as quickly as possible; it was no use delaying any longer. Bracing up her nerves, therefore, she went down to look for Mabel.

It being Saturday evening, there was no preparation. Relays of girls were having their hair washed in the bathroom, and others were finishing stocking darning, or various pieces of mending; tidying their drawers, putting out their clean clothes, and performing the many small duties that seemed to accumulate at the end of the week.

The Lower School recreation room happened to be temporarily deserted by its usual rollicking crew, and Mabel was there alone, standing warming her hands at the fire. She looked up brightly as Aldred entered.

"Come along!" she said. "Isn't this a glorious blaze? We've got the room all to ourselves for once, and we'll have such a cosy chat! Why! what's this you're giving me? A letter? From whom?"

"From me. It's something I want you to know," replied Aldred shortly; and she would have turned to leave the room had not Mabel caught her by the arm and forced her back to the fire.

"Don't run away!" she exclaimed. "You're the most absurd girl! What are you writing to me about?"

"You'll find out when you've read it," gulped Aldred.

"But why couldn't you tell me? What's the matter? You're actually crying! Dearest, have I done anything to offend you?"

"No, no! Do let me go, and then open the letter!"

"I shan't. You must stay here till I know why you are crying. Has anybody been nasty to you?"

"No; it's I who have done something wrong—I wanted to let you know—I'm afraid you'll never care for me afterwards—I daren't tell you—so please read it, and don't keep me now!"

Mabel looked puzzled, then suddenly enlightened; but instead of loosening her hold on her friend, she pulled her down on to the hearth-rug, before the fire.

"I understand!" she said. "Oh, Aldred, dear, I know all about that, you know!"

Aldred's face was a study.

"Yes, Agnes Maxwell told me before tea."

"What has Agnes to do with it?"

"Why, she heard you! She said all the others who had spoken English had reported themselves to Miss Bardsley, but she was sure you hadn't."

Aldred drew a long breath. It was quite a different crime that Mabel imagined she was confessing, a little slip that she scarcely recollected, and certainly had not intended to rake up. She had been guilty of expressing herself in her own language during the time set apart for French conversation that morning, but, having no desire to lose a mark, she had discreetly allowed her memory to fail her when the mistress asked if any girl had "communicated in English".

"I must say I was very astonished," continued Mabel, "and very disappointed that you, of all people, should not have told; it seemed so entirely different from what you are. I couldn't believe that you would go a whole afternoon letting 'perfect' be down in the register, when you ought to have had a bad mark. Of course, I knew you would tell before Monday—luckily, Saturday's marks count for next week."

Aldred said nothing. She sat on the fender, poking the little, soft volcanoes that oozed out of the coal, squeezing them down, and watching the jets of gas that followed.

"It was a funny idea to write it in a letter!" said Mabel. "You always do quaint things; I suppose it's because you're such an original girl."

"Aren't you going to read it?" asked Aldred, in a strained voice.

"Why should I? I know what's in it. No, it shall go down into that hollow in the fire. Give me the poker. There! What a blaze it makes!"

Aldred watched her confession flare up and sink into ashes in the heart of the hot coals; there was a strange look on her face, a look that her friend could not fathom.

"Suppose I had said nothing at all about it next week, and had kept the 'perfect', would you still have cared for me?"

"Oh, but you couldn't!" cried Mabel. "It's impossible! Why, it wouldn't be you to do such a thing!"

"But if——"

"There are no 'ifs'. I could never believe any wrong of you, darling; and yet——"

"What are you two crouching over the fire in the dark for?" exclaimed Dora Maxwell, bursting suddenly into the room. "We are going to act dumb charades in the hall, and Miss Drummond and the teachers are all there to watch. Come along! We've thought of some most lovely words, which I'm sure they'll never think of guessing."

So another opportunity was lost, and Aldred's secret was still untold. She dared not run the risk of breaking the friendship. If she was blamed for such a small fault, could she ever be forgiven for so much greater a deception? It was so sweet to be the very centre of Mabel's adoration, to be placed on a pinnacle, and loved with such rapturous devotion. Could she bear to see all this fade utterly, or even partially, away? No! She was glad and thankful that the letter had been burnt; she felt as if she had escaped from a great danger. She told Miss Bardsley about her "English communication", and took her bad mark with resignation; it was a small evil, compared with what she had avoided. There seemed no retreat now from the course she had taken; she could not in future plead the excuse that she was ignorant of her identification with the heroine of the fire. The affair had been mentioned so plainly that it was impossible for the most dense and obtuse person not to have understood the allusion. Had Mabel on the first occasion questioned her point-blank, I think she would probably have owned up immediately; but every wrongdoing bears its own ill harvest, and the second slip from the straight path is always easier than the first. Aldred persuaded herself that she had not told any deliberate lies, though she was fully aware that her silence made her equally guilty of falsehood. Finally, she tried to dismiss the whole thing from her thoughts. Mabel had promised not to speak of it again; surely it was finished with, and there was no need to trouble further? Yet it was a trouble. Deep down in her heart lay always the consciousness that she was sailing under false colours; every now and then Mabel would impute to her some better motive than really actuated her, or some virtue that she did not possess, and Aldred's inward monitor would give her an uneasy twinge, and remind her how very far she was below that high standard. There was also constantly present the dread that Mabel might learn the truth from some outside source; perhaps the cousin who had written to her before might hear more details, and write again, or some other friend might have been staying at Seaforth, and might know full particulars. The horror of the thought would make Aldred shudder with apprehension; she was living, she knew, on a bubble reputation, and at one word it might collapse, and change her pleasant Eden of appreciation and adulation into a blank desert of disillusion and contempt.