CHAPTER XII

The Secret Society

"I don't know how it is," said Nina one chilly February evening when the members of the third class were gathered round the high fireguard in the playroom, "there never seems half so much fun going on in the spring term. In the autumn we have Hallowe'en and the fifth of November and the Christmas party, and in the summer there are picnics and the shore, and the sports, and the prize-giving; but unless Miss Kaye takes us a long walk there isn't anything to look forward to now until Easter."

"And that's eleven whole weeks off," groaned Connie. "I wish it had come early this year."

"It wouldn't make any difference if it did," said Marian; "Miss Kaye keeps to the term. We should only have to spend Easter at school, and go home as usual in the middle of April."

"That would be horrid. Why should she?"

"Because it would make too long a summer term, and because she likes our holidays to be the same as those of the boys' schools."

"I hadn't thought of that. Of course it would be no fun to go home if Percy and Frank and Bertie and Godfrey weren't there. Still, I wish terms were a little shorter, or that something nice would happen." And Connie ruffled up her hair with both hands as an expression of her discontent.

"Couldn't we do something just amongst ourselves?" said Sylvia. "Not the whole school, but our class."

"There isn't anything new," said Brenda, "unless someone can invent a fresh game. We're getting tired of table croquet."

"I don't mean exactly a game. Suppose we were each to write a story, and then have a meeting to read them all out."

"Start a kind of magazine?" said Marian. "That's a good idea. We could put our tales together into an old exercise book, and perhaps paste pictures in for illustrations, and make up puzzles and competitions for the end."

"Oh yes, that would be lovely!" cried the others. "Like Little Folks or The Girl's Realm."

"But look here," said Linda. "The second class mustn't hear a word about it. They'd only make dreadful fun of us, and it will be ever so much nicer if we keep it a secret."

"Let us form a secret society, then," suggested Sylvia. "We'll pinch each others' little fingers, and vow we won't tell a soul in the school."

"How horridly inquisitive they'll be!" said Nina.

"All the more fun. We'll let them know that we're doing something, enough to make them wildly curious, but they shan't have a hint of what it is, and they'll imagine the most ridiculous things, and then we can just laugh at them and say they're quite wrong."

The girls agreed cordially with Sylvia's scheme, and the society was formed on the spot. There was a good deal of discussion as to a suitable name. Linda thought of "The Heathercliffe Magaziners", but Nina said that was tame, and that, moreover, "Magaziners" was not to be found in the dictionary of the English language. Connie considered "The 'Wouldn't you like to know?' Club" might be appropriate, but nobody approved of her title. At last Marian, who was fond of long, grand-sounding names, suggested "The Secret Society of Literary Undertakings", which was carried unanimously by the others. Marian was elected President and Sylvia Secretary, and the latter at once devoted a new notebook to writing the names of the members and the rules of the association.

"We must have rules," said Marian, "even if we don't always quite keep them. You'll have to hide the book away most carefully, Sylvia, for fear any of the second class get hold of it."

It took a long time to think of sufficiently strict and binding regulations, but at length they decided upon the following:—

 1. This Society is to be called "The Secret Society of Literary Undertakings", and it can be known for short as the S.S.L.U.

 2. Each member pledges herself that she will never tell a word of what goes on in it.

 3. Any member who tells anything will never be spoken to again by the rest of the class.

 4. There is to be a weekly magazine.

 5. Every member must write something for it.

 6. Even if a member says she cannot write anything, she will have to try.

 7. If she does not try, she will be expelled from the society.

 8. The meetings are to be held in the playroom after the fourth class has gone to bed.

 9. Any member who is expelled will have to stay outside in the passage during the meetings.

10. All members are requested to write as clearly as they can.

11. The Secretary is to arrange the magazine.

12. The President is to read it out at the weekly meeting.

As Nina had prophesied, the S.S.L.U. aroused a good deal of curiosity among the second class, which, while it affected to look down upon the third, was nevertheless rather interested in what was going on there. Being permitted to know the initials, though not the full name, the elder girls promptly added a G, and christened the members "The Slugs", a title which stuck to them long after the society was abandoned. It was most difficult to preserve the secret from the little ones, who shared the playroom, but by instituting a series of private signs and signals they managed to keep up the mystery and obtain a great amount of enjoyment out of the matter. Brenda Prestbury covered herself with glory by recalling the deaf-and-dumb alphabet, the various letters of which she had learnt at home, and now taught to the others, who were soon able to talk on their fingers, a rather slow method of conversation, but delightful when they felt that nobody but a member could understand. Unfortunately they carried their accomplishment somewhat too far one day. Connie, seated at her drawing board in the studio, began signalling an interesting remark to Linda, who was at the opposite side of the table, and Linda was in the middle of her reply when Mr. Dawson, the visiting master, suddenly cleared his throat.

"I think I ought to tell you, young ladies," he said nervously, "that I am very well acquainted with the deaf-and-dumb alphabet, having taught the subject for several years at an institution for deaf-mutes."

Connie went extremely red, as well she might, for she had asked Linda where Mr. Dawson got the flower in his buttonhole, and if Miss Coleman had given it to him? The girls never ventured after that to try talking in the drawing class, though they did a little surreptitiously during dancing.

The first grand meeting of the society was felt to be an occasion of great importance. The playroom door was carefully shut, after ascertaining that no one was in the passage, and Brenda even peeped under the table and behind the window curtains to make quite sure that none of the second class were concealed there. At last, considering themselves secure, the magazine was produced by the Secretary, and handed to the President, who, according to the rules, was to read it aloud from beginning to end. It was written on sheets of paper torn from exercise books, stitched together inside an old arithmetic cover, the back of which had been adorned with scraps and transfers and S.S.L.U. printed on a school label and gummed in the middle. The idea of illustrations had to be abandoned, because nobody had any magazines which they would spare to be cut up, neither did anybody's talent rise to the pitch of original drawings; but on the whole that did not much matter.

"It's stories we want, not pictures," said Marian, settling herself on the seat of honour with a piece of toffee handy, in case her throat grew troublesome through her arduous duties.

"The first on the list," she began, "is—

THE KNIGHT'S VENGEANCE

A Story in Two Parts

By Nina Millicent Forster

Author of 'The Baron's Secret'; 'The Mystery of the Castle'; &c. &c.

Part I

The forest was dark and gloomy as Sir Brian de Fotheringay rode along on his superb white charger, carrying his shield in one hand and his sword in the other."

"How did he manage to hold the reins?" enquired Connie Camden.

"You musn't interrupt," said Marian. "Perhaps he held them bunched up with the sword. No, that would be the wrong hand, wouldn't it?"

"The horse knew its own way," explained Nina. "But if Connie's going to find fault with everything one puts——"

"She shan't!" said Marian hastily. "Nobody's to make any remarks till the end of the story. Now I'm going on.

His undaunted spirit heeded little the perils of his path, and as the moonlight flashed on his steel helmet he bade defiance to all his foes. In front of him stood the Castle, its tall towers strongly guarded by a force of armed men. The drawbridge was up, and the portcullis was down. But dangers were welcome to Sir Brian de Fotheringay, for they did but prove how much he could accomplish for the sake of his lady love. She stood at the turret window, the beautiful Lady Guinevere de Montmorency, the greatest heiress in the land. Leaving his charger on the bank, he swam the moat, and, flinging a rope ladder up to her window, he begged her to fly with him.

'Knight, for thee would I dare all!' she replied, but before she could say more, a stern figure in armour appeared in the turret behind her and seized her by her flowing golden locks. It was her angry father.

'Hence!' he cried. 'Hence, Sir Brian, ere I kill thee. You, lady, will be immured in the dungeon until you have promised to wed Lord Vivian de Fitz Bracy, the suitor of my choice.'

With a shriek she disappeared from the view of her despairing knight.

Part II

Determined to save his lady love from so terrible a fate, Sir Brian de Fotheringay collected all his retainers, together with a band of outlaws to whom he had rendered some services, and who had promised to assist him in time of need. Uttering his warcry, they rushed at the Castle, the portcullis gave way before their furious attack, and the archers were slain at their posts.

'Yield thee, Sir Guy de Montmorency!' cried Sir Brian, waving his invincible sword.

'Never!' shouted the Baron, but it was his last word, for Sir Brian stabbed him to the heart.

He had soon forced open the dungeon and released the beautiful Lady Guinevere. The Castle was now hers, so they were married without delay, and the King and Queen themselves came to the wedding."

"It's perfectly splendid!" cried the girls, when Marian had finished reading. "Nina, how did you manage to think of it?"

"Oh, I don't know; it just came!" said Nina, modestly. "I'm rather fond of making up tales."

"There's only one thing," said Connie. "Wasn't the lady rather sorry when her father was stabbed to the heart, even if he had shut her up in a dungeon? I should be."

"I don't think people minded in the Middle Ages," said Nina. "You see, somebody had to get killed, and she liked the knight best."

"But her own father!" objected Connie.

"I'm going to read the next one now," said Marian, who, as President, felt bound to keep the peace. "I think Nina's story's very good, and makes a capital beginning. This one seems much shorter. It's called:

MOST HASTE, LEAST SPEED

By Gwendolen Woodhouse

Matilda Jane was a girl who was always in a hurry. One day her grandmother told her to take the bucket and fetch some water from the well, but to be sure to tie her boot lace first. Now Matilda Jane wanted to be very quick, so that she might go and play, and she did not stop to tie her boot lace. As she ran out of the door, she tripped over it and fell. The bucket rolled from her hand and hit the dog; the dog howled and made the geese cackle; the geese cackling made the pigs grunt; the pigs grunting frightened the hens into the field; the hens frightened the cow, which began to run; when the horse saw the cow running, it ran too, and they both jumped over the hedge into the road; then the hens flew after the horse and the cow, and the pigs went after the hens, and the geese followed the pigs, and the dog chased the geese, and it took Matilda Jane and her grandmother the whole afternoon to drive them back, and all because she had been in too great a hurry to tie her boot lace. The moral of this tale is 'Most haste, least speed!'"

The girls laughed.

"I don't generally like stories with a moral," said Brenda, "but I don't mind this one at any rate. Go on, Marian!"

"The next is a piece of poetry," said Marian.

THE KITTENS' CHORUS

By Sylvia Lindsay

Miew! Miew! Miew! Miew!
We want to catch mice, we do, we do!
But our mother, the old white cat,
Says we are rather too young for that.

Miew! Miew! Miew! Miew!
We want to catch flies, we do, we do!
But our mother says that if we do it
We'll grow so thin that we soon shall rue it!

Miew! Miew! Miew! Miew!
We want to catch mother's tail we do!
But she says she is not such a common cat
As to let her kits be so pert as that.

Miew! Miew! Miew! Miew!
We want to be good, we do, we do!
But that's much harder to do than to say,
So we'll think about that another day.

The poem proved so popular that Marian had to read it over again. It was the first time that the class had heard any of Sylvia's effusions, and they were quite impressed.

"I'm afraid mine will seem very stupid after it," said Brenda. "I couldn't think of anything to write, but I was obliged to put something."

"The title sounds interesting," said Marian.

MY VISIT TO FRANCE

By Brenda G. Prestbury

Last summer Mother took Hazel and me with her to France, to visit Aunt Cecily, who was staying near Rouen. The first thing we saw was a funny old woman in a big white cap, like a large poke bonnet, and wooden shoes on her feet. The porters all wore baggy blue blouses something like pinafores. We were obliged to go through the Customs. A man in a uniform was looking to see if anybody had brought any tea. He took a little girl's doll away from her, and felt it to see if it had any tea inside it; then he took a lady's cushion, and because she got angry, he stuck his sword through it, and all the feathers came out over his grand coat. We were so glad! There were no carpets in the house where Aunt Cecily was living; the floors were of polished wood, and so slippery. Jean, the servant, used to rub them with beeswax every morning, but he was very cross in French when Hazel and I made slides on them. We used to have coffee and lovely little rolls at seven in the morning, and then proper breakfast at eleven, and we had quite different things to eat from what you get in England. One day Hazel and I went such a long walk that we got lost, and we couldn't remember enough French to ask our way home. A woman came along with a donkey and two big baskets on it, and when she saw us crying she gave us each an apple, and took us to the curé of the village, who could speak English. He was very kind; he showed us round his garden, and then he borrowed a cart from the farmer, and drove us home to Aunt Cecily's. This is all I can tell you about my visit to France.

"I know it's horrid!" said Brenda. "But I really can't write well, and make up tales like Nina. I don't know how she does it!"

"It's jolly!" said Marian. "We've none of us been to France, so we like to hear about it. I wish you had written more. The next one's very short indeed.

THE LADY AND THE SNAKE

By Jessie Ellis

A lady who lived in Australia one day put a great log of wood on to the fire. In a little while she was going to poke it, and she stooped to pick up what she thought was the poker, but it was really a horrible black snake, which coiled at once round her arm. She had the presence of mind not to move, but remained very still, and in a few moments it slid down on to the ground. A gentleman who was in the room killed it, and taking the log from the fire he carried it into the yard, where seven more snakes dropped out of it. The wood was hollow, and they had made a nest inside it, and gone to sleep, and the warmth of the fire had wakened them up."

"It's quite true," said Jessie. "The lady was my aunt. She told us about it in a letter."

"What a horrid thing to happen!" cried the girls.

"A nice tale, but too short," commented the President. "I'm afraid Linda hasn't written a long one either.

THE STORY OF A DOG

By Linda Acton Marshall

I have a little dog called Scamp, that follows me wherever I go. He can sit up and beg, and catch biscuits on his nose, and do all kinds of tricks. One day I was in bed with a bad cold, and Scamp came upstairs to my room. I told him I was ill, and he gave a sharp bark, and ran out. I could hear him trot up to the attic, and soon he returned with a biscuit in his mouth, and laid it on my pillow, wagging his tail, and looking very sorry for me, and very pleased at himself. He must have kept a store of biscuits in the attic. I think he is just the cleverest little dog in the world."

"My tale's true, too," said Linda. "No, I didn't make it up, Nina; he really did. There are only two stories left now, Connie's and Marian's. I wonder which comes next."

"Connie's," said Marian. "And it's in poetry, too. It's called:

THE S.S.L.U.

By Constance Mary Camden

Said the girls of the third class 'All we
A Secret Society will be.
Though the second may hover
Our words to discover,
It's nothing they'll hear or they'll see.

They may listen at doors in the hall,
Or round by the keyhole may crawl,
They may search through the schools,
But they won't find our rules,
And they'll never know nothing at all'."

The girls clapped, both at the sentiments expressed, and at the poetical setting.

"I know they'd listen if they could," said Connie. "They're mean enough for anything. What's that noise?"

"Why, nothing."

"I thought I heard a kind of snorting."

"I expect it was only my cold," said Nina. "Do go on, Marian; we want your story."

"But I did hear something," persisted Connie. "I believe it was outside the door, too, and I'm going to look."

She rose hastily, and, creeping softly to the door, opened it suddenly, disclosing the laughing faces of half a dozen of the second class, who had been taking it in turns to listen at the keyhole, and who jumped up in a hurry and fled from the outburst of wrath which greeted them.

"Oh! Oh!" shouted Sybil Lake. "Won't they hear or see anything? Don't make too sure!"

"I have a little dog that swallows me wherever I go!" called Eileen Butler. "I think he's just the cleverest little dog in the world!"

"The slugs are crawling fast!" cried Lucy Martin. The injured third had risen in a body and pursued the intruders along the passage even to the door of their own sitting-room; but, seeing Miss Barrett coming downstairs, they did not dare to carry the fight into the enemy's camp, and were obliged to return to the playroom, and hold an indignation meeting over the glasses of milk and biscuits which arrived at that moment for supper.

"We must read Marian's story to-morrow," said Sylvia. "Wasn't it horrid of them? I wonder how much they really heard? Next time we shall have to stuff up the keyhole, and keep opening the door every few minutes to see that the coast is clear. There's one good thing: they didn't discover our signs, or the password, and they'll have hard work to find the rules, because the book's hidden under the oilcloth in the corner by the piano; only be sure and don't let the little ones know, because I don't believe there's one of them that can keep a secret!"

CHAPTER XIII

A Spring Picnic

Miss Kaye had made a wise choice when she decided to establish her school at Aberglyn. It had the advantage of both mountain and sea air, and was within easy reach of a number of interesting places. The goal of to-day's walk was a Druids' circle which lay high up on a steep mountainside overlooking the sea, and to reach it would require a climb of several hours. Their way, after leading at first along a suburban road, lined with pretty houses and gardens, began to grow more countrified, and at last they climbed over a stile into a romantic-looking wood. It was the foot of a gorge through which flowed a splendid torrent, dashing its way over great boulders, and the glen was so sheltered that ferns were growing even on the trunks and branches of the trees, and the moss was like a green carpet under foot.

The girls of course rushed down to the edge of the stream, scrambling over the rocks, flinging stones into the water, and trying to make pebbles skim on the smooth pools. Luckily nobody fell in, though both Connie and Brenda had such a narrow escape that Miss Kaye called her flock to order, and bade them march on once more up the proper path.

The trees gradually began to give way to grassy banks which were already spangled with celandine, coltsfoot, and actually a few early primroses; the hazel bushes were covered with catkins that sent showers of golden pollen over the children when they gathered them, and in a cosy sheltered spot in the hedge they found a thrush's nest with three blue eggs in it.

"How sweet of her to build just here!" said Sylvia, looking with deep interest at the clay-lined structure so cunningly hidden behind a long spray of ivy, "I can't think how she did it all with her beak. Isn't she clever? Oh, Connie, please don't lift out the eggs! I'm sure you'll break them. She won't come back while we're here, so let us go away, or else they'll get quite cold, and won't hatch out."

"Look what I've found!" cried Marian, climbing up the bank with a small white starlike flower in her hand. "Isn't it early? It's a piece of saxifrage."

"No, that's stitchwort," said Sylvia, who had learnt a little botany at home, and liked to air her knowledge.

"It's saxifrage," said Marian decidedly. "My mother told me so once herself."

"And my mother told me it was stitchwort."

"My mother's always right. She knows everything!"

"And so does mine! She couldn't make a mistake!"

"You'd better ask Miss Kaye," laughed Linda, "and then she can decide between you. I've heard it called Star of Bethlehem, so that makes a third name."

Miss Kaye agreed at once with Sylvia, much to Marian's chagrin; she did not like to be put in the wrong, and indeed kept obstinately to her own opinion, and still insisted upon calling the flower saxifrage, though Miss Kaye told her she would show her a picture of it with the name underneath in her botany book when they returned.

"You must notice all the things you see or find to-day," said Miss Kaye. "I shall expect everybody to write a composition next week on the excursion."

There were certainly plenty of items for the girls to put down on their lists. A squirrel with a splendid bushy tail ran across the path, and scrambled hastily up a fir tree, peeping at them from the safety of the top branches before he made a mighty spring into an adjoining ash. A heron sailed majestically overhead, its long legs hanging like those of a stork, and its grey plumage dark against the sky. A whole flight of lapwings rose, screaming "peewit", from a field where they were feeding in company with a flock of seagulls, following the plough that a labourer was driving through the rich red earth. On a sheltered wall a lizard lay basking in the sunshine; and Linda very nearly caught him, but he whisked away in a moment, and was gone down a hole among the stones before half the class had seen him. There were lambs frisking about in the meadows, and as the girls passed through a farmyard they found a woman sitting on a doorstep feeding one from a bottle, like a baby. It had lost its mother, so she told them, and had readily accepted her as its nurse, becoming so tame that it followed her everywhere about the house, and slept in a corner of the kitchen.

"We had to feed one of our puppies at home like that," said Linda. "We used a tiny doll's bottle, and it was such fun to mix the milk and warm water, and taste it first to see if it was sweet enough. I always loved Jill much the best, but we couldn't rear her. Oswald was silly enough to give her a bath when she was too young; I don't think he dried her properly, and she took cold and died. That's generally the way with one's pets," she added with a sigh.

"So it is," said Marian. "A most dreadful thing happened to Gwennie and me. We had a lovely black rabbit, and Mother said we had better not keep it when we went to school, because the little ones couldn't look after it properly, and she wouldn't have time herself. A man in the village asked if he might buy it from us, and we thought he wanted it as a pet for his children, so we sold it to him. Then one day I met him on the road, and he said: 'Oh, Missie, that rabbit of yours was a good one! It made us two whole dinners, and a basin of broth as well.' We had never dreamt he meant to kill it, and we were so horribly sorry."

"Canaries are the worst," said Connie. "I've had three. I hung the first outside the nursery window, and the nail gave way, and the poor little fellow tumbled right to the ground and was killed. He was such a good singer, too. The cat got the second. Then I had a third, called 'Tweetie'. I let him out of his cage one day when Bertie was filing the keel of his boat, and we suppose he must have picked up some of the bits of lead, because he grew quite ill and died. I buried him under the rosebush in my garden, and Granny offered a prize to whoever could write the best piece of poetry about him, an epitaph, she called it."

"Who won the prize?"

"Bertie himself. I can't quite remember it, but it began:

It was quite the best of all. Frank was very indignant because he didn't win, but we none of us liked his poetry. He'd put:

He said it was true, at any rate, but Granny decided that gizzard wasn't as romantic as a rose tree, even if it did rhyme with wizard."

"We have a cat that stole a kitten," said Jessie Ellis. "She had two kittens of her own, and our cook drowned them both. Poor Puss was so miserable; she went about all day looking for them, mewing and wailing till we felt quite wretched to hear her. Then she disappeared for nearly a week, and came back one afternoon carrying a tiny kitten in her mouth. She was so pleased with it, and kept licking it, and purring all the time. Mother said she must have adopted it, and she would let her keep it, and it's grown such a beautiful cat, a real Persian with a ruff and a bushy tail. We often wonder where she took it from."

While the children were talking they had been climbing steadily uphill, and now left the glen by a path which led them directly on to the open moor. It was glorious up there. In one direction rose the mountains, peak beyond peak, till in the distance they could just catch a glimpse of the rugged outline of Snowdon, half-hidden by a wreath of cloud. Below them lay a vast expanse of sea, with Anglesey stretched out like a map, and little Puffin Island close by.

"We ought almost to see Ireland to-day," said Mercy, straining her eyes to discover whether any faint speck of blue outline were visible on the distant horizon. "People say they've seen the Isle of Man, too, but it has never been clear enough when I've been up here. Look at the steamers out on the water; I wonder if one of them's going to China. I can just remember coming home in a big vessel, and passing the Stack Lighthouse at Holyhead, and then landing at Liverpool."

"It's splendid to be able to look miles whichever way you turn," said Sylvia.

She liked the solitude of the moors, which were covered only with short grass and low whinberry bushes; there was no sound except the occasional bleat of a sheep or the cry of a curlew, and no human being in sight but themselves, though one or two small whitewashed farms, at long distances apart, gave evidence of life by their smoking chimneys. Not very far away they came upon the Druids' circle, a ring of tall upright stones, so ancient that all tradition of them had long been lost, though Miss Kaye explained to the girls that they had probably been used as a kind of temple for sun worship by the early tribes who lived there, long before the Romans discovered Britain.

"I wish they could speak and tell us their story," she said. "They would have strange tales about the rough skinclad men who reared them, and the priests who stood watching amongst them for the first glimpse of the sun on Midsummer morning. Who knows but that they may have witnessed human sacrifices, and at any rate there must have been wolves, and cave bears, and hyenas, and many wild animals prowling about which are extinct in Wales now. We can tell that, because the bones and teeth of these creatures have been found in a cave at Llandudno. Some day I may perhaps take you to see it. The skeletons of a man and a woman were found there embedded in the rock, and round their throats were necklaces made of bears' teeth. We can hardly imagine what life was like in those early times."

The girls always found Miss Kaye's talks interesting, but the healthy mountain air had so sharpened their appetites that they turned readily from ancient stones to modern lunch, and, sitting down inside the famous circle, drew out the packets of sandwiches and oranges which they had brought with them. Everything seemed to taste particularly good, and everybody could have eaten a little more, but the very last crumb of biscuit had been consumed, and they were obliged to remain content until teatime. Miss Kaye made the girls gather up their pieces of orange peel, wrap them in their sandwich papers, and poke them away under a boulder.

"Nothing is so horrible," she declared, "as to leave traces of one's picnic about to spoil the place for the next people who come. If everyone would do the same, there would be few complaints that tourists ruin the scenery."

After lunch the girls were allowed to ramble on the moors as they liked, with an injunction not to go too far, and to return to the Druids' circle when Miss Kaye blew a whistle. It was hardly possible to get lost, because, as Linda said, they could see all round for miles, and unless you hid yourself under a bush, someone would be sure to find you. The members of the third class went off together, racing over the springy grass with as much agility as the small Welsh sheep that seemed capable of climbing the stones like goats, to judge by the achievement of an old ewe, which ran up a loose-built wall as easily as a kitten, and led its lamb after it.

In a hollow at the farther side of the circle the children found a sheet of shallow water evidently formed by the February rains and melting snow. At one end was a rough raft and a long pole, with which some boy had no doubt been amusing himself. The temptation was too great to be resisted. In three seconds Connie, Brenda, and Sylvia were making a trial trip, the last two squatting close together in the middle to balance the raft, while Connie pushed off with the pole, and punted them out into the middle of the pond. It was a most delightful sensation. The water was clear, and they could see down several feet where there were green weeds growing at the bottom, and great floating masses of some jellylike substance, that Connie declared was frog spawn.

"I'm going to get a lump of it," she cried, "and take it back to school and put it in a basin; then we can watch the tadpoles hatch out and grow into little frogs. I'll run the raft against this island. There seems to be a heap of it here."

Though the trio nearly upset their craft in their efforts, they found it very difficult to get hold of any of the spawn; it was as transparent and slimy as the white of an egg, and kept slipping through their fingers as fast as they touched it. Connie managed at last to secure a small piece by holding her handkerchief under it in the water; then she tied the four corners tightly together, and put the wet messy bundle into her pocket.

"Ugh! How can you!" exclaimed Sylvia. "Suppose they hatch on the way?"

"That's not very likely," replied Connie; "but I don't mind if they do. I'm fond of tadpoles."

The other girls, who had been clamouring for some time from the bank, demanding a turn at the raft, now grew so indignant at the delay that Connie punted back and tried to pacify their wrath.

"It's not fair to keep it all the time!" said Marian. "Some of us want to try it just as much as you. And you don't know how to work that pole properly. If you give it to me I'll soon show you!"

"All right, Miss Clever!" said Brenda. "You always do things better than everybody else, don't you? Go on!"

Marian jumped on to the raft, and seized the pole with an exceedingly high and mighty air; she gave a push off as an example of the graceful manner in which it ought to be done, but alas! she had not taken into account the fact that the raft was not balanced with the weight of the other children, and, stepping too much to one side, she found it suddenly tilted over, and deposited her in the pond. The water was only a foot deep so close to the edge, but by the time she had scrambled out her boots and stockings were wet through, and covered with mud. The rest of the girls subsided on to the bank in peals of laughter.

"If that's your way, I'd rather not try it, thank you!" said Nina.

"And you've broken the pole, too!" said Connie.

"Oh, catch the raft, somebody!" exclaimed Linda. "Look! It's drifting right away, and we shan't be able to go on it."

Unluckily the raft was by this time well out of reach, and nobody was able to fetch it back, much to the disappointment of those who had not yet had a chance to try it. Marian was very offended at what she considered the ill-timed mirth of her companions.

"You're most unkind!" she said angrily, walking away by herself and trying to wipe her boots clean on the grass.

Feeling that they had had the best of the joke, the girls bore no malice, and, after leaving her for a few minutes to get over her sulks, they made overtures of friendship.

"I'll tell you what," said Linda; "I found a box of wax matches in the road on the way up, and put them in my pocket. Suppose we set a light to this little gorse bush; it's all withered, and will make quite a bonfire. Then Marian can dry her boots."

The bush caught fire with the greatest ease, and blazed away at once. Marian pulled off her boots and stockings, and, standing barefoot on the grass, held them up to the flame, while the others collected round, wishing they had some chestnuts or potatoes with them, or a kettle which could be boiled for tea.

"I believe the grass is beginning to burn too!" said Nina. "Stand back, Connie! Why, it's caught the next bush as well!"

The children looked at each other with horrified faces. The fire was spreading rapidly along the ground, and two large bushes were soon in a blaze. Their modest beginning was evidently leading to more than they had ever imagined. Fortunately the white column of smoke suddenly rising up through the clear air attracted Miss Kaye's attention, and brought her hurrying over the crest of the hill to discover the cause. She was much surprised to find the members of the third class, one of them with bare feet, apparently dancing like wild Indians round a fire, and lost no time in running to the spot.

"You naughty girls!" she exclaimed. "What have you been doing? Marian, where are your boots? I am astonished at you! Who lighted this fire?"

"We're trying to stamp it out," said Brenda. "It was catching all the grass."

"But who lighted it?"

"We did, Miss Kaye," replied Linda, rather shamefacedly, "to dry Marian's boots."

"People often set fire to the moors," added Connie. "I've seen whole hillsides burning sometimes, so I don't suppose it matters. We're helping the farmer."

"The farmer may like to set his own furze alight, but he wouldn't thank any chance strangers for doing so for him. If we don't mind he'll be claiming damages from us," said Miss Kaye. "We must not leave here until these bushes have burnt themselves safely out, and we must stamp on any sparks which fall from them on to the grass. This is the way that a great prairie fire is often started in America; the flames will grow in strength, and sweep over miles of country, destroying farms and villages, and carrying desolation and destruction before them. I didn't think you would have been in such mischief directly my back was turned."

Miss Kaye looked so grave and annoyed that the girls felt their grand idea had fallen rather flat; and the moment the fire was out she told Marian to put on her stockings and boots at once, and gave the signal to return home. It was a very unpleasant walk to Marian, as her boots had dried stiff, and felt much too tight for her, while the stockings were still rather moist and muddy. Everyone was tired, and the second class made teasing remarks about the Slugs being fond of slimy ponds, and announced that they were looking forward to hearing a sentimental account of the adventure through the keyhole on the occasion of the next meeting of the S.S.L.U.

"You won't do anything of the sort. You know nothing, really, about the society, and it's horribly mean to listen. You may be in the upper school, but I can't say much for your manners. I'm glad I'm not in the second class!" retorted Marian, adding privately to Gwennie, however: "I'm afraid they do know a good deal; and it's just spoilt the S.S.L.U. I don't think I shall trouble to write for it again. Doesn't it seem twice as far coming back as going, although it's all downhill? And oh! aren't you dreadfully, cruelly, desperately hungry, and absolutely starving for your tea?"

CHAPTER XIV

Whitweek with Linda

It was now the summer term, which most of the girls considered the pleasantest time of the year. Every available moment was spent out-of-doors. Tennis and croquet were in full swing, and the younger ones amused themselves with rounders and hide-and-seek. Sylvia, who a year ago had affected to dislike running about, might now be seen racing round the garden as enthusiastically as anybody at a game of "follow my leader" or "I spy", and she would have been utterly astonished if anyone had reminded her of her former tastes.

The school was granted a brief holiday at Whitsuntide, and as it seemed hardly worth while to make the long journey home for so short a period, Sylvia was very delighted when she was allowed to accept Mrs. Marshall's invitation to return with Linda and spend the few days at Garth Avon. Both little girls looked forward to the event with keen pleasure. It was the first time that Sylvia had ever paid a visit by herself, and she felt quite grown-up when she thought about it.

They were to go by train as far as Conway, where Mr. Marshall was to meet them and drive them home in the dogcart to Craigwen, the place where his house was situated. Miss Coleman saw them off at Aberglyn, giving many last injunctions not to lean against the carriage door, or hang out of the window, or otherwise misbehave themselves, and to be sure not to get out at a wrong station, which did not seem a very probable mistake, as Linda knew the line so well. She added a word to the guard which caused him to come and peep at them with a smiling face, and assure them that he would see them safely to Conway, and they need not be in the least afraid. Linda and Sylvia were rather insulted.

"He needn't treat us like babies!" said Linda. "I've come alone more than once. It's all Miss Coleman's fussiness. We might be going to London, instead of only to Conway. There, we're off at last!"

The guard had put the children in a first-class compartment and locked the door, so that they had it all to themselves. They leaned back luxuriously, each in a corner, admiring the photographs which adorned the partitions or the view of the sea from the windows. They were in the highest spirits, and to travel thus seemed a very good beginning to a journey which was all too short. They were quite loath to get out when the train reached Conway, but the stop was of the briefest, and the friendly guard whisked both them and their bags from the carriage in a hurry, and, blowing his whistle, jumped into his van as it passed him.

"There's Daddy!" cried Linda, running to meet her father, who was waiting for them on the platform, and seizing his hand. "Oh, Daddy dear, did you let Scamp come with you? And have you brought Bess or Beauty in the trap?"

"Bess," said Mr. Marshall, when he had welcomed Sylvia. "And Scamp is tied up outside. I didn't dare to let him into the station. Are these two bags all you've brought with you? Give them both to me."

Scamp was a lively little fox terrier, which seemed so pleased to see Linda again that he nearly overwhelmed her with his affection, and ran round and round, barking like a mad creature, till Mr. Marshall picked him up and put him in the back of the trap.

"He ran the whole way here," he said, "so I think it would be too far for him to trot home as well, though he never appears to be the least tired."

There was just room on the front seat for Linda and Sylvia side by side, Sylvia in the middle, and Linda at the end, because she was less likely to fall out. Mr. Marshall touched Bess with his whip, and they started off through the old streets, past the castle, under the arched gateway, and away towards the mountains that rose up before them in the distance. It was all new country to Sylvia, who much admired the view when they had climbed the great hill out of the town, and could see the beautiful expanse of the Vale of Conway stretched below them, with the silvery river winding through its midst. She thoroughly enjoyed the drive. Bess, the brown cob, went along at a good fast pace, and so soon covered the ground that by four o'clock they had passed under the tall avenue of beeches that shaded the road, and drawn up at the hospitable doorway of Garth Avon. It was a pretty, oldfashioned house, overgrown with creepers, and at present the walls were a mass of beautiful pink and white roses, which scented the air with their fragrance. In front was a lawn, where garden seats, basket chairs, and a table spread with a white cloth and cups and saucers had a very inviting appearance.

"I knew you would like to have tea out-of-doors," said Mrs. Marshall, kissing both the children. "Ellen has made an iced spongecake on purpose, and baked some scones, and when Mrs. M'Allister heard you were coming home, she sent over a box of real Scotch shortbread. Linda, take Sylvia upstairs, and then you can bring her into the garden again when you have washed your hands. Lizzie has carried up your bags."

Sylvia was to sleep with Linda in the spare bedroom, a pleasant room with an oriel window, and a large bed hung with blue curtains, that looked big enough to hold four little girls instead of two.

"My own room is over the porch," said Linda, "but it only has one very small bed in it, and Mother thought you'd feel lonely if you slept here quite by yourself. It's much nicer to be together as we are at school, isn't it?" To this Sylvia cordially agreed.

"The boys are coming home too, this evening," continued Linda. "They're going to bicycle all the way from Rhyl. Their school doesn't break up until afternoon, so they couldn't start until four. I expect they'll have a nice ride, if Artie's tyre keeps up. He was afraid he had a puncture. Hilda hasn't any holiday at Whitweek in London. She's not so well off as when she was at Miss Kaye's, but she'd got beyond even the first class, you know. She's seventeen, and she's to leave altogether soon. I wish you'd seen her!"

It was very pleasant sitting at tea in the dear old garden. The beds were a blaze of flowers, and so were the tall vases which ornamented the flight of steps leading down to the tennis lawn. Scamp joined the party, and also a large white Persian cat, which astonished Sylvia by sitting up and begging as cleverly as her canine companion, with whom she seemed on excellent terms.

"Scamp is very fond of Snowball," said Linda, "but he hates all other cats, and he'd kill them if he could catch them. One day, in Conway, he saw a white puss rather like ours, and it was so funny to watch him, because he couldn't make up his mind whether he ought to lick it or chase it."

"How beautifully clean she is!" said Sylvia, taking the pretty soft creature on her lap, and stroking the long, silky fur. "Do you wash her?"

"We do sometimes," replied Linda. "But she doesn't like it at all, poor dear. It takes three of us to manage it, two to hold her, and the other to soap and rinse her. I never try it without the boys. Once I thought I had such a splendid idea. I was going to try dry cleaning. I rubbed her fur thoroughly well with flour, and I was just brushing it out again when she screwed herself from my arms and jumped through the open window. It was pouring with rain, and when she came back she was simply a pudding. I didn't know what to do, and the boys were away; so I let out the parrot, and put her inside the cage, and then watered her with the watering can till I got the paste off her."

"Poor Pussie, what a shame!" said Sylvia.

"So it was, but I really couldn't help it that time. She should keep herself clean, and then she wouldn't need to go through such troubles. Would you like to come and see the hens and my bantams?"

There was a stableyard at the back of the house which led into a field where the fowls were kept. They were a pet hobby with Mrs. Marshall, who spent many hours among her poultry, and had a particularly good strain of white Leghorns which she greatly valued. There were a number of neat wire runs, each with its small wooden henhouse, and in several of these were interesting families of chickens, varying in size from sweet fluffy atoms, as yellow as canaries, to long-legged creatures which Sylvia thought were not pretty at all.

"They haven't grown their full feathers yet," said Linda. "They're ugly ducklings still, but they'll be very handsome by and by. Look at this fussy old hen. I set her myself during the Easter holidays. She was so broody that she actually insisted on sitting on a Liebig pot. I suppose she took it for an egg. She'd have wondered why it didn't hatch, I expect, if I hadn't given her some real eggs instead."

"You seem to know all about keeping hens," said Sylvia.

"I know a little more now, but I made a most dreadful mistake once. Mother told me to go to the henhouse, and see if there were any eggs to send to Aunt Edith. I knew that sometimes the hens laid in the barn, so I thought I would go there instead. I hunted about and found a nest with ten lovely brown eggs in it. They were quite warm, so I was sure they must be perfectly fresh, and I put them in my basket and carried them to the house. Mother was in a hurry for the post; she didn't ask where I had got them, but only said I had been quick, and packed them up in a box at once. Next morning she went to the barn to feed a broody hen that was sitting there on some very particular eggs that she had bought specially, and to her horror she found them all gone! They would have hatched in a few days, so you can imagine how angry she felt, and what a scolding she gave me for not going to the henhouse as I was told. I think it was even worse, though, for Aunt Edith. She had meant to make a Simnel cake with the eggs Mother sent her, and she broke one after another, and each had a little chicken inside it!"

"How dreadful!" laughed Sylvia; "I should think she didn't made her cake."

"Not with our eggs at any rate, and she's always teased me dreadfully about it since. Now I want to show you the bantams. I like them best, because they're my own."

The bantams had a special wired run to themselves. They were extremely neat little birds, with prettily marked plumage, so tame that they flew readily on to their mistress's outstretched arm to eat the bread she had brought for them. Linda showed Sylvia their small house with much pride, and was particularly pleased to find two tiny eggs in the nesting box.

"We can each have one for breakfast to-morrow morning," she declared; "they must have laid them on purpose for us. I only got my bantams at Easter, and these are their first eggs. I'm hoping so much that one of the little hens will sit. Wouldn't it be lovely to have some wee chicks about as big as tomtits?"

Sylvia had not much experience with pets, but she was deeply interested in Linda's possessions: the starling that lived in a cage in the kitchen, and had learnt to say: "Come kiss me!" and "Who's at the door?"; the dormouse that was kept in a cosy box lined with hay, and would scamper round the table in the evenings and eat the nuts which were given him like a miniature squirrel; and Bute, the rough, bouncing yard dog, that slept in the big kennel, and was not allowed to come into the house at all.

"There's something else I'd like you to see," said Linda, taking Sylvia's arm, and leading her on to the lawn again, then through a small door into the kitchen garden, a delightful walled enclosure, full of currant and gooseberry bushes, young apple trees, early vegetables, and pot herbs, with patches of pinks, pansies, and forget-me-nots growing in between, and great fragrant bushes of rosemary, lavender, and southernwood, which smelled most delicious when the children rubbed them between their hands. In a corner under a blossoming syringa was a little grave, with a small tombstone at its head, on which was roughly carved the following inscription:

In Loving Memory of
JOCK
The Best and most Faithful Dog that ever Lived
Died February 27, 1907
Aged 8 Years.

"It needs cleaning up and weeding," said Linda. "We always keep it very tidy when we're at home, but of course, when the boys are away too, there's nobody to look after it. It's rather nicely done, isn't it?"

"Very," said Sylvia. "Who did it?"

"Oswald. He's clever with his hands, and he chipped it out with a chisel. It took him a frightfully long time, but he said Jock deserved it. We couldn't let him be forgotten."

"What kind of a dog was he?"

"I'm afraid he was only a mongrel; he was big, and grey, and shaggy, but we thought him lovely. There never was another so nice."

"Not even Scamp?"

"No, not quite. Jock was such a friend, and so obedient and gentle. We got him from a farm when he was a tiny puppy; the farmer was just going to drown him, but Oswald begged so hard to be allowed to keep him instead, that Mother said he might. Our nurse was quite angry at first; she said he'd be as much trouble as another child to look after, but he was so good, she soon grew fond of him, and he used to live in the nursery. Artie was a baby then, and Jock would keep guard over his cradle, or watch him when he was put to roll on a rug in the garden, and no matter how much Artie pulled his hair, he never dreamt of biting. He used to sleep on the mat at the door of our bedroom, and the first thing in the morning he'd come running in, wagging his tail.

"One summer we went to stay at Llandudno, and Mother said we musn't take Jock with us, because the people at the lodgings wouldn't care to have him. We were dreadfully sorry to leave him behind, and I'm sure he knew we were going without him, for he cried so. Father said he must be tied up in the stable to prevent him from following the trap, and we all went to say goodbye to him; even Nellie, our nurse, kissed him on the nose. We missed him so much that evening when we got to Llandudno, but next morning, when we were sitting at breakfast, we heard a whining and scratching at the door, and in rushed Jock, with about half a yard of rope dangling at his neck. He must have gnawed it through, and set off after us. But wasn't it clever of him to know where we'd gone, and to find out the very house where we were staying? Father said he must have heard us talking about Llandudno, and have asked all the other dogs he met on the road which was the right way! Mother was afraid we should have to send him home again, but when the landlady heard what he'd done, she allowed him to stay, and he went everywhere with us, and was no trouble to anybody.

"One day Nellie took us a long walk on the Great Orme's Head. We had baskets with us, and we wandered about picking blackberries the whole afternoon. Artie was quite a little fellow then, not more than three years old; he hadn't even been put into knickerbockers. I suppose we were so busy filling our baskets that nobody noticed him; at any rate he managed to run away from Nellie, and go close to the edge of the cliff where there were some blackberries growing. We think he must have been trying to lean down to gather them, and have overbalanced himself, because we suddenly heard him shrieking at the pitch of his voice, and when we rushed to see what was the matter, there was our baby hanging over the cliffside, just caught by the brambles, and Jock holding on to his kilt like grim death. Artie was howling, and Jock was making the queerest noise; he couldn't bark properly, because he daren't open his mouth for fear of letting go Artie's clothes. Nellie pulled them both back together, and sat down on the grass and cried, and we all hugged Jock and kissed him. Mother said afterwards she thought he must have been allowed to find his way to Llandudno on purpose to save Artie's life.

"After that, of course, he was a greater pet even than he'd been before, and we never went away from home without taking him. Granny used to put in a special invitation to Jock when she asked us, and she made him a little cake once on his birthday, and sent it to him by post. He ate it in three gulps.

"We were so dreadfully sorry when he died. Hilda said she'd like to go into mourning, and Artie and I inked black edges to some sheets of tiny notepaper, and wrote on them to tell Granny and Aunt Edith. We had a beautiful funeral for him, and made wreaths to lay on his grave, and planted the prettiest flowers we could dig up out of our gardens on it. It was Oswald who thought of the stone during the Easter holidays. It wasn't finished until Hilda had gone back to London, so she hasn't seen it yet. I'm sure she'll like it."

There seemed so many interesting things to see and hear at Garth Avon that the two girls amused themselves out-of-doors until after seven o'clock, when they heard a brisk ringing of bells, and, running to the gate, were just in time to open it for Linda's brothers, who came riding up on their bicycles. Oswald was a few years older than Linda, and Artie a little younger; both were nice hearty boys, who seemed ready to make friends at once with their sister's visitor.

"We've heard such a jolly lot about you, you know," said Oswald, shaking hands. "Lin can talk of nobody else. We always say the school must be made up of Sylvia and Miss Kaye."

"You're late, aren't you?" asked Linda. "We thought you'd have been here an hour ago."

"We may well be late. Artie's tyre punctured on the road between Abergele and Llandulas, and we had to walk our machines to Colwyn Bay before we could get anyone to mend it. We tried to patch it up ourselves, but I hadn't a big enough piece of rubber to cover it. Then the fellow at the bicycle shop was such a slow chap, I thought he was going to be all night fiddling over it, and we didn't dare to pump it till it had dried a little. Luckily we got some tea before we left school, but we're hungry enough now. Isn't supper ready?"

"Ready and spoiling," said Linda. "It's sausages, and I could smell them cooking through the kitchen window half an hour ago. Sylvia and I have been watching in the garden for you ever so long. Be quick and come down; I want to tell you about a most delightful plan I've thought of for to-morrow."