and see whether you and the person you have chosen will stick to each other or not. I'm going to try Evelyn Hastings."

"Is she your latest?" enquired Marian.

"I think she's perfectly beautiful. She let me carry her umbrella for her this morning, and said I might do it to-morrow if I wanted. May Spencer never speaks to me now."

"I should think she's tired of you. You must have been such a nuisance always clinging on to her arm. Why can't you let the first class alone? They don't want us."

"They mayn't want you, but they want me," said Nina, whose adoration of the big girls was a perpetual joke in her class. "I held Evelyn's wool yesterday, and pulled off her goloshes, and she never even asked you."

"I shouldn't have done it if she had," declared Marian. "I'd let her wait on herself. I think you're the silliest girl I know. Put your wretched pips in the fire if you're going to."

The result was unfortunate. The one christened 'Nina' popped away promptly, much to its owner's indignation.

"You won't stick to her, you see," laughed Marian, "You'll get tired of her, and throw her over, as you do everybody else."

The amusement proved popular, and all the girls insisted upon trying the fortunes of themselves and their friends.

Connie Camden was faithless to everybody; Jessie Ellis had a solitary failure, but would not divulge the name she had chosen or make another attempt; and Gwennie, to her great disgust, turned traitor to her beloved Marian.

"We must go in together of course," said Hazel, throwing two pips, for herself and Linda, into the flames. They were fat, juicy ones, and it was a little while before they caught fire. Pop, pop, they both went, each shooting to different sides of the grate with such violence that they fell out into the fender.

"They haven't finished. We must try them again," cried Hazel, stooping over the guard to pick them up.

"No! No!" exclaimed the others. "They've flown as hard as any could fly. You've both done with each other entirely. Now someone else. Linda, see if you have better luck with Sylvia!"

It was very foolish, but Sylvia looked on with quite a feeling of anxiety as Linda dropped two carefully chosen pips into a ruddy hollow among the coals. Would they both fly apart, she wondered, or would only one leave the other, and if so which? Or would they linger together until they were burnt to ashes? It seemed to her as though it were an omen of their friendship.

"They're burning," said Nina. "One's just going to pop! No, it isn't. It's changed its mind. They've both rolled down into that hot piece. There they go! They're burnt as black as cinders. You two are friends. You're the only ones who have kept together of all we've tried."

Sylvia squeezed Linda's hand hard with pleasure. To be her friend and stick to her through thick and thin was the height of her ambition, and she was glad that their trial had proved so favourable.

"It's a silly game and doesn't mean anything at all," said Hazel, flushing angrily. "I wonder you're such babies as to believe in it. You'll be counting your fortunes by the holes in your biscuits next. Nina, you were a goose to begin it."

"Well, really! You were ready enough to try," said Nina. "You've no need to be such a crab-stick that I can see."

"You've about as much sense as a sparrow," declared Hazel, "and you'll never have any more if you live to be a hundred. I shan't trouble to play your rubbishy games again!" And she turned away to get out her writing case, and begin a home letter, with such a cross expression on her countenance that the others wisely left her alone.

It was only a few days after this that an incident occurred which unfortunately caused the first shadow of a quarrel between Sylvia and her friend. The dancing classes had commenced and were held weekly in the large schoolroom at half-past two o'clock. Everyone was expected to appear in a light frock and thin shoes, so the afternoon seemed almost more like a party than a lesson. Miss Delaney, the teacher, was immensely popular with the girls, and they looked forward to Friday throughout the whole week.

Linda, who was particularly graceful and light of foot, was considered one of the best dancers in the school, and always included in a tarantella or gavotte, or any figure which required a little more skill than was possessed by most of the beginners. Linda's music lesson happened to be on Friday afternoon at two o'clock and she went straight from Miss Denby and the piano to the dancing class. Now on this particular day she had put on her white dress as usual, but just as she was opening the door of the practising-room she suddenly noticed that she had completely forgotten to change her shoes. What was she to do? There was not time to run back for them now, as Miss Denby had caught sight of her and she dare not beat a retreat; neither could she go after her lesson, because the girls were strictly forbidden upstairs when once the school bell had rung. Hazel, however, happened to be passing down the corridor exactly at that moment, and Linda managed to find time to gasp out: "Ask Sylvia to bring my dancing shoes to the dressing-room," before Miss Denby said: "Come along, Linda! What are you waiting for?" and she was obliged to enter and shut the door.

Hazel was in no hurry to deliver her message. She waited until about twenty-five minutes past two, then, going into the playroom, where most of the others were collected, she strolled leisurely across to Sylvia.

"Here, you," she said insolently, "you've got to go and fetch Linda's dancing shoes. She's forgotten them."

"Who says I've got to go?" asked Sylvia angrily, for Hazel's tone had roused all her worst feelings.

"I do for one!"

"Then I just shan't."

"All right! Shall I tell Linda you said you wouldn't?"

"You can if you like. I'm sure I don't care. I haven't time to race about the school finding other people's things. It's almost half-past now." And Sylvia marched away to the dancing class with her nose in the air, as much out of temper as she had ever felt in her life.

It was not possible for Hazel or anyone else to fetch the shoes, as the rules of the school inflicted dire penalties on any girl who entered another's bedroom; so when Linda hurried into the dressing-room a few minutes afterwards, expecting to be able to put them on, she was much disappointed not to find them there. She hunted about, but they were nowhere to be seen, and, afraid of being late she was forced to go to the lesson in her ordinary, common ankle-band slippers. She was furious, since the whole point of the tarantella lay in the elegant way in which she must point her toes and turn a graceful pirouette, and how was she to do so in these thick, awkward shoes that were only meant for the hard wear and tear of everyday use! Linda was rather proud of her dancing, and it was very annoying to have her best steps spoilt for lack of proper slippers. She could not venture to ask to be allowed to go and change them, because Miss Kaye was sitting in the room, and would be sure to give her a severe scolding for her carelessness; so she would be obliged to manage as best she could and hope that no one in authority would notice her feet.

"Didn't you give Sylvia my message?" she said to Hazel at the first opportunity, when the three girls were able to speak together during a rest.

"Of course I did, but she just flatly said she wouldn't go," replied Hazel, delighted to have this opportunity of making mischief between the friends.

"Did you really, Sylvia?" asked Linda, her eyes full of reproachful enquiry, and leaning upon Hazel's arm.

Now Sylvia was still not at all in an amiable frame of mind, and the sight of Linda's head pressed against Hazel's shoulder heaped coals on to her wrath.

"I hadn't time," she snapped, and, turning away, began to talk to Nina Forster.

At this point the mistress called for the tarantella, and Linda stood up with several elder girls, holding her tambourine and long ribbons gracefully above her head. How she longed for the dainty bronze shoes that were left in the bedroom upstairs! Her steps felt so awkward that she could neither glide nor spring properly, and she was not surprised when at the end of the dance Miss Delaney said: "Hardly so good as usual, my dear." Linda considered she had very good cause to feel offended with Sylvia, and she would not look at her for the rest of the afternoon. She scarcely touched the tips of her fingers when they met in the "grand chain", and kept as far away from her as she possibly could, choosing Hazel for her partner in the waltz and Connie Camden in the Highland schottische.

Sylvia tried to show by her manner that she did not care, but in reality she felt on the verge of tears. She danced with little Sadie Thompson, casting a wistful look every now and then at Linda's back, though she took no notice if they happened to meet face to face. She managed to change places at tea and sit between Gwennie Woodhouse and Jessie Ellis, and at evening recreation she retired to a corner of the playroom with a book.

The great ordeal was when the two children found themselves alone in their bedroom at night. Each considered the other so entirely in the wrong that neither would give way, and they both undressed in stony silence, very different indeed from the confidences which they were accustomed to exchange.

Sylvia peeped at Linda's bed in the morning, wondering whether she would show any signs of relenting. But no, Linda got up without noticing her in the least, and the breach seemed as wide as ever.

It was Saturday, and except for mending and stocking darning the girls might amuse themselves as they wished. The two friends had planned to finish their garden and to plant the delightful collection of snowdrops, crocuses, and tulips which Mrs. Lindsay had sent them. Sylvia carried the box down, and a trowel, and set to work in a half-hearted manner, putting in little groups and rows, though she certainly was not enjoying herself. Linda, who was equally unhappy, waited ten minutes, then, arriving with her spade, began solemnly to dig up her root of hepatica and her clump of primroses.

"Do you want to put them here?" enquired Sylvia anxiously, moving some of her bulbs out of the way.

"No, thank you," replied Linda with cold politeness. "I'm going back to my old garden." And, carrying her treasures in her arms, she stalked away.

Poor Sylvia felt this was the last straw. To be thus deserted was a cruel blow; she would never enjoy her flowers alone, however lovely they might prove. She had written for the bulbs chiefly on Linda's account, and if they were not to share them she did not care to plant them at all. She flung down her trowel, and, walking away to a retired part of the grounds, sat down on a seat under a hawthorn tree and began to cry as if her heart would break.

She had not been there very long before chance, or something better than chance, brought Mercy Ingledew to the same spot with her Latin grammar. As monitress of the upper landing she had the whole of the third class under her care, and, seeing one of her charges in such distress, she came at once to enquire the cause.

"You needn't be at all afraid to tell me, dear," she said. "If you've got yourself into a scrape it's my business to help you. Just tell me everything as you would to your elder sister."

"I haven't got any sister," sobbed Sylvia.

"No more have I, I only wish I had, so I'm going to pretend now that you're mine. What's the trouble? I don't like to see my third class girls crying."

Sylvia never forgot how kind Mercy was. She listened patiently to the whole matter, and then sat thinking for a while, and stroking Sylvia's fluffy hair.

"There seem to have been faults on both sides," she said at last. "Doesn't it strike you, dear, that it's just a little selfish of you to want to keep Linda entirely to yourself?"

"But she's my friend!" said Sylvia in astonishment.

"She was Hazel's first. Why can't you all be jolly together without this continual jealousy? You'd be a great deal happier."

"Ye-es," said Sylvia doubtfully. "What I feel, though, is that I mind so dreadfully, and I'm sure Linda doesn't care half as much, because she has Hazel."

"Perhaps she cares more than you think. If I were you I should go and tell her exactly what happened about the shoes, and say you're sorry. You'll have done your part at any rate, and if she likes to make it up she can."

Sylvia took Mercy's advice, and, finding Linda mooning aimlessly up and down the avenue, she went straight to the point without any further delay, and explained the whole affair.

"I'm afraid it was I who was cross," said Linda. "I've been feeling perfectly horrid all the morning. I hate being out of friends with anyone, and especially with you. I wish my wretched dancing shoes had been at the bottom of the sea. Have you planted all the bulbs yet? We meant to put the snowdrops in the middle, you know. I don't like my old garden at all. It's no fun doing it alone. Shall I bring back the primroses and the hepatica?"

CHAPTER VII

The Story of Mercy Ingledew

One result of the coolness and subsequent reconciliation between Linda and Sylvia was the establishment of a firm friendship between the latter and Mercy Ingledew. Sylvia, who had been more accustomed at home to grown-up people than children, was attracted to Mercy at once, and the elder girl saw so much that was unusual and lovable in the younger one's character that she took a strong interest in getting to know her better. Mercy was a tall, fair girl of sixteen, with a sweet, thoughtful face, and a particularly pleasant open expression. She was a great favourite, both with teachers and pupils, a plodding, conscientious worker, and always ready to give help or sympathy to anyone who stood in need of either. Miss Kaye had made a wise choice in appointing her monitress of the upper landing, as no one could have more fully appreciated the responsibilities of the post. She tried as much as lay in her power to 'mother' all the eight little girls of the third class, looking after them in their bedrooms, reviewing their clothing, helping to brush their hair, settling their disputes, advising them in any question of right and wrong, and keeping them up to the mark in matters of school discipline, and she managed to do it in such a jolly, hearty, affectionate, tactful manner that not one of them resented her interference. Mercy had very soon discovered that Sylvia had far more in her than most girls of her age, the expressive hazel-grey eyes, lost sometimes in a brown study, or shining with excitement over some new pleasure, told a tale of the eager mind behind them; and the child's many quaint remarks, decided opinions, the flashes of humour or flights of fancy in which she occasionally indulged, singled her out as possessing powers far beyond the average.

"She has just twice the brains of Connie Camden or Nina Forster," said Mercy to a fellow monitress; "I shouldn't be at all surprised if she were to be a great credit to the school some day. You should hear the clever games she invents for the babies, and the marvellous stories she makes up for them. She really has a wonderful imagination. She has got through nearly half the Waverley novels already, and I found her reading Tennyson one day. She's rather too fond of airing her ideas, and is a little conceited, but Hazel and Marian sit upon her so hard that she'll soon get over it. She's a most affectionate child, far more so than any of the others. She's the only one who ever seems really grateful for what one does for them. I think she's a dear little thing, and I'm glad she has come here."

If Mercy were disposed to make much of Sylvia, the latter was only too ready to return her kindness with that devotion which a younger girl often feels for one considerably older than herself. With Sylvia it was not a shifting fancy, such as Nina Forster formed nearly every week, and changed as rapidly, but a genuine love, founded on a firm basis of all-round admiration. She thought Mercy the prettiest, cleverest, and best girl she had ever known in her life, and when she discovered her to be the heroine of a most romantic history, her interest in her was increased a thousandfold. She had heard once or twice that Mercy was an orphan, and had no home of her own to go to during the holidays, but it was only by degrees she gathered the various facts of the case, though when they were fitted together they formed a narrative as thrilling as any to be found in the gaily bound volumes over which it had been her delight to pore. As Sylvia got the account mostly in disjointed scraps, first from one girl and then from another, and was obliged to connect them for herself, it will be as well to tell Mercy's story here as she learnt it more fully afterwards, since it had some bearing and influence on various incidents which happened later and led in the end to unforeseen events.

Fifteen years ago there was great uneasiness among the white residents of the city of Tsien-Lou, in a certain inland province of China. There had been rumours of serious riots and outrages against foreigners farther up the country; terrible tales were whispered of houses burnt and families murdered, and both the British Consul and the Commissioner of Trade had warned the little colony of Europeans to keep strictly within its own quarter, and not to trust to any fair promises made by their yellow-skinned, almond-eyed neighbours, who resented their presence in the land with such fierce intolerance. Business for a while was suspended; it was not considered safe for a white face to be seen in the streets, and even the Chinese servants who did their daily duties in the houses were regarded with suspicion. Only the Ingledew Medical Missionary Station, at the outskirts of the town near the old Kia-yu gate, went on with its work as usual, nursing the sick in the hospital, attending to the numerous outpatients who came every day for medicine and treatment, teaching the children in the school, and holding the daily Bible readings which all were still invited to attend. It was an anxious time for both doctors and nurses; they knew that they carried their lives in their hands, and that at some given signal the flame of fanaticism might burst out, and hordes of shrieking, murderous, pigtailed natives might sweep over the mission, leaving nothing but smoking ruins and desolation behind them.

It was with a troubled mind, therefore, that Sister Grace, the head of the nursing staff, went out one evening into the patch of enclosed garden which surrounded the hospital buildings, and, shading her eyes with her hand, looked far along the road that led to the hill country. There was a fierce, fiery sunset; it seemed as if the very sky were stained with blood, and the cross on the top of the little chapel stood out dark and startling against the lurid background. She passed slowly down the walk to shut the great gate, which, though open by day to every comer, was always safely barred at night, and she was in the act of sliding the bolt and securing the chain, when she paused suddenly and listened. She had heard a moan outside, a distinct, long-drawn, suffering sigh, that quivered a moment and then died away into silence. Someone on the other side of the gate was in distress or pain, and it was clearly her duty to enquire into the cause. With a beating heart she undid the fastening and peeped out. Crouched down on the step, as if she could drag herself no farther, was a Chinese woman bearing a baby fastened on to her back. She was desperately wounded, the blood still flowed from a gash on her head, and stains on the roadside marked the track along which she must have crawled in her agony to reach the friendly shelter of the wooden archway. Life was almost spent, but with an effort of desperation she managed to raise herself into a kneeling posture, and, clasping her hands together, cried out in Chinese: "Mercy! Mercy! The child!" and, with a last glance of supplicating appeal, fell across the threshold at the feet of the trembling nurse. Help was summoned at once, and she was carried into the hospital; but she was already past all human aid. She had accomplished her errand with the last spark of her dying strength, and had gone out into the light beyond the sunset.

Sister Grace took the baby from her and laid the little creature gently on the bed, unfolding some of the curious Chinese clothing in which it was closely wrapped. She had unloosed the wadded coat, and now pulled off the queer double-peaked crimson cap, disclosing as she did so, not the expected shaved head, with its fringe of coarse black hair, but a crop of short, tight, flaxen curls, like rings of floss silk, falling round a pair of flushed cheeks as pink as appleblossom.

She uttered a cry that drew both doctor and nurses to her side. "Look! Look!" she exclaimed, "the child is white!"

Where the poor baby had come from or to whom it belonged no one knew. It was warm and unhurt, though in such a deep sleep that it had evidently been drugged to prevent it from crying. Beyond a small woollen vest it was dressed in Chinese clothes, no doubt with the intention of passing it off as a native, and it wore a carved Chinese charm tied round its neck. It was a little girl of apparently about a year old, so round and pretty and dimpled that, when at last, after many hours, she opened her big blue eyes, she won all hearts in the hospital at once.

It was impossible to institute any enquiries regarding her during the troublous time which followed. The Mission, indeed, escaped attack, but it was many months before communication with the outside world was safely established, and by then every clue seemed to have been lost. The consul did his best, and made the case widely known among the European residents in China, but many families had perished in the uprising, and no one could tell by which of them the child might have been claimed.

The little waif stayed on therefore at the Ingledew hospital, where she grew apace, and was soon the pet and darling of everybody who knew her. It was decided to call her "Mercy", in memory of the last words of the woman who had saved her life, and "Ingledew" was added as a surname for lack of any other.

It was when she was about seven years old that the doctor and his wife, who were returning to England for a year's leave, determined to take her with them and to try to make some arrangements for her education. A philanthropic lady, who happened to join the ship at Ceylon, heard the strange story, and, taking a fancy to the child, offered to send her to school; so it was in this way that Mercy had come to Miss Kaye's, where she had remained ever since.

Last year, however, a great misfortune had occurred. Her kind guardian, who had always taken the warmest interest in her welfare, had died suddenly without making a will; her heirs did not feel themselves bound to continue Mercy's school fees; and again she was left utterly unprovided for. Here Miss Kaye had come to the rescue, and had promised to keep her at Heathercliffe House until she should be old enough to earn her own living as a teacher, and Mercy repaid the kindness bestowed upon her by working her very best and trying to fit herself for the career which she was to follow by and by. Nine years at Aberglyn had blurred her memories of her early life in China, but she still wrote to her friends at the Mission, and said she never forgot that one spot, though other scenes might have faded from her remembrance.

Though Sylvia only heard this account of Mercy's childhood at secondhand, told mostly in whispers by Linda when they were in bed, it appealed immensely to the poetical side of her nature, and invested her schoolfellow with a halo of romance that added greatly to her other charms.

"Suppose she really has a father or a mother," said Sylvia, who loved to let her imagination run riot; "or if they are both dead, perhaps a grandfather, or a grandmother, or an uncle who is searching for her everywhere. She might be the heiress to a big property, and own castles and halls and all kinds of things. Hasn't anybody tried to find out?"

"Oh yes, lots of people!" replied Linda. "But it's no use. There isn't anything to trace her by. Mercy can't bear to hear it spoken of unless she mentions it first, and she scarcely ever does. Miss Kaye said it was much wiser for her not to think about it, because it was such a forlorn hope, and it was better to be content with the friends she has and make the most of them. I think she feels it though, sometimes, when we're all going back for the holidays and talking about our homes."

"I'm sure she must. Oh, Linda, wouldn't it be lovely if we could find out her relations? Do let us set to work at once."

"How can we?" said Linda, who had a practical mind.

"I don't know quite how at first, but I have a kind of feeling it may be done if we only try. I'm going to leave no stone unturned. It's as interesting as Hetty Gray, or Marjorie's Quest. Just think that almost every lady whom Mercy meets may be her mother!"

"They couldn't all be," objected Linda.

"Of course not, but she might be talking to some of her own relations, and never know it!"

"I don't see how we can help that. People aren't labelled in families like pots of different kinds of jam, so how could we find out?"

"Oh, don't be stupid! I only mean that we must keep our eyes and our ears open and listen for every opportunity. I'm going to begin to-morrow, and if you like to help you can, and if you don't you needn't."

Greatly fired by her resolution, Sylvia was anxious to solve the secret of her friend's parentage without further delay. Unfortunately she did not know exactly how to start. It was impossible to question Mercy herself, and none of the other girls knew more than Linda had told her. She decided, therefore, that the only chance was to notice if anyone looked as if they were seeking somebody, when perhaps she might be the happy means of bringing about the fortunate meeting, and have the proud satisfaction of saying: "Here is your long-lost daughter!"

"It would be the happiest moment of my life," thought Sylvia, "nicer even than writing a book, though I mean to do that some day. Indeed I think, when it's all turned out properly, I might make it into a story, if Mercy wouldn't mind. I could call it A Waif from China, or perhaps The Little Foundling, only she's quite big now. Nobody's Darling, would sound beautiful, but she's everybody's darling, so that wouldn't do. I believe The Flower of Heathercliffe House, would be best, and at any rate I could put 'a true tale' after it. I'd have it bound in red or green, with gilt edges, and a picture of Mercy on the back."

The first step to such a flight of literary ambition was evidently to discover the missing friends; until that was settled the whole point of the volume would be lacking and it was useless to attempt even a beginning. She came home one day after the usual morning walk in a state of great excitement, overflowing with news to tell Linda, who, having a bad cold, had been obliged to stay in the house.

"What do you think?" she cried, as they stood washing their hands together in the bathroom, "I really believe I have found a clue at last!"

"A clue to what?" asked Linda, who had forgotten all about the matter by that time.

"Why, to Mercy Ingledew! Miss Coleman took us to Aberglyn this morning and along the promenade, and we sat down for a rest on one of the benches. Connie Camden and I were quite at the end, next to two ladies, and I could hear everything they were talking about. One of them, the tall, fair one, was most dreadfully sad, and said it had left a blank, and the other, the short, fat one, seemed so sorry for her and was trying to comfort her. 'When did you lose her?' she asked. I couldn't hear the answer, because Connie was whispering to me, but the short lady said: 'Dear me! as long ago as that? I am afraid you can have very little hope of ever finding her now.' Then Connie interrupted again, but I caught something about curly hair and such winning ways. 'You believe she has been traced to this neighbourhood?' the fat lady said; 'you are quite sure you would be able to know her from any other?' 'I couldn't mistake,' the tall lady said; 'her eyes alone would tell me even if she had utterly forgotten me!' It was just growing most interesting when Miss Coleman got up and we had to go, but I'm certain we're on the right track and it's Mercy they're looking for. Don't you think it must be?"

"I don't know," said Linda doubtfully; "it might be somebody else."

"Oh! How could it be? It all exactly fits in with Mercy's story, and the tall, fair lady was in deep mourning too."

"She wouldn't still be in mourning," said Linda; "it's fifteen years since Mercy was lost."

"She might be; perhaps she made up her mind never to wear anything else until she found her. Shall I tell Mercy?"

"No, I'm sure you had better not. Miss Kaye said we were none of us ever to mention it to her."

"Then I must find out a little more, and it will come as a surprise to her in the end. Don't breathe a word to any of the other girls; I want it to be a dead secret. Nobody knows a hint about it except you and me."

Sylvia felt almost bursting with the importance of her quest; her great anxiety now was to meet the lady again and make a few further discoveries. She wished she knew her name, or where she lived, and much regretted that she had not taken the opportunity of saying something about Mercy at the time.

Every day, when they went for their walk, she looked out both for the tall, fair lady and the short, fat one, but she never saw either, though she managed to persuade Miss Coleman to take them twice again to the promenade, an unheard-of indulgence in one week.

"I don't know what we're to do!" she lamented to Linda. "I must see her somehow. I feel as if Mercy's future depends upon it. She looks nice too. I wonder how Mercy will like her for a mother. Just think of having to get to know your own mother when you're sixteen! Wouldn't it seem queer? Perhaps she may be in church on Sunday."

"I don't see how you could speak to her even if she were," said Linda. "We go out by the side door, and you wouldn't be likely to meet her in the churchyard."

"I wish Miss Kaye would take me shopping on Saturday," said Sylvia. "It's Sadie Thompson's turn. I wonder if I could coax her to change with me."

It was Miss Kaye's custom to allow four of the girls to go with her each Saturday morning to Aberglyn and assist with her marketing. They were trusted to make some of the purchases, to teach them the value of money, and were expected to put down a neat account afterwards of what they had spent. It was a privilege to which they greatly looked forward, and it had not yet fallen to Sylvia's share. By dint, however, of a good deal of persuasion, added to the gift of her cedarwood pencil box, she induced Sadie Thompson to let her have the next turn; and, as Miss Kaye made no objection to the exchange, she found herself included among the favoured few.

Nothing could have been more fortunate. The party consisted of Mercy Ingledew, Trissie Knowles, from the second class, herself, and Nessie Hirst, and they started off in brisk spirits.

In every shop and street Sylvia's eyes were busy seeking for the two ladies; but though in the distance she thought she caught a glimpse of the short one, she found out on a nearer view that she was mistaken. They went at last into the markethall, where Miss Kaye was soon busy at a glass and china stall, replenishing some of the school crockery which had been broken.

"You little ones," she said, "may go and buy me a pennyworth of parsley and three lemons. Be sure you choose lemons with nice smooth rinds, and bring back the right change for a shilling."

Sylvia and Nessie ran off together to the fruiterer's, proud of their errand, and were just engaged in calculating the cost of three lemons at three-halfpence each, when Sylvia gave a gasp of astonishment and delight. Round the corner, and actually coming to their stall, appeared the tall, fair lady and the short, fat one. They stopped to enquire the price of pears, and stood so near that the long crêpe mantle of the former was actually brushing against Sylvia's hat. She trembled all over with excitement. Dare she do it? Could she really pluck up her courage and speak to this unknown stranger? She tried half a dozen times, but the words stuck in her throat. Yet she felt she must make the effort, for perhaps Mercy's happiness might hang upon this one solitary chance.

"If you please," she began in a very small trembling voice, and touching the lady's sleeve with her hand. But the lady was too busy buying pears to notice, and only fumbled in her pocket for her purse.

"If you please," tried Sylvia again, speaking rather louder this time.

"I think this little girl wishes to ask you something," said the short, fat lady, addressing her friend.

The tall, fair one turned suddenly round towards Sylvia.

"What is it, my dear?" she said, somewhat stiffly; "can I tell you anything?"

Sylvia flushed scarlet. The critical moment had arrived.

"Oh, please," she said, "I thought you hadn't found her yet, and I believe I know where she is!"

"Not my Tottie?" exclaimed the lady.

"I don't know her real name, but we call her Mercy," said Sylvia. "I heard you say on the promenade that you'd lost her."

"So I have. I have done everything in my power to recover her. I even put it into the hands of the police. Where did you find her?"

"She's been at school for ever so long," said Sylvia, "at Heathercliffe House," she added, in explanation.

"I never dreamt of asking there," said the lady. "I should have thought Miss Kaye wouldn't have kept her. But no doubt she has been a great favourite amongst the girls."

"She is. We all love her," declared Sylvia, delighted with the success of her boldness.

"But where is she? Have you got her safe at Heathercliffe House?" enquired the lady.

"She's here now in the market," replied Sylvia triumphantly.

"Where? Oh, where?"

"Just in the next row at the pot stall."

"Let us go at once," said the tall lady, hastily paying for her fruit, and hurrying away in as much agitation as Sylvia herself.

"I don't see her!" she continued in a disappointed tone, when they had turned the corner, looking anxiously among the crockery laid on the ground, and even peeping under the stall.

"She's there with Miss Kaye," said Sylvia.

"Where, my dear?"

"Of course you won't recognize her, because she's grown so, but she's that tall, fair girl with the long, light hair. Oh! May I tell her, or would you rather tell her yourself?"

The lady looked first at Sylvia and then at her short friend with a most puzzled expression.

"What is the child talking about?" she asked; "I don't understand."

"You said you'd lost her," faltered Sylvia.

"So I did."

"And there she is—your own daughter!"

"Daughter!" cried the lady, almost dropping her parcel in her surprise. "It was my dear little dog I was speaking of. I thought you said you had found her."

"What is the matter?" said Miss Kaye, coming up at this moment; "I believe I am addressing Mrs. Rushworth? Can I be of any assistance? Oh, no, we have found no dog! If we had I should have sent it at once to the police station. I am sorry there should have been a mistake. Come, Sylvia."

The disappointment was so horrible and tragic, and so different from anything she had expected, that Sylvia burst into a flood of tears. Was this the end of all her plans? Instead of accomplishing anything useful she had only made herself look extremely silly, and she wondered what Miss Kaye would have to say about it. At first the headmistress took no notice; she quietly finished her purchases, then, bidding Nessie Hirst go on with Trissie and Mercy, she gave Sylvia a parcel to carry and told her to walk by her side. She made no remark while they were still in the town, but once they were out on the country road she began to ask questions, and drew a full explanation from her sobbing pupil.

"Don't cry, my dear," she said kindly; "you have done your best. You are not the only one who has tried to find poor Mercy's relations, but the issue is in higher hands than ours. Do not speak to her of what has happened this morning; it is a subject which has caused her such great grief that I always shrink from allowing it to be mentioned. The truest way to prove your friendship is to help her to forget that she is alone in the world. Though we cannot supply the place of her own parents, we can at least show her how much we love her, and make her feel that she has many friends to compensate her for the loss of father and mother."

CHAPTER VIII

All-Hallows Eve and Guy Fawkes

"What do you do at home then?" asked Sylvia.

"We have a large party, and put bowls of water in front of the fire, and touch them blindfolded, to see who'll be married first. My big sister once combed her hair before the looking glass at midnight to see if the shadow of her future husband would appear peeping over her shoulder, and my brother Alec crept in and got behind her, and pulled a horrible face, and she shrieked and shrieked. Sometimes, too, we go into the garden, and drag up cabbage stalks, to try our luck."

"Miss Kaye won't let us do any of those things," said Linda; "she says it's silly superstition. She was dreadfully cross one evening with Trissie Knowles and Marjorie Ward because she caught them both curtsying to the new moon. But she lets us have fun with the apples, and that's all I care about."

At seven o'clock, therefore, on October 31st, when evening preparation was finished, the four classes collected for the promised entertainment. Sylvia, whose home life had been a very quiet one, had never been present on such an occasion, and she anticipated it with much delight. As Linda had said, Miss Kaye had been liberal enough to provide a whole barrel of apples, which stood on two chairs placed together near her desk, the ripest, roundest, rosiest ones which could possibly be. Several long strings had been fastened to a beam which ran across the roof, and to the end of each of these an apple was fastened. The girls in turn had their hands tied behind their backs, and had to try to take a bite from an apple as it swung to and fro at the end of its string—a very difficult performance, since it generally bobbed, and wriggled, and slid away just at the critical moment when they were about to put their teeth into it, causing a great deal of mirth and merriment, and much triumph to the lucky one who managed at last to take a successful mouthful, and so secure the coveted treasure.

Three large footbaths had also been brought into the schoolroom, and put on forms, where they were filled with water, and apples. Then the girls were allowed to gather round, and, holding forks in their mouths, to drop them into the water in the hope of spearing an apple; not nearly such an easy feat as it looked, and one which seemed to depend mostly on good fortune. Of course it was great fun, especially when Miss Kaye tried it herself, and her fork just stuck in the largest and juiciest, and then rolled out again, or when Connie Camden, in despair of having any success, dipped her whole head and shoulders into the bath, getting so dreadfully drenched in the process that she was promptly sent upstairs to bed, a sadder and wiser girl; for Miss Kaye had strictly forbidden any wetting of hair under penalty of instant expulsion from the room, and she invariably kept to her word. Sylvia won two apples, both with a fork; she did not prove clever at catching them with her teeth, though Linda carried away four, and Marian Woodhouse six altogether, which, however, she shared with Gwennie, who had had bad luck and gained nothing.

The evening ended with some rousing games of hunt the slipper, dumb crambo, and drop the handkerchief. Even Miss Arkwright ran about and played, and was so pleasant and jolly that Sylvia hardly knew her; and Miss Kaye was the life and soul of it all, managing to include everybody, to see that the little ones got a fair chance, that nobody cheated or took an undue advantage, suppressing quarrels, arranging turns, and directing her flock like the wise shepherd that she always proved herself to be.

It was a quarter to nine before the girls, hot and flushed, and with most untidy hair, said goodnight, and filed upstairs to their rooms, where they were obliged to sober down when the monitresses went their rounds, and go to bed with a due regard for order and decorum, rules and regulations being strictly enforced even on Hallowe'en.

"I'm dreadfully sorry for Connie," said Linda, as she brushed her hair; "I can't think what made her dip her head right in like that. She's always doing silly things. When we went to Llandudno last summer she sat down in the sea when we were wading, and she tumbled off her donkey and scraped the skin from her nose. And only this term, when they were coming to school, Rosie gave her their tickets to hold, and she dropped them on to the line underneath the train. The guard was so angry, he threatened to make them pay their fares, because no one could get the tickets until the train had gone out of the station, and both they and the guard were going in it; but Dolly cried, so he said he wouldn't this once, only they must be more careful another time. Just think of Connie having to stay in bed and hear the noise we were making downstairs! I should have felt pretty cross if it had happened to me. I've sent her one of my apples, and Hazel said she'd give her one of hers; still, it's hard luck all the same."

It was but a few days now to the fifth of November. The school, having spent its excitement over 'apple-bobbing', began to work it up again harder than ever to celebrate the anniversary of Guy Fawkes. The little ones went about singing: