"How stupid of us!" ejaculated Elaine. "We never asked his surname or where he lives, and I particularly intended to, this time."

"So did I, but I quite forgot," echoed Marjorie.

"I'm not sure if I want to know," said Dona. "He's just Eric to me—like someone out of a book. I've never met such a sweet, dear, precious thing in all my life before. Of course, if I don't know his name I can't send him things, but I've got an idea. We'll leave a little parcel for him with the girl who looks after the refreshment kiosk on the Whitecliffe Road, and ask her to give it to him next time he passes. She couldn't mistake the long perambulator."

"And write 'From the fairies' on it. Good!" agreed Marjorie. "It's exactly the sort of thing that Eric will like."



CHAPTER XIX

A Potato Walk

Dona's suggestion was adopted, and she and Marjorie began a little system of correspondence with Eric. At their request Elaine bought a small present and left the parcel with the attendant at the refreshment kiosk, who promised to give it to him.

"I know the child quite well by sight," she said. "A delicate little fellow in an invalid carriage. They used to pass here two or three times a week last summer, and sometimes they'd stop at the kiosk and the girl would buy him an orange or some sweets. I hadn't seen him for months till he went by a few days ago. Yes, I'll be sure to stop him when he passes."

That the girl kept her word was evident, for a week afterwards she handed Elaine a letter addressed to "The Fairy Ladies". Elaine forwarded it to Marjorie and Dona. It was written in a round, childish hand, and ran:

"DARLING BLUEBELL AND SILVERSTAR,

"I like the puzzle you sent me. I often think about you. I love you very much. I hope I shall see you again. I played fairies all yesterday and pretended you were here.

"With love from "ERIC."

"Dear little man!" said Marjorie. "I expect it's taken him a long time to write this. We'll buy him a blotter and some fancy paper and envelopes and leave them at the kiosk for him."

"I wish we could go to the cove and see him again," said Dona.

It happened that for the next two exeats Aunt Ellinor had arranged a tennis party or some other engagement for her nieces, so that it was not possible to take a walk on the cliffs. They left a supply of little presents, however, at the kiosk, so that something could be given to Eric every time he passed. The assistant was almost as interested as Marjorie and Dona.

"He looks out for those parcels now," she assured them. "You should just see his face when I run out and give them to him. I believe he'd be ever so disappointed if there was nothing. The girl that wheels him left a message for you. His mother thanks you for your kindness; and will you please excuse his writing, because it isn't very good for him and takes him such a long time. He's never been able to go to school."

"Poor little chap!" laughed Dona. "I expect someone has to sit by him and tell him how to spell every word. Never mind, he can draw fairies on the notepaper we sent him. We'll get him a red-and-blue chalk pencil."

"I dare say he'd like a post-card album and some cards to put in it," suggested Marjorie.

"Oh yes! I saw some of flower fairies at the Stores. We'll ask Elaine to get them."

"And those funny ones of cats and dogs. I've no doubt it's anything to amuse him when he has to lie still all the day long."

As the summer wore on, and submarines sank many of our merchant vessels on the seas, the food question began to be an important problem at Brackenfield. Everyone was intensely patriotic and ready to do all in her power to help on the war. Mrs. Morrison believed in keeping the girls well abreast of the important topics of the moment. She considered the oldfashioned schools of fifty years ago, where the pupils never saw a newspaper, and were utterly out of touch with the world, did not conduce to the making of good citizens. She liked her girls to think out questions for themselves. She had several enthusiastic spirits among the prefects, and found that by giving them a few general hints to work upon she could trust them to lead the others. Winifrede in particular realized the gravity of the situation. Armed with a supply of leaflets from the local Food Control Bureau, she convened a meeting of the entire school in the Assembly Hall.

Winifrede was a girl whose intense love of her country and ready power of fluent speech would probably lead her some day to a public platform. Meantime she could always sway a Brackenfield audience. She was dramatic in her methods, and when the girls entered the hall they were greeted by large hand-printed posters announcing:

"THE GERMANS ARE TRYING TO STARVE US. GERMAN SUBMARINES ARE REDUCING SUPPLIES. YOU MUST ECONOMIZE AT HOME."

There were no teachers present on this occasion, and the platform was occupied by the prefects. Winifrede, with an eager face and fully convinced of the burning necessity of rationing, stood up and began her speech.

"Girls! I think I needn't tell you that we're fighting in the most terrible war the world has ever seen. We're matched against a foe whose force and cunning will need every atom of strength of which we're capable. They are not only shooting our soldiers at the front, and bombing our towns, but by their submarine warfare they are deliberately trying to reduce us by starvation. There is already a food crisis in our country. There is a serious shortage of wheat, of potatoes, of sugar, and of other food-stuffs. Perhaps you think that so long as you have money you will be able to buy food. That is not so. As long as there is plenty of food, money is a convenience to buy it with, but no more. Money is not value. If the food is not there, money will not make it, and money becomes useless. Food gives money its value. We can do without money; but we cannot do without food. People see the bakers' shops full of bread, the butchers' shops full of meat, the grocers' shops full of provisions, and they believe there is plenty of food. This is merely food on the surface. The stock of food from which the shops draw the food is low, seriously low, already. Unless we ration ourselves at once, and carefully, there will come days when there may be no bread at all at the baker's. There is a shortage of wheat all over the world, not only in Europe, but also in North and South America. Millions of the men who grew the wheat we eat are fighting, hundreds of thousands of them will never go back to the fields they ploughed. If the present waste of bread and wheat flour continues, there will be hardly enough to go round till next harvest time. Great Britain only produces one-fifth of the bread it eats. Four-fifths of the wheat comes from abroad. Hundreds of the ships that brought it are now engaged in other work. They are carrying food and munitions to France, Italy, and Russia. The ships that brought us food are fewer by those hundreds.

"It is the women of the country who must see to this. By careful rationing we can make our supplies hold out until after the harvest. Our men are out at the front, fighting a grim battle, but, unless we do our part of the business at home, they may fight a losing battle. It is for us to see that our noble dead have not died in vain. With martyred Belgium for an object lesson, it is the duty of every British girl to make every possible sacrifice to keep those unspeakable Huns out of our islands. I appeal to you all to use the utmost economy and abstinence, and voluntarily to give up some of the things that you like. Remember you will be helping to win the war. There is a rationing pledge on the table near the door, and I ask every girl to sign it and to wear the violet ribbon that will be given her. It is the badge of the new temperance cause. The freedom of the world depends at the present time on the food thrift and self-restraint of our civilians, no less than on the courage of our soldiers. Please take some of the leaflets which you will find on the table, and read them. They have been sent here for us by the Food Control Bureau."

After Winifrede's speech every girl felt in honour bound to comply with her request, and turn by turn they signed their pledges and sported their violet ribbons.

"It'll mean knocking off buns, I suppose," sighed Sylvia mournfully.

"Certainly.

'Save a bun, And do the Hun!'"

improvised Marjorie.

"Look here!" said Betty, studying a pamphlet; "it says: 'If a man is working hard he needs a great deal more food than when he is resting. There are no exceptions to this rule. It follows that workers save energy by resting as much as they can in their spare time.' If that's true, the less work we do the smaller our appetites will be. I vote we petition the Empress, in the interests of patriotism, to shorten our time-table by half."

"She'd probably suggest knocking off cricket and tennis instead, my Betty."

"Well, at any rate, it says: 'large people need more food than small', and I'm taller than you, so I ought to have half of your dinner bread, old sport!"

"Ah, but look, it also says: 'people who are well covered need much less food than thin people', so I score there, and ought to have half of your dinner bread instead."

"We'll each stick to our own allowances, thanks!"

Mrs. Morrison, who was on the committee of the Whitecliffe Food Control Campaign, was glad to have secured the co-operation of her girls in the alterations which she was now obliged to make in their dietary. On the whole, they rather liked some of the substitutes for wheat flour, and quite enjoyed the barley-meal bread, and the oatcakes and maize-meal biscuits that figured on the tables at tea-time.

"They're dry, but you feel so patriotic when you eat them," declared Marjorie.

"I believe you'd chump sawdust buns if you thought you were helping on the war," laughed Chrissie.

"I would, with pleasure."

It was just at this time that potatoes ran short. So far Brackenfield had not suffered in that respect, but now the supply from the large kitchen garden had given out, and the Whitecliffe greengrocers were quite unable to meet the demands of the school. For a fortnight the girls ate swedes instead, and tried to like them. Then Mrs. Morrison received a message from a farmer that he had plenty of potatoes in his fields, but lacked the labour to cart them. He would, however, be prepared to dispose of a certain quantity on condition that they could be fetched. Here was news indeed! The potatoes were there, and only needed to be carried away. The Principal at once organized parties of girls to go with baskets to the farm. Instead of sending Seniors, Intermediates, and Juniors separately, Mrs. Morrison ordered representatives from the three hostels to form each detachment. She considered that lately the elder girls had been keeping too much aloof from the younger ones, and that the spirit of unity in the school might suffer in consequence. The expedition would be an excellent opportunity for meeting together, and she gave a hint to the prefects that she had noticed and deprecated their tendency to exclusiveness.

As a direct result of her suggestions, Marjorie one afternoon found herself walking to the farm in the select company of Winifrede Mason. It was such an overwhelming honour to be thus favoured by the head girl that Marjorie's powers of conversation were at first rather damped, and she replied in monosyllables to Winifrede's remarks; but the latter, who was determined (as she had informed her fellow prefects) to "do her duty by those Intermediates", persevered in her attempts to be pleasant, till Marjorie, who was naturally talkative, thawed at length and found her tongue.

There was no doubt that Winifrede, when she stepped down from her pedestal, was a most winning companion. She had a charming, humorous, racy, whimsical way of commenting on things, and a whole fund of amusing stories. Marjorie, astonished and fascinated, responded eagerly to her advances, and by the time they reached the farm had formed quite a different estimation of the head girl. The walk in itself was delightful. Their way lay along a road that led over the moors. On either side stretched an expanse of gorse and whinberry bushes, interspersed with patches of grass, where sheep were feeding. Dykes filled with water edged the road, and in these were growing rushes, and sedges, and crowfoot, and a few forget-me-nots and other water-loving flowers. Larks were singing gloriously overhead, and the plovers flitted about with their plaintive "pee-wit, pee-wit". Sometimes a stonechat or a wheatear would pause for a moment on a gorse stump, flirting its brown tail before it flew out of sight, or young rabbits would peep from the whinberry bushes and whisk away into cover. Far off in the distance lay the hazy outline of the sea. There was a great sense of space and openness. The fresh pure air blew down from the hills, cooler and more invigorating even than the sea breeze. Except for the sheep, and an occasional collie dog and shepherd, they had the world to themselves. Winifrede took long sighing breaths of air. Her eyes were shining with enjoyment.

"I like the quiet of it all," she told Marjorie. "I can understand the feeling that made the mediaeval hermits build their lonely little cells in peaceful, beautiful spots. Some of the Hindoos do the same to-day, and go and live in the forests to have time to meditate. When I'm getting old I'd like to come and take a cottage on this moor—not before, I think, because there's so very much I want to do in the world first, but when I feel I'm growing past my work, then will be the time to arrange my thoughts and slip into the spirit of the peace up here."

"What kind of work do you want to do?" asked Marjorie.

"I'm not sure yet. I'm leaving school, of course, at the end of this term, and I can't quite decide whether to go on to College or to begin something to help the war. Mrs. Morrison advises College. She says I could be far more help afterwards if I were properly qualified, and I dare say she's right, only I don't want to wait."

"I'm just yearning to leave school and be a V.A.D., or drive an ambulance wagon," sympathized Marjorie.

"My sister is out in France at canteen work," confided Winifrede. "It makes me fearfully envious when I have her letters and think what she's doing for the Tommies. I've three brothers at the front, and five cousins, and two more cousins were killed a year ago. My eldest brother has been wounded twice, and the youngest is in hospital now. I simply live for news of them all."

The girls had now reached the farm, a little low-built, whitewashed house almost on the summit of a hill. Though the principal occupation of its owner lay among sheep, he had a clearing of fields, where he grew swedes, potatoes, and a little barley. In a sheltered place behind his stable-yard he had a stock of last year's potatoes still left; they were piled into a long heap, covered with straw and then with earth as a protection. He took the girls round here, measured the potatoes in a bushel bin, and then filled the baskets.

"They won't keep much longer," he informed Miss Norton. "I'd have carted them down to Whitecliffe, only I've no horse now, and it's difficult to borrow one; and I can't spare the time from the sheep either. Labour's so scarce now. My two sons are fighting, and I've only a grandson of fourteen and a daughter to help me."

"Everybody is feeling the same pinch," replied Miss Norton. "We're only too glad to come and fetch the potatoes ourselves. It's a nice walk for us."

The girls, who overheard the conversation, felt they cordially agreed. It was fun wandering round the little farm-yard, looking at the ducks, and chickens, and calves, or peeping inside the barns and stables. Several of them began to register vows to work on the land when school-days were over.

"They've got a new German camp over there," volunteered the farmer. "I suppose their first contingent of prisoners arrived yesterday. Hadn't you heard about it? Oh, they've been busy for weeks putting up barbed wire! It can't be so far from your place either. You'd pass it if you crossed the stile there and went back over the moor instead of round by the road."

At the news of a German camp a kind of electric thrill passed round the company. The girls were wild with curiosity to see it, and pressed Miss Norton to allow them to return to Brackenfield by the moorland path. The mistress herself seemed interested, and consented quite readily. It was a much quicker way back to the school, and would save time; she was grateful to Mr. Briggs for having pointed out so short a cut.

The camp lay on the side of a hill about half-way between the farm and Brackenfield, near enough to distinguish the latter building quite plainly in the distance. It was surrounded by an entanglement of barbed wire, and there were sentries on duty. Within the circle of wire were tents, and the girls could see washing hanging out, and a few figures lying on the ground and apparently smoking. They would have liked to linger and look, but Miss Norton marched them briskly past, and discipline forbade an undue exhibition of curiosity. They had gone perhaps only a few hundred yards when they heard the regular tramp-tramp of footsteps, and up from the dell below came a further batch of prisoners under an escort of soldiers. Miss Norton hastily marshalled her flock, and made them stand aside to allow the contingent room to pass. They were a tall, fine-looking set of men, stouter, and apparently better fed, than their guards. They had no appearance of hard usage or ill treatment, and were marching quite cheerily towards the camp, probably anticipating a meal. The girls, drawn up in double line, thrilled with excitement as they passed.

"If one tried to run away would they shoot him?" asked Betty in an awed voice.

"Yes, the guards have their rifles all ready," replied Marjorie; "if one tried to escape he'd have a bullet through his back in a second—and quite right too! What's the matter, Chrissie?"

"Nothing—only it makes me feel queer."

"I feel queer when I remember how many of our own men are prisoners in Germany," declared Winifrede.

"Quietly, girls! And don't stare!" said Miss Norton. "We ought to pity these poor men. It is a terrible thing to be a prisoner of war."

"I don't pity them," grumbled Marjorie fiercely under her breath. "Perhaps they're the very ones who've been fighting Leonard's regiment."

"Yes, when one thinks of one's brothers, it doesn't make one love the Germans," whispered Winifrede.

"Love them!" flared Marjorie. "I wouldn't consciously speak to a German for ten thousand pounds, and if I happened by mistake to shake hands with one—well, I'd have to go and disinfect my hand afterwards!"

"Miss Norton's welcome to them if she pities them," said Betty from behind.

"Go on, girls, now!" came the teacher's voice, as the contingent tramped away into the camp.

"I'm disgusted with Miss Norton!" groused Marjorie. "Come along, Chrissie! What's the matter with you, old sport? Anybody'd think you'd seen a ghost instead of a batch of Germans. Why, you've gone quite pale!"

"I'm only tired," snapped Chrissie rather crossly. "You're always making remarks about something. I'm going to walk with Patricia."

"Oh, all right! Just as you please. I don't press myself on anybody. I'll walk with Winifrede again if she'll have me."



CHAPTER XX

Patriotic Gardening

The direct result of the potato walk to Mr. Briggs's farm was that a friendship sprang up between Winifrede and Marjorie. It was, of course, rather an exceptional friendship, involving condescension on the part of the head girl and frantic devotion on Marjorie's part. Six months ago it would not have been possible, for Winifrede's creed of exclusiveness had discouraged any familiarity with her juniors, and it was only in accordance with Mrs. Morrison's wishes that she had broken her barrier of reserve. She had, however, taken rather a fancy to Marjorie, and sometimes invited her into her study. To go and sit in Winifrede's tiny sanctum, to see her books, photographs, post cards, and other treasures, and to be regaled with cocoa and biscuits, was a privilege that raised Marjorie to the seventh heaven of bliss. Her impulsive, warm-hearted disposition made her apt to take up hot friendships, and for the present she worshipped Winifrede. To be singled out for favour by the head girl was in itself a distinction; but, apart from that, Marjorie keenly appreciated her society. She would wait about to do any little errand for her, would wash her brushes after the oil-painting lesson, sharpen her pencils, set butterflies for her, mount pressed flowers, or print out photographs. Winifrede was fond of entomology, and Marjorie, beforetime a lukewarm naturalist, now waxed enthusiastic in the collection of specimens. She was running one day in pursuit of a gorgeous dragon-fly through the little wood that skirted the playing-fields, and, with her eyes fixed on her elusive quarry, she almost tumbled over Chrissie, who was sitting by the side of the stream.

"Hallo!" said Marjorie, drawing herself up suddenly. "I didn't see you. As a matter of fact I wasn't looking where I was going."

"What are you doing here?" asked Chrissie.

Marjorie pointed to her butterfly-net.

"What are you doing here?" she returned.

"Reading."

Chrissie's eyes were red, and she blinked rapidly.

"You've been crying," said Marjorie tactlessly.

Her chum flushed crimson.

"I've not! I wish you'd just let me alone."

"Cheer oh! Don't get raggy, old sport!"

Chrissie turned away, and, opening her book, began to read.

"Will you come round the field with me?" asked Marjorie.

"No, thanks; I'd rather stay where I am."

"Oh, very well! I'm off. Ta-ta!"

This was not the first little tiff that had taken place between the two girls. Chrissie seemed to have changed lately. She was moody and self-absorbed, and ready to fire up on very slight provocation. Her devotion to Marjorie seemed to have somewhat waned. She scarcely ever made her presents now or wrote her notes. She was chatty enough in the dormitory, but saw little of her in recreation hours. Marjorie set this down to jealousy of her friendship with Winifrede. In her absorption in her head girl she had certainly not given Chrissie so much of her time as formerly. She walked along the field now rather soberly. She disliked quarrelling, but her own temper was hot as well as her chum's.

"I can't help it," she groused. "Chrissie's always taking offence. Everything I do seems to rub her the wrong way. She needn't think I'm going to give up Winifrede! I wish she'd be more sensible. Well, I don't care; I shall just take no notice and leave her to herself, and then she'll probably come round."

Marjorie's surmises proved correct, for Chrissie placed a dainty little bottle of scent and an enthusiastic note on her dressing-table that evening, the clouds blew over, and for a time, at any rate, matters were quite pleasant again. Constant little quarrels, however, wear holes in a friendship, and it was evident to St. Elgiva's that some cleavage had taken place.

"Chrissie and Marjorie seem a little off with the David and Jonathan business," commented Francie.

"Too hot to last, I fancy," returned Patricia. "Marjorie's got a new idol now."

One reason for the separation between the two girls was that, while Chrissie cared chiefly for tennis, Marjorie was a devotee of cricket, and was spending most of her spare time under the coaching of Stella Pearson, the games captain. She showed much promise in bowling, and was not without hopes of being put into her house eleven. To play for St. Elgiva's was an honour worth working for. It would be a great triumph to be able to write the news to her brothers.

Dona had not taken violently either to cricket or tennis, and beyond the compulsory practice never touched bat or ball, giving herself up entirely to Natural History study and Photography. She was not so energetic as her sister, and did not much care for running about. At half term, however, a new interest claimed her. The head gardener was taken ill, and Sister Johnstone assumed the responsibility for his work. She asked for helpers, and a number of girls volunteered their services, and occupied themselves busily about the grounds. They rolled and marked the tennis-courts, earthed up potatoes, put sticks for the peas, planted out cabbages, and weeded the drive.

It was the kind of work that appealed to Dona, and her satisfaction was complete when Mrs. Morrison excused her cricket practices for the purpose.

"I like gardening much better than games," she confided to Marjorie. "There's more to show for it. What have you got at the end of a whole term's cricket, I should like to know?"

"Honour, my child!" said Marjorie.

"Well, I shall have six rows of cauliflowers, and that's more to the point, especially in these hard times," twinkled Dona. "I consider it's I who am the patriotic one now. You're not helping the war by bowling with Stella, and every cauliflower of mine will go to feed a soldier."

"I thought the school was to eat them."

"They won't be ready till the holidays, so Sister Johnstone says they'll have to be sent to the Red Cross Hospital. We're going to gather the first crop of peas, though, to-night. You'll eat them at dinner to-morrow."

Two of the prefects, Meg Hutchinson and Gladys Butler, had joined the band of gardeners, and carried on operations with enthusiasm.

"I mean to go on the land as soon as I leave school," declared Meg. "My sister Molly's working at a farm in Herefordshire. She gets up at six every morning to feed the pigs and cows, breakfast is at eight, and then she goes round to look after the cattle in the fields. Dinner is at twelve, and after that she cleans harness, or takes the horses to be shod, and feeds the pigs and calves again. She loves it, and she's won her green armlet from the Government."

"My cousin's working at a market garden," said Gladys. "She bicycles over every morning from home. It's three miles away, so she has to start ever so early. She's got to know all about managing the tomato houses now. Once she'd a very funny experience. They sent her out for a day to tidy somebody's garden. She took a little can full of coffee with her, and some lunch in a basket. An old gentleman and lady came out to superintend the gardening, and they seemed most staggered to find that she was a lady, and couldn't understand it at all; but they were very kind and sent her some tea into the greenhouse. Evidently they had debated whether to invite her into the drawing-room or not, but had turned tail at the thought of her thick boots on the best carpet. Nellie was so amused. She said she felt far too dirty after digging up borders to go indoors, and was most relieved that they didn't invite her. She had a tray full of all sorts of things in the greenhouse—cakes and jam and potted meat. The old lady asked her ever so many questions, and it turned out that they knew some mutual friends. Wasn't it funny?"

Mrs. Morrison was very pleased with the results of the girls' work in the garden. She declared that the tennis-courts had never looked better, and that the crop of vegetables was unusually fine.

"I can't give you armlets," she said, "though you thoroughly deserve them. I should like to have your photos taken in a group, to keep as a remembrance. I shall call you my 'Back to the Land Girls'."

At Brackenfield any wish expressed by the Empress was carried out if possible, so Muriel Adams, who possessed the best and biggest camera, was requisitioned to take the gardeners. They grouped themselves picturesquely round a wheelbarrow, some holding spades, rakes, or watering-cans, and others displaying their best specimens of carrots or cabbages. Sister Johnstone, in the middle, smiled benignly. The plate was duly developed, and a good print taken and handed round for inspection. Each girl, of course, declared that her own portrait was atrocious, but those of the others excellent, and it was unanimously decided to have a copy framed for presentation to Mrs. Morrison.

There was one advantage in belonging to the "Back to the Land Girls", they might visit the kitchen garden at any time they wished. It was forbidden ground to the rest of the school, so it was rather nice to be able to wander at will between the long lines of gooseberry bushes or rows of peas. Dona loved the fresh smell of it all, especially after rain. She spent every available moment there, for it was an excellent place for pursuing natural history study. She had many opportunities of observing birds or of catching moths and butterflies, and generally had a net handy. With a magnifying glass she often watched the movements of small insects. She had come in one afternoon for this purpose, and wandered down to a rather wild spot at the bottom of the garden. It was a small piece of rough ground surrounded by a high hedge, on the farther side of which the land sloped in a sharp decline. As Dona hunted about among the docks for caterpillars or other specimens, greatly to her surprise she saw a figure come pushing through the hedge. It wore a gym. costume and a St. Elgiva's hat, and, as the leaves parted, they revealed the face of Chrissie Lang. Her astonishment was evidently equal to Dona's. For a moment she flushed crimson, then turned the matter off airily.

"I've often thought I should like to see what was on the other side of that hedge," she remarked. "You get a nice view across the country."

"You'll lose three conduct marks if you're caught in the kitchen garden," remarked Dona drily. She was not remarkably fond of Chrissie, and did not see why anyone else should enjoy the privileges accorded to those who were working in the garden. "Meg Hutchinson's weeding cabbages up by the cucumber frames," she added.

"Thanks for telling me. I'll go out the other way. I've no particular wish to be pounced upon."

"What's that in your hand?" asked Dona. "A looking-glass, I declare! Well, Chrissie Lang, of all conceited people you really are the limit! Did you bring it out to admire your beauty?"

"I want to try a new way of doing my hair, and there's no peace in the dormitory."

"Can't you draw the curtains of your cubicle?"

"They'd peep round and laugh at me."

"Well, anyone would laugh at you more for bringing out a looking-glass into the garden. I think you're the silliest idiot I've ever met!"

"Thanks for the compliment!"

Chrissie strolled away, whistling jauntily to herself, and picking a gooseberry or two from the bushes as she passed. Dona frowned as she watched her—it was a point of honour with the Back to the Land Girls never to touch any of the fruit. By a heroic effort she refrained from running after Chrissie and giving a further unvarnished opinion of her. Instead, however, she walked back up the other path. She found Meg Hutchinson and Gladys Butler sitting on the cucumber frame. It was in a high part of the garden, and commanded a good view over the country. Gladys had a pair of field-glasses, and with their aid could plainly make out the German camp on the hill opposite. She was quite excited.

"I can see the barbed wire," she declared, "and the tents, and I believe I can make out some things that look like figures. The focus of these glasses isn't very good. I wish we had a telescope."

"If they've field-glasses I expect they can see the school," said Meg.

"Oh, but they wouldn't let them have any, you may be sure!"

"Are they kept very strictly?" asked Dona.

"Of course. They're under military discipline," explained Meg.

"Would you like to take a peep?" said Gladys, offering the glasses. "You must screw this part round till it focuses right for your eyes. Can you see now?"

"Yes, beautifully. What are they doing?"

"Just lounging about I expect. I believe they have to do a certain amount of camp work, keep their tents tidy, and clean the pans and peel potatoes and that kind of thing, and they may play games."

"It's a pity we can't set them to work on the land," said Meg.

"They do in some places. I'm afraid it couldn't be managed here. So near the sea it would be far too easy for them to escape."



CHAPTER XXI

The Roll of Honour

Letters arrived at Brackenfield by an early post. They were inspected first by the house mistresses, and delivered immediately after breakfast to the girls, who generally flew out into the quadrangle or the grounds to devour them. Mrs. Anderson made it a rule to write to Marjorie and Dona alternately, and they would hand over their news to each other. On Tuesday morning Marjorie received the usual letter in her mother's handwriting, but to her surprise noticed that the postmark was "London" instead of "Silverwood". With a sudden misgiving she tore it open. It contained bad tidings. Larry, who had lately been sent to the front, had been wounded in action, and was in a military hospital in London. His mother had hurried up to town to see him, and had found him very ill. He was to undergo an operation on the following day.

"I shall remain here till the operation is over," wrote Mrs. Anderson. "I feel I must be near him while he is in such a dangerous condition. I will send you another bulletin to-morrow."

Marjorie went to find Dona, and in defiance of school etiquette walked boldly into Ethelberta's. She knew that on such an occasion she would not be reprimanded. Miss Jones, who happened to come into the room, comforted the two girls as best she could.

"While there is life there is hope," she said. "Many of our soldiers go through the most terrible operations and make wonderful recoveries. Surgeons nowadays are marvellously clever. My own brother was dangerously wounded last autumn, and is back in the trenches now."

"I shall think of Larry all day," sobbed Dona.

"Are they ever out of our thoughts?" said Miss Jones. "I believe we all do the whole of our work with the trenches always in the background of our minds. Most of us at Brackenfield simply live for news from the front."

There was great feeling for Marjorie in Dormitory No. 9. Betty had had a brother wounded earlier in the war, and Sylvia had lost a cousin, so they could understand her anxiety. Chrissie also offered sympathy.

"I know how wretched you must be," she said.

"Thanks," answered Marjorie. "It certainly makes one jumpy to have one's relations in the army."

"Isn't your brother fighting, Chrissie?" asked Betty.

"No," replied Chrissie briefly.

"But he must surely be of military age?"

"He's not very well at present."

Betty and Sylvia looked at each other. There was something mysterious about Chrissie's brother. She seldom alluded to him, and she had lately removed his photograph from her dressing-table. The girls always surmised that he must be a conscientious objector. They felt that it would be a terrible disgrace to own a relative who refused to defend his country. They were sorry for Chrissie, but it did not make them disposed to be any more friendly towards her.

To Marjorie the news about Larry came as a shock. It was the first casualty in the family. She now realized the grim horror of the war in a way that she had not done before. All that day she went about with the sense of a dark shadow haunting her. Next morning, however, the bulletin was better. The operation had been entirely successful, and the patient, though weak, was likely to recover.

"The doctor gives me very good hopes," wrote Mrs. Anderson. "Larry is having the best of skilled nursing, so we feel that everything possible is being done for him."

With a great weight off her mind, Marjorie handed the letter to Dona, and hurried off to look for Winifrede to tell her the good news. As she was not in the quadrangle, Marjorie went into the library on the chance of finding her there. The room was empty, though Miss Duckworth had just been in to put up fresh notices. Almost automatically Marjorie strolled up, and began to read them. A Roll of Honour was kept at Brackenfield, where the names of relations of past and present girls were recorded. It was rewritten every week, so as to keep it up to date. She knew that Larry would be mentioned in this last list. Thank God that it was only among the wounded. The "killed" came first.

ADAMS, Captain N. H., 4th Staffordshires (fiance of Dorothy Craig).

HUNT, Captain J. C., Welsh Borderers (brother of Sophy Hunt).

JACKSON, Lieut. P., 3rd Lancashires (husband of Mabel Irving).

KEARY, Private P. L., Irish Brigade (brother of Eileen Keary).

PRESTON, Private H., West Yorks (brother of Kathleen and Joyce Preston).

Marjorie stopped suddenly. Private Preston—the humorous dark-eyed young soldier whose acquaintance she had made in the train, and renewed in the Red Cross Hospital. Surely it could not be he! Alas! it was only too plain. She knew he was the brother of Kathleen and Joyce Preston, for he had himself mentioned that his sisters used to be at Brackenfield. Also he was certainly in the West Yorkshire regiment. This bright, strong, clever, capable young life sacrificed! Marjorie felt as if she had received a personal blow. Oh, the war was cruel—cruel! Death was picking England's fairest flowers indeed. A certain chapter in her life, which had seemed to promise many very sweet hopes, was now for ever closed.

"They might have put his V.C. on the list," she said to herself. "I wish I knew where he's buried. I shall never forget him—though I only saw him twice. He was quite different from anyone else I've ever met."

Somehow Marjorie did not feel capable of mentioning Private Preston to anybody, even to Dona. She had kept the little newspaper photograph of him which had been cut out of the Onlooker, when he won his V.C. She enclosed it in an envelope and put it within the leaves of her Bible. That seemed the most appropriate place for it. She could not leave it amongst the portraits of her other war heroes, for fear her room-mates might refer to it. To discuss him now with Betty or Sylvia would be a desecration. His death was a wound that would not bear handling. For some days afterwards she was unusually quiet. The girls thought she was fretting about her brother, and tried to cheer her up, for Larry's bulletins were excellent, and he seemed to be making a wonderful recovery.

"He is to leave the military hospital in a fortnight," wrote Mrs. Anderson, "and be transferred to a Red Cross hospital. We are using all our influence to get him sent to Whitecliffe, where Aunt Ellinor and Elaine could specially look after him."

To have Larry at Whitecliffe would indeed be a cause for rejoicing. Marjorie could picture the spoiling he would receive at the Red Cross Hospital. She wondered if he would have the same bed that had been occupied by Private Preston. It was No. 17, she remembered. "One shall be taken, and the other left," she thought. For Larry there was the glad welcome and the nursing back to life and health, and for that other brave boy a grave in a foreign land. Some lines from a little volume of verses flashed to her memory. They had struck her attention only a week before, and she had learnt them by heart.

"For us— The parting and the sorrow; For him— 'God speed!' One fight,— A noble deed,— 'Good-night!' And no to-morrow. Where he is, In Thy Peace Time is not, Nor smallest sorrow."

Marjorie was almost glad that on her next exeat at The Tamarisks Elaine was away from home. She was afraid her cousin might speak of Private Preston, and she did not wish to mention his name again.

"I'm afraid you'll be dull this afternoon without Elaine," said Aunt Ellinor; "and I'm obliged to attend a committee meeting at the Food Control Bureau. I've arranged for Hodson to take you out. Where would you like to go? To Whitecliffe, and have tea at the cafe? You must choose exactly what you think would be nicest."

As the girls wished to do a little shopping, they decided to visit Whitecliffe first, have an early tea at the cafe, and then take a walk on the moor, ending at Brackenfield, where Hodson would leave them.

"That's all right, then," said Mrs. Trafford. "I'm sorry I can't be with you myself to-day. Get some sweets at the cafe and have some ices if you like. I must hurry away now to my committee. Hodson won't keep you waiting long; I've told her to get ready."

Left alone, the girls grumbled a little at the necessity of taking an escort with them.

"At fourteen and sixteen we surely don't need a nursemaid," sniffed Marjorie. "It's a perfectly ridiculous rule that we mayn't walk ten yards by ourselves, even when we're out for the afternoon. We might be interned Germans or conscientious objectors if somebody always has to mount guard over us. What does the Empress think we're going to do, I wonder?"

"Ask airmen for autographs, or snowball soldiers!" twinkled Dona.

"Oh, surely she's forgotten those old crimes now!"

"I wouldn't be sure. The Empress has a long memory. Besides, the rule's for everybody, not only for us."

"I know. Patricia was horribly savage last week. An officer cousin was over in Whitecliffe, and she wasn't allowed to go and meet him, because no one could be spared to act chaperon."

"Some friends asked Mona to tea to-day, and the Empress wouldn't let her accept. We only go to Auntie's every fortnight because Mother specially stipulated that we should."

"I'm jolly glad she did. It makes such a change."

"I wish Hodson would hurry up!"

Hodson, the housemaid, took a considerable time to don her outdoor garments, but she proclaimed herself ready at last. She was a tall, middle-aged woman in spectacles, with large teeth, and showed her gums when she talked. She spoke in a slow, melancholy voice, and, to judge from her depressed expression, evidently considered herself a martyr for the afternoon. She was hardly the companion the girls would have selected, but they had to make the best of her. It would be amusing, at any rate, to go in to Whitecliffe. Marjorie had her camera, and wished to take some photographs.

"I've just two films left," she said, "so I'll use those on the way down, and then get a fresh dozen put in at the Stores. Let us go by the high road, so that we can pass the kiosk and ask about Eric."

The attendant at the lemonade stall smiled brightly at mention of the little fellow.

"I saw his pram go by an hour ago, and ran out and gave him your last parcel," she informed them. "You'll very likely see him down in Whitecliffe. He left his love for you."

"I hope we shan't miss him," said Dona.

Round the very next turn of the road, however, the girls met the invalid carriage coming up from the town. It was loaded as usual with many packages, over the top of which Eric's small white face peered out. He waved a gleeful welcome at the sight of his fairy ladies.

"I've read all the stories you sent me," he began, "and I've nearly finished chalking the painting-book. I like those post cards of fairies. I've put them all in the post-card album."

"He thinks such a lot of the things you send him," volunteered Lizzie. "His ma says she doesn't know how to thank you. It keeps him amused for hours to have those chalks and puzzles. He sings away to himself over them, as happy as a king."

"I'd like to take his photo while I've got the camera with me," said Marjorie. "Can you turn the pram round a little—so? That's better. I don't want the sun right in his face, it makes him screw up his eyes. Now, Eric, look at me, and put on your best smile. I'm just going——"

"Wait a moment," interrupted Dona. "Look what's coming up the road. You've only two films, remember!"

A contingent of German prisoners were being marched from the station to the camp on the moors. They were tramping along under an escort of soldiers.

"Oh, I must snap them!" exclaimed Marjorie. "But I'll have Eric in the photo too. I can just get them all in."

She moved her position slightly, and pressed her button, then, rapidly winding on the films to the next number, took a second snapshot.

"The light was excellent, and they ought to come out," she triumphed. "How jolly to have got a photo of the prisoners! Eric, you were looking just fine."

"We must be getting on home," said Lizzie. "I've a lot of cleaning to do this afternoon when I get back. Say good-bye to the ladies, Eric."

The little fellow held up his face to be kissed, and Marjorie and Dona hugged him, regardless of spectators on the road.

"You dear wee thing, take care of yourself," said Dona. "Call at the kiosk next time you pass, and perhaps another parcel will have arrived from fairyland."

"I know who the fairies are!" laughed Eric, as his perambulator moved away.

Escorted by the melancholy Hodson, the girls passed a pleasant enough afternoon in Whitecliffe. They visited several shops, and had as good a tea at the cafe as the rationing order allowed, supplementing the rather scanty supply with ices and sweets. It was much too early yet to return to Brackenfield, so they suggested making a detour round the moors, and ending up at school. Hodson acquiesced in her usual lack-lustre manner.

"I'm a good walker, miss," she volunteered. "I don't mind where you go. It's all the same to me, as long as I see you back into school by six o'clock. Mrs. Trafford said I wasn't to let you be late. I've brought my watch with me."

"And we've got ours. It's all right, Hodson, we'll keep an eye on the time."

It was a relief to know that Hodson was a good walker. They felt justified in giving her a little exercise. They were quite fresh themselves, and ready for a country tramp. They left the town by a short cut, and climbed up the cliff side on to the moors. Though they knew Eric would not be there that afternoon, they nevertheless determined to visit their favourite cove. It was an excellent place for flowers, and Dona hoped that she might find a few fresh specimens there.

The girls had reached their old trysting-place, and were gathering some cranesbill geraniums, when a figure suddenly climbed the wall opposite, and dropped down into the road. To their immense amazement it was Miss Norton. She stopped at the sight of her pupils and looked profoundly embarrassed, whether at being caught in the undignified act of scrambling over a wall, or for some other reason, they could not judge.

"Oh! I was just taking a little ramble over the moors," she explained. "The air's very pleasant this afternoon, isn't it?"

"Yes," replied Marjorie briefly. She could think of nothing else to say.

Miss Norton nodded, and passed on without further remark. The girls stood watching her as she walked down the road.

"What's Norty doing up here?" queried Marjorie. "She's not fond of natural history, and she doesn't much like walks."

"She's going towards the village."

"I vote we go too."

They had never yet been to the village, and though Elaine had described it as not worth visiting, they felt curious to see it. It turned out to be a straggling row of rather slummy-looking cottages, with a post office, a general shop, and a public-house. Miss Norton must have already passed through it, for she was nowhere to be seen. Dona stood for a moment gazing into the window of the shop, where a variety of miscellaneous articles were displayed.

"They've actually got Paradise drops!" she murmured. "I haven't bought any for months. I'm going to get some for Ailsa."

Followed by the faithful Hodson, the girls entered the shop. While Dona made her purchase, Marjorie stood by the counter, staring idly out into the road. She saw the door of the post office open, and Miss Norton appeared. The mistress looked carefully up and down the village, then walked hurriedly across the road, and bolted into "The Royal George" opposite. Marjorie gasped. That the august house mistress of St. Elgiva's should visit an obscure and second-rate public-house was surely a most unusual circumstance. She could not understand it at all. She discussed it with Dona on the way back.

"Wanted some ginger pop, perhaps," suggested Dona.

"She could have got that at the shop. They had a whole case of bottles. No, Dona, there's something funny about it. The fact is, I'm afraid Miss Norton is a pro-German. She was sympathizing ever so much with those prisoners who were being marched into camp. She may have come here to leave some message for them. You know it was never found out who put that lamp in the Observatory window; it was certainly a signal, and I had seen Norty up there. I've had my eye on her ever since, in case she's a spy."

"She can talk German jolly well," observed Dona.

"I know she can. She's spent two years in Germany, and said it was the happiest time of her life. She can't be patriotic at heart to say that. Do you know, Winifrede told me that a few days ago she and Jean had noticed such a queer light dancing about on the hills near the camp. It was just as if somebody was heliographing."

"What's heliographing?"

"Dona, you little stupid, you know that! Why, it's signalling by flashing lights. There's a regular code. It's done with a mirror. Well, Brackenfield is right opposite the camp, and it would be quite possible for Norty to be helioing to the prisoners. They're always on the look-out for somebody to communicate with them and help them to escape. I suppose there are hundreds of spies going about in England, and no one knows who they are. They just pass for ordinary innocent kind of people, but they ask all kinds of questions, and pick up scraps of information that will be useful to the enemy. How is it that most of our secrets appear in the Berlin papers? There must be treachery going on somewhere. It's generally in very unsuspected places. One of the teachers in a school might just as well as not be a spy."

"How dreadful!" shuddered Dona.

"Well, you never know. Of course, they don't go about labelled 'In the pay of the Kaiser', but there must be a great many people—English too, all shame to them!—who are receiving money from Germany to betray their country."



CHAPTER XXII

The Magic Lantern

When Marjorie took an idea into her head it generally for the time filled the whole of her mental horizon. She had never liked Miss Norton, and she now mistrusted her. The evidence that she had to go upon was certainly very slight, but, as Marjorie argued, "Straws show how the wind blows", and anyone capable of sympathizing with Germans might also be capable of assisting them. She felt somewhat in the position of Hamlet, doubting whether she had really surprised a dark secret or not, and anxious for more circumstantial evidence before she told others of her suspicions. She strictly charged Dona not to mention meeting Miss Norton in the little hamlet of Sandside, which Dona readily promised. She was not imaginative, and was at present far more interested in rows of cauliflowers or specimens of seaweeds than in problematical German spies.

Marjorie, with several detective stories fresh in her memory, determined to go to work craftily. She set little traps for Miss Norton. She would casually ask her questions about Germany, or about prisoners of war, to judge by her answers where her sympathies lay. The mistress, however, was evidently on her guard, and replied in terms of caution. One thing Marjorie learned which she considered might be a suspicious circumstance. Miss Norton received many letters from abroad. She had given foreign stamps to Rose Butler, who had seen her tear them off envelopes marked "Opened by the censor". The stamps were from Egypt, Malta, Switzerland, Spain, Holland, and Buenos Ayres, a strange variety of places in which to have correspondents, so thought Marjorie.

"Of course they're opened by the censor, but who knows if there isn't a secret cipher under the guise of an ordinary letter? They may have all kinds of treasonable secrets in them. Norty might get information and send it to those friends in foreign countries, and they would telegraph it in code through a neutral country to Berlin."

She ascertained through one of the prefects that Miss Norton intended to spend her holidays in the Isle of Wight. This again seemed extraordinary, for the teacher notoriously suffered greatly from the heat in summer, and yearned for a bracing climate such as that of Scotland; further, she was nervous about air raids, so that the south coast would surely be a very unsuitable spot to select for one who wished to take a restful vacation. Patricia, whose parents had been on a visit to Whitecliffe, and had taken her out on a Saturday afternoon, reported that at the hotel some foreigners—presumably Belgians—were staying, and that she had noticed Miss Norton drinking coffee with them in the lounge.

"Are you sure they were Belgians?" asked Marjorie with assumed carelessness.

"Why, the people in the hotel said so."

"What were they like?"

"Oh, fair and rather fat! One of them was a Madame Moeller. She played the piano beautifully; everybody came flocking into the lounge to listen to her."

"Moeller doesn't sound like a French name."

"Well, I said they were Belgians."

"It has rather a German smack about it. What language were they speaking to each other?"

"Something I couldn't understand. Not French, certainly."

"Was it German?"

"I don't know any German, so I can't tell. It might have been Flemish."

Marjorie several times felt tempted to confide her suspicions to Winifrede, but her courage never rose to the required point. She had an instinct that the head girl would pooh-pooh the whole matter, and either call her a ridiculous child, or be rather angry with her for harbouring such ideas about her house mistress. Winifrede liked to lead, and was never very ready to adopt other people's opinions; it was improbable that she would listen readily to the views of an Intermediate, even of one whom she was patronizing. A head girl is somewhat in the position of the lion in AEsop's fables: it is unwise to offend her. Knowing Winifrede's disposition, Marjorie dared not risk a breach of the very desirable intimacy which at present existed between them. She yearned, however, for a confidante. The burden of her suspicions was heavy to bear alone, and she felt that sometimes two heads were better than one. Except on exeat days she saw little of Dona, and discussing matters with that rather stolid little person was not a very exhilarating performance. In her dilemma she turned to Chrissie. The two had shared the secret of the Observatory window, and Chrissie, one of the most enthusiastic members of their patriotic society, would surely understand and sympathize where Winifrede might laugh or scold. Marjorie felt that she had lately rather neglected her chum. Their squabbles had caused frequent coolnesses, and each had been going her own way. She now made an opportunity to walk with Chrissie down the dingle, and confided to her the whole story of her doubts. Her chum listened very attentively.

"It looks queer!" she commented. "Yes, more than queer! I always set Miss Norton down as a pro-German. Those foreign letters ought to be investigated. I wish I could get hold of some of them. It's our duty to look after this, Marjorie. You're patriotic? Well, so am I. We may be able to render a great service to our country if we can track down a spy. We'll set all our energies to work."

"What are we going to do?" asked Marjorie, much impressed.

"Leave it to me, and I'll think out a plan of campaign. These things are a battle of brains. She's clever, and we've got to outwit her. Who were those foreigners she was talking to in the hotel, I should like to know?"

"That was just what I thought."

"For a beginning we must try to draw her out. Oh, don't ask her questions about her German sympathies, that's too clumsy! She'd see through that in a moment. Let's work the conversation round to military matters and munitions, and get the girls to tell all they've heard of news from the front, and watch whether Norty isn't just snapping it up."

"Wouldn't that be letting her get to know too much?"

"Well, one's obliged to risk something. If you're over-cautious you never get anything done."

"Yes, I suppose you're right. We'll try on Sunday evening after supper. She always comes into the sitting-room for a chat with us then."

Chrissie seemed to have taken up the matter with the greatest keenness. She was evidently in dead earnest about it. Marjorie was agreeably surprised, and on the strength of this mutual confidence her old affection for her chum revived. Once more they went about the school arm in arm, sat next to each other at tea, and wrote each other private little notes. St. Elgiva's smiled again, but the girls by this time were accustomed to Marjorie's very impulsive and rather erratic ways, and did not take her infatuations too seriously.

"Quarrelled with Winifrede?" enquired Patricia humorously. "I thought you were worshipping at her shrine at present."

"Marjorie is a pagan," laughed Rose Butler. "She bows down to many idols."

"I should call Winifrede a more desirable goddess than Chrissie," added Irene.

"Go on, tease me as much as you like!" declared Marjorie. "You're only jealous."

"Jealous! Jealous of Chrissie Lang! Great Minerva!" ejaculated Irene eloquently.

It was about two days after this that Marjorie, passing down the corridor from Dormitory No. 9, came suddenly upon Chrissie issuing out of Miss Norton's bedroom. Marjorie stopped in supreme amazement. Mistresses' rooms were sacred at Brackenfield, unless by special invitation. Miss Norton was not disposed to intimacy, and it was not in the knowledge of St. Elgiva's that she had admitted any girl into her private sanctum.

"Did Norty send for you there?" questioned Marjorie in a whisper.

"Sh, sh!" replied Chrissie. "Come back with me into the dormitory."

She drew her friend inside her cubicle, looked round the room to see that they were alone, then patted her pocket and smiled.

"I've got them!" she triumphed.

"Got what?"

"Norty's foreign letters, or some of them at any rate."

"Chris! You never went into her room and took them?"

"That's exactly what I did, old sport! I'm going to look them over, and put them back before she finds out."

Marjorie gasped.

"But look here! It doesn't seem quite—straight, somehow."

"Can't be helped in the circumstances," replied Chrissie laconically. "We've got to outwit her somehow. It's a case of 'Greek meets Greek'. How else are we to find out anything?"

"I don't know."

The idea of entering a teacher's bedroom and taking and reading her private correspondence was intensely repugnant to Marjorie. Her face betrayed her feeling.

"You'd never do on secret service," said Chrissie, shaking her head. "I thought you were patriotic enough to dare anything for the sake of your country. Go downstairs if you don't want to see these letters. I'll read them by myself."

"I wish you'd put them back at once," urged Marjorie.

"Not till I know what's in them. Here comes Betty! I'm going to scoot. Ta-ta!"

Marjorie followed Chrissie downstairs, but did not join her in the garden. She was not happy about this latest development of affairs. It was one thing to watch Miss Norton by legitimate methods, and quite another to try underhand ways. She wondered whether the service of her country really demanded such a sacrifice of honour. For a moment she felt desperately tempted to run to Winifrede's study, explain the whole situation, and ask her opinion, but she remembered that Winifrede would be writing her weekly essay and would hardly welcome a visitor, or have time to listen to the rather lengthy story which she must pour out. After all, it was an affair that her own conscience must decide. She purposely avoided Chrissie all the evening, while she thought it over. Having slept upon the question, she came to a decision.

"Chris," she said, catching her chum privately after breakfast, "I vote we don't do any more sneaking tricks."

"Sneaking?" Chrissie's eyebrows went up high.

"Yes, you know what I mean. We'll keep a look-out on Norty, but no more taking of letters, please."

Chrissie gazed at her chum with rather an inscrutable expression.

"Right oh! Just as you like. We'll shelve that part of the information bureau and work on other lines. I'm quite agreeable."

That particular day happened to be Miss Broadway's birthday. She lived at St. Elgiva's, so the girls determined to give a little jollification that evening in her honour. There would not be time for much in the way of festivities, but there was a free half-hour after supper, when they could have the recreation room to themselves. It was to be a private affair for their own hostel, and only the mistresses who resided there were invited. The entertainment was to consist of a magic lantern show. Photography had raged lately as a hobby among the Intermediates, and several of them had taken to making lantern slides. Patricia—an indulged only daughter—had persuaded her father to buy her a lantern; it had just arrived, and she was extremely anxious to test its capabilities. She put up her screen and made her preparations during the afternoon, so that when supper was over all was in readiness, and her audience took their places without delay.

Miss Norton, Miss Parker, and Miss Broadway had specially reserved chairs in the front row, and the girls filled up the rest of the room. Some of them, to obtain a better view, squatted on the floor in front of the chairs, Chrissie and Marjorie being among the number. The lantern worked beautifully; Patricia made a capital little operator, and managed to focus very clearly. She first of all showed sets of bought slides, scenes from Italy and Switzerland and photos of various regiments, and when these were finished she turned to the slides which she and her chums had made themselves. There were capital pictures of the school, the cricket eleven, the hockey team, the quadrangle in the snow, the gardening assistants, and the tennis champions. They were received with much applause, Miss Norton in particular congratulating the amateur photographers on their successful efforts.

"We haven't had time to do very many," said Patricia, "but I've got just a few more here. This is a good clear one, and interesting too."

The picture which she now threw on the screen showed the road leading to Whitecliffe, up which a contingent of German prisoners appeared, guarded by soldiers. In the foreground was a long perambulator holding a little boy propped up with pillows. It was an excellent photograph, for the contingent had been caught just at the right moment as it faced the camera; both prisoners and guards had come out with remarkable clearness. Something impelled Marjorie to glance at Miss Norton. The house mistress was gazing at the picture with an expression of amazed horror in her eyes. She turned quickly to Irene, who was squatting at her feet, and asked: "Who took that photo?"

"Marjorie Anderson took it, but I made the lantern slide from her film," answered Irene proudly. "We think it's quite one of the best."

"I suppose it was just a snapshot as she stood by the roadside?"

"Yes; it was a very lucky one, wasn't it?"

Marjorie, sitting close by, nudged Chrissie, but did not speak. Miss Norton made no further remark, and Patricia put on the next slide. Afterwards, in the corridor, Marjorie whispered excitedly to Chrissie:

"Did you notice Norty's face? She was quite upset by my photo of the German prisoners."

"Yes, I noticed her."

"Significant, wasn't it?"

"Rather!"

"It's like the play scene in Hamlet. It seems to me she gave herself away."

"She was taken unawares."

"Just as the King and Queen were. You remember how Hamlet watched them all the time? What's happened to-night only confirms our suspicions."

"It does indeed!"

"Perhaps some of her German friends were among the prisoners and she recognized them."

"It's possible."

"Well, it evidently gave her a great shock, and that would account for it."

"The plot thickens!"

"It thickens very much indeed. I'm not sure if we oughtn't to tell somebody."

"No, no! Not on any account!"

"You think so?"

"I'm certain of it. You'll spoil everything if you go blabbing!"

"Well, I won't, if you'd rather not; but I'm just longing to ask Winifrede what she thinks about it all," said Marjorie regretfully.



CHAPTER XXIII

On Leave

The next great event on the horizon of Marjorie and Dona was that Larry was transferred from the London Military Hospital to the Whitecliffe Red Cross Hospital. Mrs. Anderson came to The Tamarisks for a night as soon as he was installed, and paid a flying visit to Brackenfield to see her daughters, and beg an exeat, that she might take them to spend a brief half-hour with their brother. It was neither a Wednesday nor a Saturday, but in the circumstances Mrs. Morrison granted permission; and the girls, rejoicing at missing a music lesson and a chemistry lecture, were borne away by their mother for the afternoon. As they expected, they found Larry established as prime pet of the hospital. He was an attractive lad, already a favourite with his cousin Elaine, and his handsome boyish face and prepossessing manners soon won him the good graces of the other V.A.D.'s.

"I'm having the time of my life!" he assured his family. "I shan't want to go away. They certainly know how to take care of a fellow here. After the trenches it's just heaven!"

"It was hard luck to be wounded when you'd only been at the front three weeks!" sympathized Dona.

"Never mind! I got on the Roll of Honour before my nineteenth birthday!" triumphed Larry. "And I'll go back and have another shot before I'm much older."

"I wish the military age were twenty-one!" sighed Mrs. Anderson.

"And I wished it were fifteen when the war started," laughed Larry. "Never mind, little Muvviekins! Peter and Cyril are kids enough yet; you can tie them to your apron-strings for a while."

"I shall go home feeling quite happy at leaving you in such good hands," declared his mother. "I know you'll be well nursed here."

Events seemed to crowd upon one another, for hardly was Larry settled in the Red Cross Hospital than Leonard got leave, and, after first going home, came for a hurried visit to The Tamarisks in order to see his brother. Mrs. Anderson wrote to Mrs. Morrison asking special permission for the girls to be allowed an afternoon with their brother, whom they had not seen for a year, and again the Principal relaxed her rule in their favour. Marjorie, nearly wild with excitement, came flying into the sitting-room at St. Elgiva's to tell the news to her friends.

"Another exeat! You lucky thing!" exclaimed Betty enviously. "Why can't my brother come to Whitecliffe?"

"Can't you bring him to school and introduce him to us?" suggested Irene.

"Or take some of us out with you?" amended Sylvia.

"We're simply dying to meet him!" declared Patricia.

"He has only the one afternoon to spare," replied Marjorie, "and has promised to take just Dona and me out to tea at a cafe, though I don't mind betting Elaine goes too. I wish I could bring him to school and introduce him. The Empress is fearfully mean about asking brothers. Brackenfield might be a convent."

Chrissie also seemed tremendously interested in Leonard's arrival. She walked round the quad with Marjorie.

"How glorious to have a brother home from the front!" she said wistfully. "If he were mine, I'd nearly worship him. There'd be such heaps of things I'd want to ask him, too. I'd like to hear all about a tank."

"You've seen them on the cinema."

"But only the outside, of course. I want to know exactly how they work. Don't laugh. Why shouldn't I? Surely every patriotic girl ought to be keen on everything in connection with the war. I wish you'd ask him."

"Why, I will if you like."

"You won't forget?"

"I'll try not."

"And there's a new shell we've just been making. I wonder how it answers. I heard we've some new guns too. Would your brother know?"

"Really, I shall never remember all this! Pity you can't come with us and ask him for yourself."

"I believe I could get an exeat——" began Chrissie eagerly.

"I'm sure you couldn't!" snapped Marjorie. "Dona and I are going just by ourselves."

The sisters spent a somewhat disturbed morning. It was difficult to concentrate their minds on lessons when such a delightful outing awaited them in the afternoon. Immediately after dinner they rushed to their dormitories to don their best dresses in honour of Leonard. They knew he would not care to take out two Cinderellas, so they made careful toilets. Marjorie, in front of her looking-glass, replaited her hair, and tied it with her broadest ribbon, chattering all the while to Chrissie, who sat on the bed in her own cubicle.

"Leonard's an old dandy. At least, he was a year ago—the war may have changed him. He used to be most fearfully particular, and notice what girls had on. I remember how savage he was with Nora once for going to church in her old hat, and it was such a wet day, too; she didn't want to spoil her new one. He always kept his trousers in stretchers, and his boots had to be polished ever so—Chrissie, you're not listening. Actually opening letters! You mean to say you've not read them yet, and you got them this morning!"

"I hadn't time," said Chrissie, rather abstractedly. She was drawing pound notes out of the envelope.

"Sophonisba! What a lot of money!" exclaimed Marjorie. "It isn't your birthday?"

"No. This is to take me home, of course."

"It won't cost you all that, surely! Doesn't your mother send your railway fare to Mrs. Morrison? Mine always does."

"My mother wouldn't like me to be short of money on the journey," remarked Chrissie serenely, locking up the notes in her little jewel-box.

At precisely half-past two the melancholy Hodson arrived at the school, and escorted Marjorie and Dona to The Tamarisks. Here they found Leonard, and it was a very happy meeting between the brother and sisters.

"Leonard shall take you into the town," said Aunt Ellinor. "I know you'll like to have him to yourselves for an hour. No, Elaine can't go. She's on extra duty at the Red Cross this afternoon."

"I have to be back in the ward by half-past three," smiled Elaine. "Yes, I'll give your love to Larry. I'm sorry you can't see him to-day, but the Commandant's a little strict about visiting."

"We'll concentrate on Leonard," declared the girls.

It was an immense satisfaction to them to trot off one on each side of their soldier brother. They felt very proud of him as they walked along the Promenade, and noticed people glance approvingly at the good-looking young officer. After going on the pier and doing the usual sights of Whitecliffe, Leonard took them to the Cliff Hotel and ordered tea on the terrace. Dona and Marjorie were all smiles. This was far superior to a cafe. The terrace was delightful, with geraniums and oleanders in large pots, and a beautiful view over the sea. They had a little table to themselves at the end, underneath a tree. It was something to have a brother home from the front.

"Tell us everything you do out in France," begged Dona.

"You wouldn't like to hear everything, Baby Bunting," returned Leonard gravely. "It's not fit for your ears. Be glad that you in England don't see anything of the war. There's one little incident I can tell you, though. We'd marched many miles through the night over appalling ground under scattered shell-fire, and were only in our place of attack half an hour before the advance started up the ridge. That night march is a story in itself, but that's not what I'm going to tell you now. We drew close to one of the blockhouses, and the sound of our cheering must have been heard by the Germans inside those concrete walls. The barrage had just passed, and its line of fire, volcanic in its fury, went travelling ahead. Suddenly out of the blockhouse a dozen men or so came running, and we shortened our bayonets. From the centre of the group a voice shouted out in English: 'I'm a Warwickshire man, don't shoot! I'm an Englishman!' The man who called had his hands up in sign of surrender, like the German soldiers.

"'It's a spy!' said one of our men. 'Kill the blighter!'

"The voice again rang out: 'I'm English!'

"And he was English, too. It was a man of a Warwickshire regiment, who had been captured on patrol some days before. The Germans had taken him into their blockhouse—and because of our gun-fire they could not get out of it—and kept him there. He was well treated, and his captors shared their food with him, but the awful moment came for him when the drum-fire passed, and he knew that unless he held his hands high he would be killed by our own troops."

"How awful!" shivered Dona.

"Tell us some more tales about the war," begged Marjorie.

"I might have been killed one evening," said Leonard, "if it hadn't been for a friend. We were carrying dispatches, and fell into an ambush. I owe it to Winkles that I'm here to-day. He fought like a demon. I never saw such a fellow!"

"Who's Winkles?"

"Oh, an awfully good chap, and so humorous! I've never once seen him down. I've got his photo somewhere, I believe. I took a snapshot of him once."

"Oh, do show it to us!"

Leonard searched through his pockets, and after turning out an assortment of letters and papers produced a small photograph for inspection. The girls bumped their heads together in their eagerness to look at it. It had been taken in camp, and represented the young soldier in the act of raising a can of coffee to his lips. There was a pleased smile on the whimsical face, and a twinkle in the dark eyes. Marjorie caught her breath.

"Why, why!" she gasped. "It's surely Private Preston!"

"That's his name right enough. We call him Winkles, though. He's a lieutenant now, by the way—got his commission just lately."

"But—I thought he was killed?"

"Not a bit of it! I heard from him yesterday."

"He was in the Roll of Honour," urged Marjorie, still unable to believe.

"No, he wasn't. That was his brother Henry, who was in the same regiment—a nice chap, though nothing to Winkles."

Marjorie sat in a state of almost dazed incomprehension. A black cloud seemed suddenly to have rolled away from her, and she had not yet had time to readjust herself. As in a dream she listened to Dona's explanation.

"He was in the Red Cross Hospital here, and we saw him when Elaine took us to the Christmas tree."

"Was it Whitecliffe? I knew he'd been in a Red Cross Hospital, but never heard which one," commented Leonard.

"He was going on to a convalescent home," continued Dona.

"He came back to the front before he was really fit," said Leonard. "The poor chap had had influenza, but he was so afraid of being thought a shirker that he made a push to go. He was laid up with a touch of pneumonia, I remember, a week after he rejoined."

"Will he get leave again?" faltered Marjorie.

"Yes, next month, he hopes. They don't live such a very long way from Silverwood, and he said he'd try to go over and see the Mater. She'd give him a welcome, I know."

"Rather!" agreed the girls.

"We shall be at home in August," added Dona.

Marjorie, however, said nothing. There are some joys that it is quite impossible to express to outsiders.

"I'm glad they've made him a lieutenant," she said to herself.



CHAPTER XXIV

The Royal George

When Leonard brought Marjorie and Dona back to The Tamarisks there was still one more golden half-hour before they need return to school. Aunt Ellinor proposed tennis, and suggested that her nephew should play his sisters while she sat and acted umpire. The game went fairly evenly, for Leonard was agile and equal to holding his own, though it was one against two. They were at "forty all" when Dona made a rather brilliant stroke. Leonard sprang across the court in a frantic effort to get the ball, missed it, slipped on the grass, and fell. The girls laughed.

"You've been a little too clever for once," called Dona. "That's our game!"

"Get up, you old slacker!" said Marjorie.

But Leonard did not get up. He stayed where he was on the lawn, looking very white. Mrs. Trafford ran to him in alarm.

"What's the matter?" she cried.

"I believe I've broken my ankle—I felt it snap."

The accident was so totally unexpected that for a moment everyone was staggered, then, recovering her presence of mind, Aunt Ellinor, with Marjorie and Dona's help, applied first aid, while Hodson hurried into Whitecliffe to fetch the doctor. He was fortunately at home, and came at once. He helped to carry Leonard into the house, set the broken bone, and settled him in bed.

"You'll have to stay where you are for a while," he assured him. "There'll be no walking on that foot yet. It'll extend your leave, at any rate."

"I can't imagine how I was such an idiot as to do it," mourned Leonard. "I just seemed to trip, and couldn't save myself."

"We'll borrow you some crutches from the Red Cross when you're well enough to use them," laughed the doctor. "You'll be well looked after here. Miss Elaine is one of my best nurses at the hospital."

Marjorie and Dona arrived back at school late for Preparation, but were graciously forgiven by Mrs. Morrison when they explained the unfortunate reason of their delay.

"It's ripping to have both Leonard and Larry at Whitecliffe," said Dona to Marjorie in private.

"Rather! I think I know one person who won't altogether regret the accident."

"Leonard?"

"Yes, Leonard certainly; but somebody else too."

"I know—Elaine."

"She'll have the time of her life nursing him."

"And he'll have the time of his life being nursed by Elaine," laughed Dona.

It was now getting very near the end of the term, and each hostel, according to its usual custom, was beginning to devise some form of entertainment to which it could invite the rest of the school. After much consultation, St. Elgiva's decided on charades. A cast was chosen consisting of eight girls who were considered to act best, Betty, Chrissie, and Marjorie being among the number. No parts were to be learnt, but a general outline of each charade was to be arranged beforehand, the performers filling in impromptu dialogue as they went along. To hit on a suitable word, and think out some telling scenes, now occupied the wits of each of the chosen eight. They compared notes constantly; indeed, when any happy thought occurred to one, she made haste to communicate it to the others.

An inspiration came suddenly to Marjorie during cricket, and when the game was over she rushed away to unburden herself of it. She had thought several of the performers might be in the recreation room, but she found nobody there except Chrissie, who sat writing at the table.

"I've a lovely idea, Chris!" she began. "You know that word we chose, 'cough', 'fee'—'coffee'; well, we'll have the first syllable in a Red Cross Hospital, and the second in an employment bureau, and a girl can ask if there's any fee to pay; and the whole word can be a scene in a drawing-room. Chrissie, do stop writing and listen!"

Her chum shut up her geometry textbook rather reluctantly. She was putting in extra work before the exams, and was loath to be interrupted. She kept on drawing angles on her blotting-paper almost automatically.

"They'd be ripping if we could get the right properties," she agreed. "Could we manage beds enough to look like a hospital? Yes, those small forms would do, I dare say. The employment bureau will be easy enough. The drawing-room scene would be no end, if we could make it up-to-date. I ought to be an officer home on leave, and you're my long-lost love, and we have a dramatic meeting over the coffee cups!"

"Gorgeous! Oh, we must do it! Shall I droop tenderly into your arms? What shall I wear?"

"Some outdoor costume, with a picturesque hat. I must have a uniform, of course."

"A brown waterproof with a leather belt?"

Chrissie pulled a face.

"I hate these make-ups out of girls' clothes! I'd like a real genuine uniform to do the thing properly."

"But we couldn't get one!"

"Yes, we could. It's your exeat on Wednesday, and you might borrow your brother's. He's in bed, and can't wear it."

"What a ripping notion!" gasped Marjorie. "But I couldn't carry a great parcel back to school. Norty'd see it, and make one of her stupid fusses."

"We must smuggle it, then. Look here, when you go to your aunt's make the clothes into a parcel and leave it just inside the gate. I've a friend at Whitecliffe, and I'll manage to write to her and ask her to call and take it, and drop it over the wall at Brackenfield for me."

"Won't Norty ask where we got it, when she sees you wearing it?"

"She might be nasty about it beforehand, but I don't believe she'd say anything on the evening, especially if the charade goes off well. It's worth risking."

"You'd look ripping in Leonard's uniform! Of course it would be too big."

"That wouldn't matter. Will you get it for me?"

"Right oh!"

"Good. Then I'll write to my friend."

"You're writing now!" chuckled Marjorie, for Chrissie had been scribbling idly on the blotting-paper while she talked. "Look what you've put, you goose! 'Christine Lange!' Don't you know how to spell your own name? I didn't think it had an e at the end of it!"

Chrissie flushed scarlet. For a moment she looked overwhelmed with confusion; then, recovering herself, she forced a laugh.

"What an idiot I am! I can't imagine why I should stick on an extra e. Lang is a good old Scottish name."

"Are you related to Andrew Lang, the famous author?"

"I believe there's a family connection."

The charades were to be held on the evening of the next Wednesday, after supper, which was fixed half an hour earlier to allow sufficient time for the festivities afterwards. That afternoon would be Marjorie's and Dona's last exeat before the holidays, and they were determined to make the most of it. They would, of course, visit Leonard and Larry, and they also wished if possible to say good-bye to Eric. They had begged Elaine to leave a note at the kiosk, asking him to be waiting at their old trysting-place on the cliffs at five o'clock, and they meant to take him some last little presents. If they did not see him to-day it would be the end of September before they could meet again.

"He'll miss the fairy ladies when we've gone home," said Dona. "Sweet darling! I wish we could take him with us!"

"I wonder if he ever goes away?" speculated Marjorie.

"I shouldn't think he'd be strong enough to travel."

When the girls arrived at The Tamarisks they found Leonard installed in bed, a remarkably cheerful invalid, and apparently not fretting over his enforced period of rest.

"I've got a little Red Cross Hospital here all to myself," he informed his sisters. "A jolly nice one, too! I can thoroughly recommend it. I shan't want to budge."

"Then they'll send an army doctor down to examine you for shirking," laughed Marjorie.

"I can't hop back to the front on one leg," objected Leonard.

Elaine was head nurse in the afternoons, an arrangement which seemed to be appreciated equally by herself and the patient.

"I'd run up with you to the Red Cross Hospital to see Larry," she assured Marjorie and Dona, "but I oughtn't to leave Leonard. Hodson shall take you, and go on with you to the cove afterwards. Give my love to Eric. I hope the dear little fellow is better. I bought the things for him, as you asked me. They're on the table in the hall. We'll have tea in Leonard's room before you start."

Under a pretence of inspecting Eric's presents, Marjorie ran downstairs. She wanted somehow to get hold of Leonard's uniform, and she was afraid that if she mentioned it, Elaine, in her capacity of nurse, would say no.

"I shan't ask," decided Marjorie. "Elaine is a little 'bossy', and inclined to appropriate Leonard all to herself at present. Surely his own sister can borrow his uniform. I know it's in the dressing-room. I could see it, and I got up and shut the door on purpose. I'll go round by the other door and take it."

The deed was quickly done. Leonard's suit-case was lying open on the floor, and she packed in it what she wanted, not without tremors lest Elaine should come in suddenly from the bedroom and catch her. She could hear nurse and invalid laughing together. Bag in hand, she hurried downstairs and out into the garden. Down by the gate a woman was already hanging about waiting. It would be the work of a moment to give it to her. But Marjorie had not calculated upon Dona. That placid young person usually accepted whatever her elder sister thought fit to do. On this occasion she interfered.

"What are you doing with Leonard's suit-case?" she asked.

Marjorie hastily explained.

"Don't," begged Dona promptly. "Leonard will be fearfully savage about it. How are you going to get his things back to him?"

"I don't know," stammered Marjorie. She had, indeed, never thought about it.

"I've been watching that woman," urged Dona, "and I don't like her. She asked me if this were 'The Tamarisks', and she speaks quite broken English. You mustn't give her Leonard's uniform."

"But I promised to get it for Chrissie to act in."

"Marjorie, I tell you I don't trust Chrissie."

The woman, seeing the two girls, came inside the gate, and advanced smilingly towards them. Marjorie, annoyed at Dona's interference, and anxious to have her own way, greeted the stranger effusively.

"Have you come for the bag? For Miss Lang? Thanks so much. Here it is!"

Then for once in her life Dona asserted herself.

"No, it isn't!" she snapped, and, snatching the bag from her sister's hand, she rushed with it into the house.

Marjorie followed in a towering passion, but her remonstrances were useless. Dona, when she once took an idea into her head, was the most obstinate person in the world.

"Leonard's things are back in the dressing-room, and I've opened the door wide into his bedroom," she announced doggedly. "If you want to get them you'll have to take them from under Elaine's nose."

Full of wrath, Marjorie had nevertheless to make the best of it. The woman had vanished from the garden, and Elaine was calling to them that tea was ready in Leonard's bedroom. The invalid had a splendid appetite, and, as his nurse did not consider that he ought to be rationed, the home-made war buns disappeared rapidly.

"It's top-hole picnicking here with you girls," he announced. "Wouldn't some of our fellows at the front be green with envy if they only knew!"

Marjorie was distant with Dona all the way to the Red Cross Hospital, but recovered her temper during the ten minutes spent with Larry. They were not allowed to stay long, as it was out of visiting hours, though Elaine had obtained special permission from the Commandant for them to call and say good-bye to him. Still laughing at his absurd jokes, they rejoined Hodson, and set off along the road over the moor. As they neared the cove they looked out anxiously to see if Eric were at the usual trysting-place, but there was no sign of him to-day. They sat down and waited, thinking that the long perambulator had probably been wheeled into Whitecliffe, and had not yet returned. In about ten minutes Lizzie came hurrying up alone.

"I've run all the way!" she panted. "He got your letter, did Eric, and he was that set on coming, but he's very ill to-day and must stop in bed. He's just fretting his heart out because he can't say good-bye to you. He'll say nothing all the time but 'I want my fairy ladies—I want my fairy ladies!' His ma said she wondered if you'd mind coming in for a minute just to see him. It's not far. It would soothe him down wonderful."

"Why, of course we'll go," exclaimed the girls with enthusiasm. "Poor little chap! What a shame he's ill!"

"I hope it's nothing infectious?" objected Hodson, mindful of her duties.

"Oh no! It's his heart," answered Lizzie. "He's got a lot of different things the matter with him, and has had ever so many doctors," she added almost proudly.

She led the way briskly to the little village of Sandside. Where did Eric live, the girls were asking themselves. They had always wondered where his home could be. To their amazement Lizzie stopped at the "Royal George" inn, and motioned them to enter. Hodson demurred. She was an ardent teetotaller, and also she doubted if Mrs. Trafford would approve of her nieces visiting at a third-rate public-house.

"Wait for us outside, Hodson," said Marjorie rather peremptorily.

"I'll go into the post office," she agreed unwillingly. "You won't be long, will you, miss?"

The passage inside the inn was dark, and the stairs were steep, and a smell of stale beer pervaded the air. It seemed a strange place for such a lovely flower as Eric to be growing. Lizzie went first to show the way. She stopped with her hand on the latch of the door.

"His ma's had to go and serve in the bar," she explained, "but his aunt's just come and is sitting with him."

Dona and Marjorie entered a small low bedroom, clean enough, though rather faded and shabby. In a cot bed by the window lay Eric, white as his pillow, a frail ethereal being all dark eyes and shining golden curls. He stretched out two feeble little arms in welcome.

"Oh, my fairy ladies! Have you really come?" he cried eagerly.

It was only when they had both flown to him and kissed him that the girls had time to notice the figure that sat by his bedside—a figure that, with red spots of consternation on its cheeks, rose hastily from its seat.

"Miss Norton!" they gasped, both together.

The mistress recovered herself with an effort.

"Sit down, Dona and Marjorie," she said with apparent calm, placing two chairs for them. "I did not know you were Eric's fairy ladies. It is very kind of you to come and see him."

"This is Titania," said the little fellow proudly, snuggling his hand into his aunt's. "She knows more fairy tales than there are in all the books. You never heard such lovely tales as she can tell. Another, please, Titania!"

"Not now, darling."

"Please, please! The one about the moon maiden and the stars."

The dark eyes were pleading, and the small mouth quivered. The child looked too ill to be reasoned with.

"Don't mind us," blurted out Marjorie, with a catch in her voice. Dona was blinking some tear-drops out of her eyes.

Then a wonderful thing happened, for Miss Norton, beforetime the cold, self-contained, strict house mistress, dropped her mask of reserve, and, throwing a tender arm round Eric, began a tale of elves and fairies. She told it well, too, with a pretty play of fancy, and an understanding of a child's mind. He listened with supreme satisfaction.

"Isn't it lovely?" he said, turning in triumph to the girls when the story was finished.

"We must trot now, darling," said his aunt, laying him gently back on the pillow. "What? More presents? You lucky boy! Suppose you open them after we've gone. You'll be such a tired childie if you get too excited. I'll send Lizzie up to you. Say good-bye to your fairy ladies."

"Good-bye, darling Bluebell! Good-bye, darling Silverstar! When am I going to see you again?"

Ah, when indeed? thought Dona and Marjorie, as they walked down the steep dark stairs of the little inn.



CHAPTER XXV

Charades

Hodson was waiting in the road when they came out. Miss Norton spoke to her kindly.

"We need not trouble you to take the young ladies back to Brackenfield, they can return with me across the moor," she said. "I dare say you are anxious to get home to The Tamarisks."

"Yes, thank you, m'm, it's got rather late," answered Hodson gratefully, setting off at once along the Whitecliffe Road.

The girls and Miss Norton took a short cut across the moor. They walked on for a while in silence. Then the mistress said:

"I didn't know it was you two who have been so kind to Eric. I should like to explain about him, and then you'll understand. My eldest brother married very much beneath him. He died when Eric was a year old, and his wife married again—a man in her own station, who is now keeping the 'Royal George'. I can't bear to think of Eric being brought up in such surroundings, but I have no power to take him away; his mother and step-father claim him. I had planned that when he is a little older I would try to persuade them to let me send him to a good preparatory school, but now"—her voice broke—"it is not a question of education, but whether he will grow up at all. I am writing for a specialist to come and see him next week. I won't give up hope. He's the only boy left in our family. Both my other brothers were killed at the beginning of the war." She paused for a moment, and then went on. "I'm sure you'll understand that I did not want anybody at Brackenfield to know that my relations live at a village inn. I have not spoken of it to Mrs. Morrison. May I ask you both to keep my secret and not to mention the matter at school?"

"We won't tell a soul, Miss Norton," the girls assured her.

"Thank you both for your kindness to Eric," continued the house mistress. "You have made his little life very bright lately. I need hardly tell you how dear he is to me."

"He's the most perfect darling we've ever met," said Dona.

After that they walked on again without speaking. All three were busy with their own thoughts. Marjorie's brain was in a whirl. She was trying to readjust her mental attitude. Miss Norton! Miss Norton, whom she had mistrusted and suspected as a spy, was Eric's idolized aunt, and had gone to the Royal George on no treacherous errand, but to tell fairy tales to an invalid child! When the cold scholastic manner was dropped she had caught a glimpse of a beautiful and tender side of the mistress's nature. She would never forget Miss Norton's face as she held the little fellow in her arms and kissed him good-bye.

"I'm afraid I've utterly misjudged her!" decided Marjorie. "I see now why she was so upset about that lantern slide I took. It was because Eric was in it. It had nothing to do with the German prisoners. After all, anybody can receive foreign letters if they've relations abroad, and perhaps she's going to stay with friends in the Isle of Wight. As for those Belgians in the hotel, perhaps they were genuine ones. We had Belgian guests ourselves at the beginning of the war, and couldn't understand a word of the Flemish they talked."

Marjorie ran upstairs to her dormitory as soon as she reached St. Elgiva's, and found Chrissie waiting for her there.