"I want to introduce you to some fresh partners. There are plenty of people anxious to know you!" she said to Bevis archly. Then, tapping Mavis with her fan, she continued, laughing, "Naughty girl! You mustn't keep him all to yourself! I really can't! allow it!"

Poor Mavis blushed magenta, and stood aside while her hostess whisked the unwilling Bevis away and remorselessly fixed up the rest of his programme for him. She did not attempt to find a partner for Mavis, who was too overwhelmed with confusion to care to dance even with Lizzie Colville, and who backed towards the piano and began to turn over the music. Inwardly Mavis was raging, though she had sufficient pride to preserve an outward calm.

"If there's anything here you know I'd be grateful if you could play it and give me a rest, my hands are so stiff," said Mrs. Colville, who had volunteered to act as pianist for the evening.

"I'll try with pleasure!" answered Mavis, taking her place.

She was glad to have an excuse for not dancing. She only wished she could have run away from The Warren and gone straight home and poured out her troubles to her mother. The Glyn Williams had cut Bevis in the old days and poured scorn on the Ramsays for knowing him, and it seemed too bad that their present hospitality to him should still be a subject for blame. Mavis's pride kept her at the piano all the rest of the evening. She was a good reader, and assured Mrs. Colville that she liked playing. She shook her head when Bevis came for his fourth dance.

"Please get another partner! I'm busy here! Mrs. Glyn Williams will find you somebody!"

Whereupon Bevis, muttering very uncomplimentary remarks about his hostess under his breath, deliberately passed by several eligible wallflowers, chose out the youngest child in the room, and led her off in a valse.

Merle, who was still an absolute schoolgirl and revelled in anything in the nature of a party, enjoyed her evening supremely. Mavis was very glad when it was all over and she was quiet in bed. Some new element seemed to have entered to-night into her old happy world and to have rubbed the bloom off her innocent friendship with Bevis.

"It was so jolly in the old days when we hunted for primroses and had picnics in Blackthorn Bower!" she thought. "It's not ourselves who have changed, but other people who won't allow us to be the same. Why couldn't things go on as they were? If this is society I don't like it! Oh, dear! I wish we could always stay exactly as we are and never grow up at all!"



CHAPTER X

The Mumps

When the Christmas holidays were over, a very important decision was arrived at with regard to Clive. For many reasons his parents considered his preparatory school too strenuous for him, and, as he had considerably outgrown his strength, it was arranged to allow him to miss the spring term and to stay at Durracombe until Easter. He was to go every morning to the Vicarage for private lessons from Mr. Carey, and he was to be out of doors as much as possible, drink plenty of milk, and try, as his grandfather expressed it, to 'put on flesh.' Master Clive himself was only too well content to have what he justly considered a continuation of his holidays. He did not mean to be too clever over his lessons at the Vicarage, and, indeed, he planned to make a little work go a long way. Being out of doors as much as possible suited him exactly. He strutted about Durracombe, with a rolling naval walk, making friends with everybody, and telling them he had quite determined to go to sea and become an Admiral. He went out motoring with his grandfather or Dr. Ramsay, and he spent a considerable portion of time with Tom, the old gardener, who was long-suffering in many ways, though roused to wrath by any injury to his young bedding-out plants. Mrs. Ramsay 'mothered' Clive, feeling it was some return for the kindness which Uncle David had shown to her own girls. She grew fond of the young scapegrace and covered his escapades as far as possible, so as not to alarm nervous Aunt Nellie, who would have been much perturbed at some of her grandson's reckless performances.

There was no harm about Clive; he was simply a young, restless, fast- growing boy, who constantly wanted fresh outlets for his energies. He loved to tease his cousins, but met his match in Merle, who generally turned the tables and carried the war into the enemy's camp. When they were not sparring or playing jokes upon one another, the two were firm allies. Merle had always wished for a brother, and lively Clive was a companion after her own heart. Mrs. Ramsay, indeed, complained that her younger daughter was becoming an utter tomboy, but she was glad for the two to be together, as she could trust Merle not to allow her cousin to go too far, and to keep him from endangering either his own limbs or the safety and comfort of other people.

The Spring term had advanced only a few weeks when a most untoward thing happened. Merle got mumps! How she picked them up nobody knew, but, as mother said, in a doctor's house you may always be prepared to catch anything, and it was a marvel the children had had so few complaints. Merle was not really very ill, but her face and neck were swollen and painful, and, worst of all, she was considered in a highly infectious condition and was carefully isolated in a top bedroom. Neither Mavis nor Clive had had mumps, and it was hoped they might escape, though as they had been with Merle the germs might still be incubating. Mavis was, of course, not allowed to go to 'The Moorings,' and Clive was debarred from his lessons at The Vicarage, and they had to preserve a species of quarantine, equally trying to them both, for at Dr. Tremayne's suggestion Mavis turned temporary governess to Clive and coached him in several subjects in which he was deficient. The young rascal, highly aggrieved at this unexpected tuition, took liberties with his gentle cousin which he would not have dared to take with Mr. Carey, and extracted as much fun as possible from his studies. Mavis was quite sure he made mistakes on purpose, and pretended to be stupid in order to reduce the standard of what was required, but the main object was to keep him quiet and out of mischief, and her teaching served that end at any rate.

"I wouldn't be a mistress in a boys' preparatory school if they offered me a thousand a year!" she told Mother. "I'd rather clean doorsteps, or sew buttons on shirts at a farthing a dozen, or sell watercress, or wash dishes in a restaurant!"

"Nonsense! It's not so bad as all that, surely!" laughed Mrs. Ramsay. "If you knew how the little wretch rags me! I only wish it was Merle who had to teach him and that I had the mumps instead. It must be nice and quite comfortable by the fire upstairs!"

Merle, however, did not at all appreciate the privilege of being ill and confined to one room. She was not so fond of indoor amusements as her sister, and soon tired of reading and drawing and games of patience. Her great grievance was that she was left so much alone. Mrs. Ramsay had to attend to Aunt Nellie, to answer the telephone, and to interview patients who came while the doctors were out and to take their messages, as well as to do the housekeeping, so she was kept constantly busy and had not much time to sit upstairs with Merle. Dr. Tremayne and her father paid her flying visits, but these were too short to content her.

"What's five minutes out of a long day?" she asked. "It's too bad! When Mavis used to have bronchitis we all almost lived in her bedroom. Nobody makes the least fuss about me! You don't even look decently sorry or very sympathetic! You come smiling in as if mumps were a sort of joke. It isn't a smiling matter to me, I can tell you. I'm fed up with them!"

"Poor old lady! It's a shame to laugh at your big face! Shall I cry instead?" said Father.

"It wouldn't seem quite so heartless!" retorted his indignant patient.

Next day Merle received a letter, which was pushed under the door. It was all in rhyme, and as it was in Dr. Ramsay's handwriting she concluded that her father must have sat up late the night before courting the muse of poetry. His verses ran as follows:

MERLE WITH MUMPS

When Merle was suffering from the mumps She felt most down and in the dumps; Her friends, to cheer her up the while, Laughed at her face to make her smile.

But eyeing with reproach her folk She told them 'twas a sorry joke. "Hard-hearted wretches," so she cried, "To jeer while here upstairs I bide!"

Having no bad intent to tease her, But wishing only just to please her, Her family then ceased their jeers And showed their sympathy in tears.

Her mother, who her pillow set, Dropped tears and made the room quite wet, And gurgled forth, "Alack-a-day, That here upstairs with mumps you stay!"

Her uncle just outside the door Sobbed till his chest was hoarse and sore, And, swallowing in his throat some lumps, He mourned, "My Niece has got the mumps"

The maids who came her plight to see Splashed tears in cups of milk or tea; The room it grew so very damp Her limbs began to feel the cramp.

Her father to her chamber crept, And lifted up his voice and wept; With kerchief of capacious size He stood and groaned and mopped his eyes.

So big the tears that from him fell They were enough to make a well, And, standing in a pool of water, He sighed, "Alack! my mumpsy daughter!"

"Stop! Stop!" cried Merle, "O don't be sad! These waterworks will drive me mad! Good gracious, how I wish you'd smile Instead of weeping all the while!

"Cheer up, for goodness' sake, I pray, And treat me in your usual way. No more I'll call you hearts of leather, In spite of mumps we'll laugh together!"

Perhaps the family thought they had not done enough to relieve the tedium of Merle's banishment; at any rate they set to work and made great efforts to amuse her. Mavis sketched her portrait, adding wings and a halo, and printed underneath "Saint Merle suffering her Martyrdom." Mother clicked away on the typewriter, and deposited a document in her daughter's room, which claimed to be:

Extract from "The Durracombe and Devon Times"

SOCIETY GOSSIP

It is with sincere regret that we record the indisposition of that leader of our local social life, Miss Merle Ramsay. Well known for her dramatic talent, she lately acted the part of principal boy at an important performance held in Chagmouth, the Metropolis of the West. Her audience, which included some of the most celebrated critics and press representatives of the neighbourhood, was unanimous in acknowledging her spirited conception of what was certainly a difficult and delicate role, which, in less skilled hands than hers, might have degenerated into buffoonery or sheer melodrama. She was greatly to be congratulated on her achievement, and it is hoped this is not the last time she will appear on the boards and give Devon audiences the opportunity of enjoying her rare humour. It may be noted that, in addition to her powers of dramatic representation, Miss Ramsay has no mean record in the world of sport.

Her athletic proclivities are marked, and she has the distinguished honour of being president of the Games Club at that great west country centre of education 'The Moorings.' Among her many activities Miss Ramsay numbers a facility in music and an affection for horticulture; she has travelled much in the immediate neighbourhood of Durracombe, and her favourite hobby is motoring.

Miss Ramsay, who through the nature of her indisposition was unable to afford our press representative a personal interview, sent messages of thanks for the local sympathy expressed for her condition.

"It is a matter of much gratification to me to know that I am missed," were her words; "I trust soon to be back at work and to be able to fulfil my many engagements." At the request of the local Entertainments Committee we are asked to state that, owing to the absence of their most prominent member, no further performances will be given for the present. We wish Miss Ramsay a speedy return to health.

Merle laughed very much over these literary effusions, and they certainly had the effect of cheering her up. What she pined for chiefly, however, was company. She had a very sociable disposition and hated to be alone. She particularly missed Clive, who had grown to be her best playfellow. She begged for the dog or the cat to share her solitude, but that was strictly forbidden on the ground that they might be germ-carriers and convey the mumps to others. One day she was sitting at her table trying to amuse herself with an everlasting game of patience, when she suddenly heard peculiar noises on the roof above. There was a scraping and bumping, as if an eagle or some other enormous bird had alighted there. The sounds continued till at last there was a thump on the skylight and Clive's mischievous face appeared grinning down at her. Immensely thrilled she lifted the window, and he crawled farther along and thrust his head through.

"Hello, old girl! How are you getting on? I say! You do look rather a sight! I wanted to have a squint at you! Are you going to have your photo taken?"

"Don't be a young beast! How did you get up here?"

"They're repainting the house next door, so I took French leave and borrowed the tall ladder. I've had rather a business clambering about till I found your window. I say, does your face hurt?"

"Not much now, but it did at first."

"You look like the picture of the fat woman at a fair!"

"Wait till you get it yourself, and then I'll jeer."

"I'm awfully sorry for you! Look here, I've brought you some toffee. Can you catch it if I throw it down? I've finished that boat we were making. Tom helped me. Mavis is hemming some sails; then I'm going to try it on the reservoir. I wish you could come with me!"

"So do I," said the patient dolefully. "But that's out of the question. Don't you think you ought to be going back? Suppose somebody takes away the ladder!"

"I'd drop down into your room then."

"And catch the mumps?"

"Shouldn't much care if it meant missing my lessons!"

"I can hear somebody coming upstairs!"

"I'll be off then. Ta-ta! You're not exactly beautiful, but on the whole you don't look so bad as I expected. You needn't tell anybody I came! Bye-bye!"

On the 14th of February Merle was still a prisoner. She had almost forgotten there was such a saint as St. Valentine, so it came as a great surprise to find certain mysterious parcels brought up on her breakfast tray. There were flowers and a packet of chocolates, and a new game of solitaire, and an amusing little mascot dog with a movable head. It was almost like having a birthday. On the top of the parcels was an envelope addressed in a disguised handwriting. It contained a sheet of pink paper bearing the picture of a heart pierced by an arrow, while Cupid drew his bow in the distance. Underneath was written:

"Sweet Merle, of Durracombe the belle, Accept this heart that loves you well: A heart most tender, kind, and true, That lives and beats for only you! 'Twere cruel in this faithful heart To plant and fix so big a dart, So heal its wound I beg and pray, And be my VALENTINE to-day!"

The sender, as is usual in valentines, remained anonymous, and Merle could only guess at the authorship, though she had strong suspicions of Daddy and taxed him with it.

"St. Valentine never lets out secrets!" he twinkled. "He's a most discreet old gentleman. People don't make as much use of him as formerly. Very foolish of them, for he came in extremely handy. It's a pity to let good old customs drop. A St. Valentine revival society might be rather a good idea. By the by, that heart isn't anatomically correct! It looks more like a specimen from a butcher's shop than the human variety!"

"Don't be horrid!" laughed Merle. "You can't expect Cupid to know the difference! He's sent me some nice things. Aren't there any more saints in the calendar who bring presents? What's the next red-letter day?"

"Nothing till Shrove Tuesday, my dear, and by that time, I hope, you'll be downstairs again, and eating your pancakes with the rest of the family."



CHAPTER XI

Bamberton Ferry

Miss Pollard was extremely nervous on the subject of the mumps. She insisted upon waiting until long after the usual period of disinfection before she would allow Mavis and Merle to return to 'The Moorings.'

"One can't be too careful!" she fluttered. "I know in a doctor's house they are apt sometimes to take these things too lightly. It's far better not to run any risks."

As Merle had a medical certificate of complete recovery, and neither Mavis nor Clive had developed the complaint, there was now no reason for keeping the girls away from school, and one Monday morning they were received back into the fold. They had lost a considerable amount of ground in regard to their lessons, and had to work hard to try to make up for the weeks that were missed. At hockey, too, Merle found her teams were slack. It needed much urging to persuade them to play a really sporting game.

"I daren't fix a match yet with any other school," she assured them. "We should only be beaten hollow, and it's no use playing if we have no chance to win. You must all buck up and get more into the swing of things. Perhaps next season we shall be a stronger team."

"If we never play matches we shall never improve," objected Sybil, who was anxious to accept the challenge of the Beverton County School.

"We've got the credit of 'The Moorings' to think about!" snapped Merle. "You wouldn't like them to go home crowing they'd absolutely wiped us off the face of the earth? I've had a little experience in matches and I know what I'm talking about. It would be downright silly to give ourselves away."

Sybil was rather a thorn in Merle's side. She had come from another boarding-school, and on the strength of this experience thought she had the right to become at once a leader at 'The Moorings.' She was very disgusted not to be in any position of authority, and consoled herself by continual criticism of the monitresses, particularly Merle, with whom she was always sparring. She was a curious character, all precept but not much practice. She loved to give good advice and to lay down the law, and was rather priggish in bringing out moral maxims for the benefit of others. She had a tremendous sense of her own importance and what was due to her, and was very ready to consider herself overlooked, or neglected, or misunderstood.

"Look here!" said Merle bluntly one day. "Why, I ask, why should people be expected to make such a fuss over you? I don't wonder you're neglected! I'd neglect you myself! And serve you jolly well right too!"

Whereupon Sybil dissolved into tears, and confided to her nearest friend that so long as Merle Ramsay was monitress she was afraid she would never be happy at 'The Moorings.' Poor Sybil had her good points. She was generous in her own way, and rather affectionate, but nature had not endowed her with tact, and she would go blundering on, never seeing that she was making mistakes. Her very chums soon tired of her and discreetly left her to some one else.

"I sometimes think she's a little bit dotty!" opined Nesta.

"Nonsense! She's as sane as you or I. It's all swank! I've no particular patience with her!" said Merle.

One particularly aggravating feature of Sybil was the way she traded upon rather delicate health. There was really nothing much the matter with her, but she sometimes had slight attacks of faintness, which, the girls declared, always came on when she thought she could be a subject of interest. She liked to extract sympathy from Miss Mitchell, or to arouse Miss Pollard's anxiety. Moreover, it was often a very good excuse for slacking off in her preparation or her practising.

One afternoon Merle, coming back to school, met Miss Mitchell by the gate.

"I was just looking for you!" said the teacher. "I've arranged an extra hockey practice at three, instead of English language. Will you tell the others?"

This was excellent news. The Fifth hated the English Language class, which consisted mostly of learning strings of horrible derivations, and to have it cut out for once in favour of hockey was quite an event. Merle walked up the drive smirking with satisfaction. By the porch she found Sybil, with an English language book in one hand, half-heartedly helping Miss Fanny, who was nailing up creepers. She looked very sorry for herself.

"I wish you'd hold the ladder, Merle!" she sighed, eager to thrust her duties on to a substitute. "I don't feel quite well this afternoon. I get such a faintness. Aren't these derivations too awful for anything?" she added sotto voce. "I don't believe I know one of them."

"Buck up!" whispered Merle with scant sympathy.

"It's all very well to say 'buck up'! You don't know what it is to feel faint. You're as strong as a horse. I'm really not fit to stand about!"

"Shall I ask Miss Fanny to let you go in and lie down?"

"I wish you would! I don't like to ask her myself; it seems making such a fuss."

Merle proffered the request, with which Miss Fanny, rather astonished, complied.

"Certainly, Sybil, if you really are ill! Shall I give you a dose of sal volatile?"

"No, thanks! I shall be all right if I can just rest on my bed," answered the plaintive voice.

"I daresay you'll soon feel better. It's a pity you'll miss the hockey practice," said Merle.

"What hockey practice?"

"Miss Mitchell has just told me to tell everybody. We're to play instead of having English language this afternoon."

Sybil's face was a study. But Miss Fanny's eyes were fixed upon her with such a questioning look that she was obliged to preserve her air of faintness and continue to pose as an invalid. There was nothing for it but to go and lie down. As she turned, however, she managed to whisper to Merle:

"You're the meanest thing on the face of this earth! Why couldn't you tell me sooner about the hockey?"

"Your own fault entirely!" chuckled Merle. "You nailed me straight away to do your job for you. Hope you'll enjoy yourself! Yes, Miss Fanny! I'm coming to hold the ladder! I was only opening the door for Sybil, she still-feels rather faint!"

It was about a week after this episode that Miss Mitchell, who was keen on nature study, took the Fifth form for a botanical ramble. They started punctually at two o'clock, so as to be back as soon as possible after four, on account of Beata Castleton and Fay Macleod, who must not keep Vicary's car waiting. They went off ready for business, all taking note- books and pencils, some carrying tin cases, and some armed with boards with which to press their specimens on the spot. Their exodus was rather characteristic, for Aubrey was chatting sixteen to the dozen, Iva was trying to scoot ahead so as to walk alone with Kitty Trefyre, Muriel was squabbling with Merle as to which should appropriate Miss Mitchell, and Sybil was, as usual, seeking for sympathy.

"I couldn't find my boots! I had to put on my shoes instead, and the heels are worn down and they're not comfortable, and I shall very likely twist my ankle!" she complained. "What would you have done? Ought I to have gone to Miss Pollard and asked her about my boots?"

"And kept everybody waiting? You are the limit!" exclaimed Merle impatiently. "No, I'm not going to hold your case for you while you tie your hair ribbon. You always want to dump your things on to other people."

"You might carry the camera, at any rate!" wailed Sybil.

"Why should I? You insisted on bringing it, though I told you it would be a nuisance."

"It's for your benefit! I'm going to take a group of the whole party."

"Right-o! But don't expect to get the credit and make us carry the camera! You like to do your good deeds so cheaply!"

"Really, Merle!"

"I'm only telling you a few home truths. No, Mavis! I shan't let you load yourself with Sybil's property! You've got quite enough of your own to lug along!"

There was keen competition among the girls as to who could find most specimens. They rooted about in hedgerows, climbed banks, and made excursions into fields. Durracombe was not quite so good a neighbourhood for flowers as Chagmouth; still, they found a fair variety, and were able to chronicle early blooms of such specimens as the greater stitchwort, the ground ivy, and the golden saxifrage. It was a fresh March day, with a wind blowing scudding white clouds across a pale blue sky. Rooks were beginning to build, green foliage showed on the elder trees, and the elms were flowering.

"We shall all be pixie-led if we gather the white stitchwort!" said Mavis. "They're the pixies' flowers, so Mrs. Penruddock told me! It's a very old Devonshire superstition."

"Is that so? I never heard it before," said Miss Mitchell. "I know ever so many of the flowers are supposed to belong to the fairies in various parts of the country. Foxgloves are really 'the good folks' gloves,' and they're called fairies' petticoats in Cheshire, and fairies' hats in Ireland. Wild flax is always fairy flax, and harebells are fairy bells."

"Our old nurse used to call funguses pixie stools," said Edith Carey, "and the hollow ones were pixies' baths. She wouldn't let us pick elder, I can't remember why."

"That's a very old superstition. The 'elder mother' is supposed to live inside the tree, and to be very angry indeed if any harm is done to it. In the good old days, people used to ask her permission before they dared to cut down an elder. They knelt on bended knees and prayed:

"Lady Elder! Lady Elder! Give me some of thy wood.

"There's a story about a man who hadn't the politeness to perform this little ceremony. He made a cradle for his baby out of the elder tree. But the sprite was offended, and she used to come and pull the baby out of the cradle by its legs, and pinch it and make it cry, so that it was quite impossible to leave the poor little thing in the elder cradle, and they had to weave one of basket-work for it instead."

"Tell us some more fairy lore about the plants!" begged the girls.

"Well, the St. John's wort is called 'the fairies' horse.' If you pick it after sunset a fairy horse will rise from the ground and carry you about all night, leaving you in the morning wherever you may chance to be at sunrise. You know if you keep fern-seed in your pockets you'll have the chance of seeing the pixies. The moonwort is supposed to be a very supernatural plant, and to have the power of opening locks if you place a leaf of it in the keyhole. No, I've never tried to burgle with it! I've never found any moonwort. It's an exceedingly rare plant now, and it's not been my luck to come across any. If you're troubled with warts, you ought to go at sunrise to an ash tree, stick a pin into the bark, and say:

"Ashen tree! Ashen tree! I pray thee buy these warts of me!

"Then the ash tree would cure you, that's to say, if you'd repeated the charm properly!"

"I suppose it was always wise to leave a loophole in case the cure didn't come off!" laughed Mavis.

They had been walking by a footpath across the meadows, and found themselves in the little village of Bamberton, a small place with picturesque cottages close to a river. Miss Mitchell, who was an enthusiast upon architecture, marched her party off to view the church, much to the disgust of several of them.

"Don't want to see mouldy old churches! I'd rather be out of doors!" grumbled Merle.

"And there are actually sweet violets growing in a field on the opposite side of the river," said Edith, who knew the neighbourhood.

"Oh, are there? Do let's get some."

"It'll be too late by the time we've been all round the monuments and read the inscriptions and the rest of it!"

"How long will Miss Mitchell stay in the church?"

"A good twenty minutes, I daresay. You can't get her away when she starts talking about architecture. Dad took her round our church one day, and I thought she'd never go. Tea was getting cold, but she went on asking questions about windows and pillars and things!"

"Then why shouldn't we slip out and run and get the violets while she's inside the church with the others?"

It was a naughty thing for a monitress to propose, but even Sybil, who happened to overhear, did not wax moral for the occasion.

"I'll come with you!" she said eagerly. "I'm not at all fond of going round churches, and looking at monuments. It always makes me wonder if I'm going to die young! When Miss Mitchell took us to Templeton Church and read us the epitaphs, I cried afterwards! There was one about a girl exactly my age. 'Sweet flower, nipped off in early bloom,' it said, or something of the sort."

"Don't be so sentimental!" snapped Merle.

"But come with us if you like. Yes, you too, Beata! But for goodness' sake don't tell any one else or they'll all want to come, and if the whole lot try to scoot, it will put a stopper on the thing. We'll wait till the others are inside and then just slide off. Mum's the word, though!"

It was quite easy to loiter among the tombstones pretending to read the inscriptions, but the moment Miss Mitchell and her audience had safely passed through the porch and opened the big nail-studded door, the four confederates turned and fled.

Edith knew a short cut, and took them between rows of graves, regardless of Sybil's protesting shudders, to a tiny stile that led down an alley to the riverside. Here there was a tumbledown wharf, and an old ferryboat which worked on a chain. Years ago a ferryman had had charge of it, but there was so little traffic that it was no longer worth his while, so the boat had been left for passengers to use as they liked. It was lying now at the edge of the wharf. The girls, following Edith, stepped in, and began to wind the boat across the river by pulling the chain. It was rather an amusing means of progression, and they enjoyed their 'Dover- Calais crossing,' as they called it. Arrived at the opposite bank, Edith scrambled out.

"Tie the boat up, somebody!" she called, and set off running over the meadow to the hedge where the violets grew.

Somebody is an exceedingly vague term, and generally means nobody. Merle and Beata went scampering after Edith, and Sybil, who was last, flung the boat chain hastily round a post and followed her friends. The violets were lovely, sweet-scented and blue and modest and everything that orthodox violets ought to be.

The girls gathered delicious, fragrant little bunches, and felt that they were scoring tremendously over those unfortunates who were receiving information about architecture inside the church.

"We mustn't stay too long!" sighed Edith. "It's a pity, but I'm afraid we really ought to go now. They'll be looking for us if we don't."

So they walked back across the meadow to the bank. Here a most unpleasant surprise greeted them. The boat, into which they had meant to step and ferry themselves back, had drifted into the middle of the river.

"Good gracious! Didn't you tie it up?" exclaimed Edith, aghast.

"Of course I did, but-well, I suppose I didn't tie it tight enough. I never thought it would float away," confessed Sybil.

The boat, though still working on the chain which spanned the river, was quite inaccessible from either side. The girls were in an extremely awkward position. Nobody knew where they had gone, and unless it occurred to some of their party to come and seek them by the wharf, or unless some chance passer-by happened to notice their plight, they might wait for a long time without rescue.

"What are we to do?" fumed Beata. "If we're not back at four the 'sardine-tin' will be waiting for me, and Mr. Vicary will be so cross! The last time we were late he went and complained to Father and said he'd have to charge us extra for wasting his time. There was an awful row, and Violet scolded Romola and me, although it was really Tattie's fault."

"Can we get to Durracombe on this side of the river?" suggested Sybil.

Edith shook her head.

"We could; but there isn't a bridge till you get to Parlingford, and that's five miles round. I think we'd better stay here."

"I could slay that wretched boat for playing us such a trick!" said Merle.

Meantime Miss Mitchell and the rest of the girls had finished their survey of the various monuments, and, catching sight of the church clock, realised how late it was, and that they must start back at once. Of course the four truants were missed, and a hasty search was made for them, in the chancel, and behind the organ, and outside among the tombstones.

"They're not anywhere here!" reported the scouts.

"Then they must have walked on," said Miss Mitchell. "Beata knew she had to be back by four o'clock. I expect we shall catch them up on the road. Come along!"



So the party set off at full speed, all unwitting that four disconsolate maidens were marooned on the farther side of the river, waiting for some faerie boat to ferry them across. For a long time no knight-errant arrived for their relief, but at last, as chance would have it, an urchin came down on to the wharf, with a string and a bent pin, intent on fishing. He was at least a link with the outer world, and they yelled hopefully to him across the water. He stopped and stared, then took to his heels and ran, but whether in terror or to fetch help they were uncertain. After what seemed a weary while, however, he returned, escorted by his father, who evidently understood the situation, for he shouted something which the girls could not catch, then went away.

"Has he left us to our fate?" asked Merle indignantly.

"Gone to get somebody else, perhaps!" ventured Edith more hopefully.

She proved correct, for after another eternity of time an old man hobbled on to the wharf, unlocked a boat-house, and slowly took out a punt, by means of which he reached the ferry-boat, climbed in, and worked it across the river to the farther bank.

"Why didn't 'ee fasten up the chain?" he asked; but as he was almost stone-deaf he did not understand either their excuses or professions of gratitude, and simply motioned to them to enter.

Arriving back on the wharf the girls, after subscribing a shilling amongst them to reward their rescuer, hurried up to the churchyard, where, of course, there was no sign of their party, then started as fast as they could to walk along the high road. They had gone perhaps half a mile when they heard a warning hoot behind them, and, looking round, what should Merle see but the little Deemster car with Dr. Tremayne at the driving-wheel. She shouted wildly and stopped him.

"Oh, Uncle David! Are you going back to Durracombe? Could you possibly take Beata at any rate! Her car will be waiting for her at school. We'd be everlastingly grateful!"

"I'll try and cram you all in if you like," smiled Dr. Tremayne. "Open the dickey, Merle!"

It was a decided squash. Edith and Sybil sat in front, and Merle and Beata managed to get together into the little dickey seat behind, where they each held one another in and clutched the hood for support.

"I have to pay a visit, but I'll run you back first," said Uncle David, setting off at a pace that made Merle and Beata cling for their lives as they whisked round corners. They arrived at 'The Moorings' exactly as the town-hall clock was chiming the quarter after four. Mr. Vicary, his face a study of patience, was standing by the side of the 'sardine-tin,' which was already packed for transit, and whose occupants set up a joyful screech of welcome.

"Of course, if Dr. Tremayne motored you back with Merle it's all right, though you ought to have asked me first," said Miss Mitchell, to whom Sybil gave a much edited explanation, omitting the ferry-boat incident altogether, and suppressing the violets.

So the four culprits, who had expected trouble, got off a great deal better than they deserved.



CHAPTER XII

Fifth Form Justice

Easter was coming—Easter with its birds and flowers and hope of summer. Already there were hints of plans for the holidays, though these had not yet absolutely crystallised into shape. The mere mention of one of them had been enough to send Merle dancing round the house, but, as she had overheard by accident, and was strictly pledged not to reveal the secret to Clive, for the present she restrained her ecstasies and kept her lips sealed.

Meantime there was plenty to be done at school. The term-end examinations were due, and Miss Mitchell, who had been rather disappointed with Christmas results, was urging everybody to make heroic efforts. Mavis and Merle had missed much on account of the mumps, and when they attempted some revision they were absolutely appalled at the amount that had to be made up. They did their most creditable best, and toiled over text-books till heads ached. On the evening before the first examination they were sitting in Dr. Ramsay's study giving a farewell grind to several rather rusty subjects, when Clive walked in.

"Hello, kid! You're not allowed in here! We're working!" warned Merle.

Her young cousin grinned.

"I know! And you've got to stop it. I've been sent to tell you to shut those books up at once!"

"Did Mother say so?"

"She did. She says you've done enough, and you'll only muddle yourselves if you go on any longer."

"We shan't pass!" sighed Mavis.

"Yes, you will! Listen to the Oracle and he'll give you a tip or two. A little bird told him, look up Keltic words in the English language, and the life and works of William Cowper, and the products of Java and Borneo!"

Merle giggled.

"How clever you are all of a sudden! What do you know about our exam subjects?"

Clive winked solemnly, first with one eye and then with another.

"Perhaps I'm in communication with the occult!" he remarked. "Don't people go to clairvoyants and crystal-gazers and astrologers when they want to get tips about the future? I'm your wizard to-night."

"All right. Tell us our fortunes."

Clive reached over for the pack of Patience cards that Merle had left on the table, and shuffled them elaborately.

"The wizard is now ready to wizz. I may mention that my fee is only a guinea. You mustn't laugh or it might break the spell. Will you please to choose a card, look at it, and put it back in the pack."

"O Fate! wangle me a decent fortune!" chuckled Merle, selecting at random. It was the six of spades, and her cousin shook his head gravely.

"That's a bad omen, but wait a bit! Stick it back in the pack and we'll see where it comes. Oh, this is better now-a dark woman is going to bring you trouble, but a fair man will come to the rescue and help you out. You're going amongst a number of people, but the general result will be fortunate. I see a number of diamonds, which means that prizes are in store for you."

"We don't have prizes at Easter! Is that all?"

"All that the cards tell me, but I'll do a little crystal-gazing if you like!" and Clive seized a glass paperweight, and, staring intently at it, pretended to throw himself into a state of abstraction.

"I see an examination-room!" he declared. "I see rows of desks, and girls writing at them. There are lists of questions. I am peeping over their shoulders, and they are puzzling about the products of Java and Borneo, and the life and works of William Cowper, and the Keltic words in the English language. You and Mavis are scribbling ahead for all you're worth."

"A very pretty picture, I'm sure! Can't you tell us some more?"

"Alas! The crystal has grown milky."

"And it's your bedtime!" said Mavis. "I expect you were on your way upstairs when you came in here. Confess!"

"There's no hurry. I'll stay and tell yours too if you like."

"No, thanks. This will do for both of us. Is Mother in the drawing-room? Come along, Merle, we won't work any more to-night."

"Oh, I must just look up what was it?—the products of Java and Borneo, and William Cowper, and Keltic words. There's luck in them! Just for five minutes! Get off to bed, you kid, and leave me to work."

Rather reluctantly Mavis fell in with her sister's humour and reopened her text-books.

"Clive's only fooling!" she remonstrated.

"I know; and so am I! Here we are—Keltic words in use in the English language. You can squint over my shoulder if you like."

The five minutes lengthened out till Mrs. Ramsay came herself and put a finish to the preparation.

"It's silly to overdo it. You'll only have headaches to-morrow and be able to remember nothing. Come along to the drawing-room and sing to Father."

"Yes, Mummie darling, I'm just strapping up my books. There, I'll leave them here on the hall-table. I promise you I won't take them upstairs. Hello! Here's my jersey! I was hunting for it everywhere after tea and couldn't find it. It feels wet! How funny! Has anybody been out in it?"

"Give it to Alice and ask her to put it by the kitchen fire to dry. Father wants to hear that Devon folksong you're learning. It will do you good to have a little music after such hard brain-work."

Merle marched into school next morning joking about her fortune. She told the girls what the oracle had said, and how she had ground up those particular bits of information.

"I'm sporting enough to give you the tip!" she laughed.

"Clive was only making fun and ragging us!" qualified Mavis. "He's a silly boy."

There was no time for any more last looks, however. The bell was ringing for call-over, and all books must be put away. In the Fifth form room a clean sheet of blotting-paper was laid upon every desk, and the inkwells had been newly filled. Miss Mitchell dealt round typewritten sheets of questions, and the agony began. The English Language and Literature paper was not nearly so bad as Mavis and Merle had expected, and curiously enough there were questions both on William Cowper and on Keltic words. It was such a coincidence that Merle could not help looking at Mavis and smiling. They were both well prepared, and wrote away at full speed, almost enjoying themselves, and worked steadily till Miss Mitchell said, "Pens down." After eleven o'clock came the examination on the text-book geography, which had this term—owing to Miss Pollard's influence —supplemented the lantern lectures on that subject. When she saw the first question, "Describe the products of Java and Borneo," Merle gave such an audible chuckle that many eyes were cast in her direction, and Miss Mitchell glared a warning. Again Mavis and Merle found themselves well prepared, and scribbled continuously till the bell rang.

"How did you get on?" said Merle to Muriel, as they walked downstairs from their classroom. "I say! Wasn't it funny about my fortune? Why, we had the exact questions! I never heard of anything so queer in my life!"

"Very queer!" answered Muriel, with restraint in her voice. She was looking at Iva, who shrugged her shoulders significantly.

"Some people have all the luck!" remarked Sybil.

"Well, it was lucky, for it was pure guessing of Clive's."

"How did he know what exams you were going to have?"

"Oh, he's heard us talking about them, of course."

"I wish I had a cousin who could guess the questions beforehand."

"We'd all get Honours on those lines."

When Mavis and Merle returned to school after lunch, they each found a little note laid upon their desks marked 'Urgent.'

You are requested to attend a most important meeting to be held in the boarders' sitting-room at the hostel immediately after four.

There was no signature, but the writing was Iva's. The Ramsays were much mystified. As day-girls they had nothing to do with the hostel, and could only go there by special invitation. When afternoon school was over they asked some of the boarders the meaning of the missive. Nobody would explain.

"You'll find out when you get there," was Nesta's cryptic reply.

Puzzled, and considerably distressed at a certain offensive attitude exhibited by Sybil and others, Mavis and Merle walked across the garden to the hostel. Iva had cleared all the younger girls out of the boarders' sitting-room, and was waiting in company with Nesta, Muriel, Aubrey, Edith, and Kitty. As soon as the Ramsays and Sybil came in, she closed the door.

"I've called a general meeting of the Fifth," she said, "because there's something we all feel we ought to go into. Would you like to elect some one into the chair?"

"I beg to propose yourself," piped Aubrey.

"And I beg to second," said Nesta.

Iva settled herself and looked somewhat embarrassed, as if not knowing quite how to begin. She fidgeted for a moment with her pencil, and cleared her throat.

"We're all here," she said at last, "except Fay and Beata, who couldn't stay. What we've met for is to ask Mavis and Merle to explain how it was they got to know some of the examination questions beforehand. It seems to us queer, to say the least of it!"

The Ramsays, overwhelmed with amazement at such a palpable insinuation, turned wrathfully red.

"Why, we've told you! Clive guessed!" gasped Merle.

"Bunkum!"

"How could he?"

"Very convenient guessing, I'm sure!"

"It's no use telling us such utter fibs!"

"They're not fibs! How dare you say so!" flamed Merle.

"It's the absolute truth!" endorsed Mavis.

"Do you stick to that?"

"Of course we do."

"Then I shall have to call on Sybil to tell us something she saw yesterday."

Sybil, who was red, nervous, and even more uncomfortable than Iva, rose from her seat to make her accusation.

"I was in the garden yesterday after school, and I saw Merle come back, hurry among the bushes, and climb in at the study window. I waited, and presently she came out again and scooted off as if she didn't want to meet anybody."

"O—o—oh! You didn't see me! I wasn't there! Was I, Mavis?"

"Most certainly not. You were at home all the time. I can prove that!"

"I think the thing proves itself!" said Iva. "First of all, you're seen by a witness entering the study, where, no doubt, the exam papers were spread out on the table, and then you come to school primed with the questions. There isn't a shadow of doubt."

"Wait a minute!" said Mavis, rising with a very white face. "To begin with, you've got to prove that it was Merle. One witness isn't enough."

"Catie and Peggie saw her down the drive. They told me so."

"What time was it?"

"About five o'clock."

"She was practising at home then. I can bring witnesses to prove that. Besides, if she had really seen the questions, do you think she'd have been silly enough to tell them to you before the exam?"

The girls looked puzzled at that, but Nesta murmured that Merle was silly enough for anything.

"As she's one of the monitresses, we thought we ought to give her a chance to clear herself before we told Miss Mitchell," said Iva.

"She can clear herself and she will. It's not fair to condemn her like this. You must give her time to bring her own witnesses. I ask you all, is it like Merle to do such a thing?"

"Well, no, it certainly isn't like either of you. That's what's surprised us so much."

"You feel you can't be sure of anybody," added Aubrey.

The boarders' tea-gong, sounding at that moment, brought the meeting to an unsatisfactory conclusion. The Ramsays hurried home, bubbling over with indignation, to pour their woes into Mother's sympathetic ear, and were highly put out to find the drawing-room full of callers, and to be expected to hand tea-cups and make pleasant conversation instead of retailing their grievances. They beat a retreat as soon as they possibly could, and, for fear of being asked to play or sing for the benefit of visitors, deemed it wise to escape into the garden.

"We'll sit in the summer-house, only I must have my jersey," declared Merle, catching up the garment in question from its peg in the hall, and pulling it on. "I want some place where I can explode. This is just the beastliest thing that's ever happened to me in all my life."

"I can't understand it!" puzzled Mavis, with her forehead in wrinkles.

Merle was stumping along the path with her hands in the pockets of her jersey.

"Why should they accuse me, of all people in the world, of climbing in through the study window? Sybil must have been dreaming. She's an idiot of a girl. She'd imagine anything from a ghost to a burglar. What are we going to do about it? I wish to goodness they would tell Miss Mitchell! I'd rather she knew. I've a jolly good mind to go and tell her myself. Then I should have first innings and she'd hear our side of it. Hello! There's Clive."

It was that lively young gentleman who came walking along the garden wall and took a flying leap on to the path, just avoiding one of Tom's best flower-beds.

"There's a whole tribe of ladies in the drawing-room!" he volunteered. "I carried my tea into the summer-house! You won't catch me 'doing the polite' if I can help it. Rather not! Have you bunked too? I don't blame you. You're looking down in the mouth, both of you! Exams gone wrong this afternoon? Shall I tell your fortunes again?"

"Your precious fortune has got us into a great deal of trouble," answered Merle. "How did you manage to guess those questions? They were actually in our papers!"

Clive pulled his face into a variety of grimaces.

"Ah! Wouldn't you just like to know!" he retorted. "Perhaps I keep a familiar spirit, or perhaps I read things in the stars. I prophesy you'll fail in all the rest of your exams! There!"

"You young wretch!" cried Merle, chasing him down the path as he fled. She took her hands from her pockets to catch hold of him, and as she did so out flew a penknife on to the grass. Clive pounced upon it immediately and picked it up.

"I've been looking for this everywhere!" he declared.

"How did it get inside my pocket?" asked Merle.

"I never put it there!"

"Clive!" exclaimed Mavis, with a sudden flash of intuition. "Did you wear Merle's jersey yesterday? I remember she found it wet. I verily believe you dressed up in her clothes and went to school."

For answer Clive burst into fits of laughter.

"Oh, it was topping!" he hinnied. "I stuck on her skirt and jersey and tam o' shanter and took in everybody. I walked down the street, and up the drive to the school door, and prowled round the garden. There was a window open, so in I went and found exam questions all over the table. I thought I'd rag you about them!"

"You atrocious imp! Look here! You don't know what a scrape you've got us into. You'll just have to own up and get us out of it again, that's all!"

Irresponsible Clive was full of thoughtless mischief, and it was a long time before the girls could get him to see the serious side of his escapade, and realise what an exceedingly grave charge had been brought against their honour. In the end, by dint of scolding, entreaty, coercion, and even bribery, they succeeded in persuading him to come along with them to 'The Moorings,' where they asked for Miss Mitchell, and told her the whole story.

"I'm extremely glad to know," she said, looking hard at Clive. "The fact is I was deceived myself. He's very like you, Merle! I happened to see him climbing out of the window, and I certainly thought I recognised you. I've felt upset all day about it. I couldn't understand your doing such a thing."

"Will you explain to the boarders, please! I hate them to think me a sneak."

"I'll make that all right."

"And about those exam questions—Mavis and I wouldn't have dreamt of looking them up beforehand, and I don't suppose we should have known them. Wouldn't it be fairer just to cross them off in our papers and not count them? We'd much rather you did."

"Yes, it's the only thing to be done."

Clive, much subdued, blurted out a kind of apology before he left, which Miss Mitchell accepted with dignity. Perhaps she did not think it good for him to forgive him too easily. His evil prophecies about the exams were fortunately not fulfilled, for his cousins, though they did not score brilliant successes, just managed to scrape through without any failures.

The Fifth form, when they heard the true facts of the story, repented their hasty court of justice and made handsome amends.

"It doesn't matter!" said Merle. "You were quite right if you thought we'd been cheating. I should pull anybody else up myself, fast enough. It must have been the acting we did at Christmas that put the idea into Clive's idiotic young head. He was dressed up as a girl then, and rather fancied himself. He really is the limit."

"We shall always be a little uncertain now which is you and which is your cousin!" laughed Iva.

"Oh, he won't do it again! We've put him on his honour, and I don't think he'd break his word."



CHAPTER XIII

The Kittiwake

The great Easter secret, which Merle had surprised and preserved with so much difficulty, was out at last. Clive's father and mother were coming to Devonshire for a holiday; they had taken rooms at a farm in Chagmouth, and they had not only arranged for their own son to join them, but they had also asked Mavis and Merle to be their visitors. The girls thought that no invitation could have been more delightfully acceptable. They adored Chagmouth, and the Saturdays they managed to spend there were always red-letter days, so the prospect of three whole weeks in this El Dorado sent their spirits up to fizzing-over point.

"Bevis will be at Grimbal's Farm!"

"And Tudor will be at home!"

"The Castletons are expecting Morland and Claudia!"

"And, of course, Fay will be there, and Tattie, and the Colvilles!"

"Goody! What a lovely tribe of us to go out picnics!"

"We'll have the time of our lives!"

Burswood Farm, where Mr. and Mrs. Percy Tremayne had taken rooms, was on the hillside above Chagmouth. It was a delightful spot, with that airy feeling about it that comes from looking down upon your neighbours' chimneys.

"I wouldn't live in Chagmouth, not if you paid me hundreds a year!" declared Mrs. Treasure, their landlady. "Once I'm up here, here I stay! I've not been in the town for over six months. I go on Sundays to the little chapel close by, and if I want shops we get out the gig and drive into Kilvan or Durracombe. It isn't worth the climb back from Chagmouth. I carried William up when he was a baby, and it nearly killed me. I set him down in his cradle and I said: 'There, my boy! I don't go down to Chagmouth again till you can walk back yourself!' And I didn't! He was three years old before I went—even to the post office. How do I manage about stamps? Why, the postman brings them for me and takes my letters. The grocers' carts come round from Kilvan, and the butcher calls once a week, and what can you want more? I say when I've got a nice place like this to live in I'll stay here, and not worry myself with climbing up and down hill."

Though Mavis and Merle might not hold with Mrs. Treasure's depreciation of Chagmouth, they thoroughly agreed with her eulogy of Burswood. There was a view of the sea from the farm, and it had an old-fashioned garden with beehives and hedges of fuchsia and blue veronica, and at the back there was a small fir wood, with clumps of primroses and opening bluebells. The girls christened it 'Elfland.'

"You can almost see the fairies here," said Mavis. "Why is it that some places feel so much more romantic than others?"

"Because you're in the right mood, I suppose. This is almost as nice as Blackthorn Bower."

"Not quite. Nothing can ever come up to that! When Bevis gets The Warren he's going to build up the Bower again."

"Why doesn't he do it now? The Glyn Williams would let him if he wanted. It's his property."

"He wouldn't care to ask them; especially after what happened there between him and Tudor."

"They've forgotten that, surely!"

"Well, I sympathise with Bevis. He doesn't care to interfere with anything until The Warren is really his own. I think he feels they'd laugh at the Bower, and so they would!"

"It's not in their line, of course."

However much we may love old and familiar scenes, there is always a novelty in something new, and the bird's-eye aspect of Chagmouth was attractive, especially to those whose young limbs did not mind the climb. Mr. and Mrs. Percy Tremayne were most enthusiastic about their quarters. They were charming people, and ready to fall in with the young folk's plans and give them a thoroughly happy holiday. They had brought a motor- bicycle and side-car, and took some excursions round the neighbourhood, going over often to Durracombe to see Dr. and Mrs. Tremayne, glad to have the opportunity of a private chat with them while their lively son was safely picnicking with Mavis and Merle. Picnics were the established order of the day. The girls declared that Society at Chagmouth this Easter began with a big S. The Castletons were a host in themselves. They were all at home, and all equally fascinating. Musical Mavis attached herself to Claudia with a great admiration, and Merle found a devoted knight in ten-year-old Madox, who clung to her with the persistency of a chestnut burr, chiefly because she had the charity to answer his perpetual questions. "The interrogation mark," as he was called by his own family, was a typical Castleton, and most cherubic of countenance, though his curls had been sheared in deference to school, spoiling him, so his father declared, for artistic purposes. He was a mixture of mischief and romance, and Merle, who accepted his temporary allegiance, never quite knew whether his embraces were marks of genuine affection or were designed for the chance of dropping pebbles down her back.

Some delightful friends of the Castletons were also spending a holiday in rooms at Chagmouth—Miss Lindsay, an artist, and Lorraine Forrester, a chum of Claudia's, both of whom were sketching the quaint streets and the quay and the harbour with the wildest enthusiasm. Morland had also taken a sudden fancy for painting, and insisted upon going out with them daily, producing some quite pretty little impressionistic pictures, with a touch of his father's style about them. In Morland the family talent ran high but never rose to genius. His touch on the piano was perfect. He scribbled poems in private. His achievements, however, in either music, art, or poetry were insufficient to justify taking one of them for a vocation.

"I'd rather make him a chimney-sweep!" declared Mr. Castleton eloquently. "The public nowadays don't appreciate pictures! They'll look at them in galleries, especially when the admission is free, but you can't get them to buy. They hang their drawing-rooms with cheap prints instead of water- colours, and go to the photographers instead of the portrait-painter. If you can design something to advertise mustard or cocoa you may make a little money, but not by pure art! It's as dead as the ancient Greeks. This is a commercial age. Music's as bad. Your pianists are glad to take posts to play at the cinemas! I wish Claudia success; but her training is the business of the college, not mine, and they'll have to bring her out. I've nothing to do with it. No; Morland must realise he's living in the twentieth century, and has to earn his bread and butter. Art doesn't pay, and that's the fact! Have it as a hobby if you wish, but don't depend upon it!"

So Morland, who, like many young fellows of artistic calibre, had a general affection for the muses but no very marked vocation for anything, had been pitchforked into engineering, and was making quite tolerable progress, and would possibly support himself later on, but always with the feeling that life was commonplace and unromantic, and that a splendid vision had been somewhere just round the corner, only unfortunately missed. He allowed his artistic temperament to run loose during the holidays. He would go up to Bella Vista and play for hours on the Macleods' new grand piano, improvising beautiful airs, and sending Fay into raptures.

"Why don't you write them down right away?" she demanded.

"What's the use? No one would publish them if I did. The publishers are fed up with young composers wanting a hearing. I've made up my mind to be just an amateur—nothing more."

"I'm not sure," ventured Mrs. Macleod, "whether you won't have the best of it. After all, 'amateur' means 'lover,' and the art and the music that you pursue for pure pleasure will be more to you than what you might have had to produce for the sake of bread and butter. Why must our standard in these things always be the commercial one, 'does it pay?' The fact of making it pay often degrades it. My theory is that a man can have his business, and love his hobby just as he loves his wife, without turning it into L s. d. Look at my husband! In his own office there isn't any one in America knows more about motor fittings, but once outside the office his heart and soul is in painting. I believe he's a happier man for doing both!"

"Do you really think so? It cheers me up! When I'm a full-blown engineer, perhaps I'll make enough to buy a grand piano at any rate. That's one way of looking at it. It's awfully kind of you to let me come here and thump away on yours."

"We enjoy having you, so use it whenever you like. It's always absolutely at your disposal."

Morland was not the only one of the party who was amusing his leisure hours. Bevis also had hobbies. He had taken up photography, had turned an attic at Grimbal's Farm into a dark room, and was trying many experiments. Moreover, his lawyers had at last yielded to his urgent entreaties and had allowed him to buy a small sailing yacht. She was not a racing craft, or remarkably smart in any way, but she was his own, and the joy of possession was supreme. He rechristened her The Kittiwake, painting in her new name with much satisfaction, and he made trial trips in her along the coast as far as Port Sennen. He was extremely anxious to take Mavis and Merle and Clive with him, but that was strictly prohibited by Mrs. Tremayne, who would not allow either her son or her visitors to venture.

"It's too big a risk, and I know what Clive is! Young Talland can swim like a fish if he upsets his yacht, but you can't!"

"We can swim!" protested Merle.

"A little, close by the shore, I daresay, but that's nothing if you're plunged into deep water. I can't take the responsibility of letting you go. Never mind! We'll make up a party one day and take a motor-boat with a proper experienced boatman. Young Talland can join us then if he likes."

Mavis and Merle were disappointed almost to the point of tears. They had duly admired The Kittiwake in the harbour, and they simply longed to go on board. It seemed so particularly tempting when they had such a cordial invitation, and so aggravating to be obliged to decline.

"Cousin Nora's very nervous," urged Mavis in extenuation. "She'd be afraid of our being drowned if we went on a duck-pond."

Bevis passed over the slur on his seamanship.

"It's all right!" he answered quietly, but there was a certain set obstinate look about his mouth which the girls knew well, and which meant that he intended if possible to get his own way, though he said nothing more at the time.



It was perhaps as well for everybody's peace of mind that he should not take Clive boating, for the boy was venturesome and mischievous, and rather out of hand except when his father was by. He often made the girls' hair almost stand on end by his pranks at the verge of the cliffs, and was sometimes the cause of considerable bad language among the sailors when he interfered with their nets or tar-pots down on the quay. It was a relief to Mavis and Merle when Mr. Tremayne took him out in the side-car, and they knew that for some hours at least they need not be responsible for his behaviour. They were both fond of botany, and were enthusiastically making collections of wild flowers to press for their holiday task. Bevis was a good ally in this respect, and would often call in at Burswood Farm with some uncommon specimen which he thought they had not yet found for themselves. He had come on this errand one morning, and was helping Mavis to screw up her pressing boards, when Mrs. Tremayne happened to mention the scarcity of shells in the neighbourhood of Chagmouth.

"I've hardly found any!" she remarked. "And I'm so annoyed, because it happens to be my particular hobby. I'm collecting them. I suppose the coast is too rocky and they get broken. They're always very local things."

"There's just one place I know where you might find some," said Bevis. "It's a particular patch of sand near Gurgan Point. I saw some beauties there a while ago. I'll show you where it is with pleasure if you like."

"Oh, thanks! That would be delightful," beamed Mrs. Tremayne. "The girls and I could go to-day if you can take us. My husband and Clive are out with the motor-bike, so it's a splendid opportunity."

"Let me see! The tide should be just right this afternoon," agreed Bevis cheerfully. "Mavis and Merle know the way to Gurgan Point. If they'll take you there and down the path to the cove, I'll come round in the yacht and meet you. Shall we say at three o'clock?"

"That would be exactly nice time after lunch."

"Very well, I'll be there."

Bevis went back to Grimbal's Farm chuckling to himself, though he did not betray the cause of his amusement to anybody. He hunted out a hamper and packed it with cups and saucers, a methylated spirit-lamp, and other picnic requisites. On his way to the quay he stopped at the confectioner's and bought cakes and fancy biscuits. He placed these comestibles inside the hamper, and stowed it away in the locker of The Kittiwake. At two o'clock he was out of the harbour, and was off in the direction of Gurgan Point.

Mavis and Merle and Cousin Nora, bearing baskets in which to place shells, had a pleasant walk along the cliffs, and descended the path to the trysting-place. They found Bevis waiting for them in the cove. He had moored The Kittiwake to a buoy, and now led the way over the sands to a sort of little peninsula that jutted out into the sea. Here he had beached his dinghy.

"This is the shell-bank. You'll find heaps of them here!" he said.

Undoubtedly he had brought them to the right place. There were shells in abundance, and of many different kinds, delicate pink ones, tiny cowries, twisted wentletraps, scallops, screw-shells, and some like mother-of- pearl. Mrs. Tremayne was in raptures, and went down on her knees to gather them. There was such a tempting variety that it was difficult to stop, and in the excitement of the quest the time simply fled.

"I haven't brought my watch!" declared Mrs. Tremayne once.

"Oh, it's quite early yet!" Bevis assured her. "I've lighted the spirit- lamp, and I'm going to make you some tea."

He had carried the hamper on to the sands, and was busy setting out his cups and saucers in a sheltered place behind some rocks, 'to be out of the wind,' as he carefully explained. When his kettle boiled he filled the tea-pot, and summoned his guests.

"You've chosen a snug spot!" said Mrs. Tremayne, walking along with her eyes on the sands still looking for shells.

And Merle, who was watching a white line of advancing waves, added:

"Lovely and snug, only I hope we shan't get—"

She meant to say 'surrounded,' but Bevis pulled such a fearful face at her behind Cousin Nora's back that she stopped short and let him finish the sentence.

"We shan't get shells while we're having tea, of course! You can look for some more afterwards if you haven't enough."

"Oh, surely, we have heaps and heaps! And simply exquisite ones! These tiny yellow babies are just perfect. I like them better than the big grandfathers," exulted Mavis.

Bevis made a polite but leisurely host. He insisted on boiling some more water, which was not really wanted, but which took a long time, and he spun out his own tea interminably.

"It's so jolly here under the rocks!" he declared. "I like the dolce far niente—makes one think of lotus-eaters and all the rest of it. Shall I help you sort your shells? You could wash them in the tea-cups. It's no use carrying home surplus sand. There's some water left in the kettle."

On one pretext or another he kept them dawdling under the rocks, till Mrs. Tremayne at last rose up and declared they really must be starting back for the cove.

"We shall be having the tide coming in if we don't mind," she said. "Why! Look!"

She might well exclaim, for while they had been sitting with their backs to the sea the water had all the while been lapping slowly in and had changed their peninsula into an island. They were entirely surrounded, and quite a wide channel lay between themselves and the shore. Mrs. Tremayne looked much alarmed, but Bevis took the matter with the utmost calm.

"It's all right! I've the dinghy here, and I can row you to the yacht. I'd land you in the cove if I could, but it really wouldn't be safe because of the rocks. I'll sail you all back to Chagmouth and run you into the harbour."

There was evidently nothing else to be done, and though Cousin Nora might not enjoy the prospect of yachting, she was obliged to accept Bevis's offer.

It was quite a pleasant little excursion from Gurgan Point to the harbour; the sea was luckily calm, but there was sufficient breeze to enable The Kittiwake to skim over the water like her sea-gull namesake. The girls, who by this time had grasped the depths of their friend's plot, enjoyed the situation immensely. They were actually having their coveted sail in the very company of the dear lady who had so expressly forbidden the jaunt, and all without the slightest friction or trouble. Bevis, indeed, was posing as rescuer and accepting grateful thanks.

"It's a lesson to us all to watch the tide and not sit talking with our backs to the sea!" said Cousin Nora virtuously.

"It is indeed!" answered Bevis, so gravely that Merle had to stuff her handkerchief into her mouth to stifle her chortles of mirth.

He brought them into the harbour, and helped them to land on the steps of the jetty.

"Wasn't I clever?" he whispered, as he handed Mavis her basket of shells. "When I really make up my mind to get a thing, I get it!"



CHAPTER XIV

The Haunted Tree

There were so many jolly friends staying at Chagmouth at present that they made a most delightful circle. Generally they all managed to meet every day, and the usual trysting-place was The Haven, partly because it was in so central a situation for everybody, but chiefly because the kind-hearted, unconventional Castletons were ready at any and every time to welcome visitors, and would allow friends to 'drop in' in true Bohemian fashion, quite regardless of whatever happened to be taking place in the household. From the studio, indeed, they were excluded while Mr. Castleton was at his easel, but they were allowed to use it when he was not working, and it proved admirable for either games, theatricals, or dancing. With so many costumes in the cupboard it was easy to get up charades, and they had much fun over acting. Perhaps the most successful was a small performance of 'The Babes in the Wood,' given by the Castleton children, with Perugia and Gabriel, lovely in Elizabethan costume, as 'the babes' John and Jane; Madox and Constable as the two villains 'Daggersdrawn' and 'Triggertight,' who abandoned them in the wood; and Lilith as the beneficent fairy 'Dewdrop,' who found them and whisked them away to bonny Elfland. The little Castletons had natural dramatic instincts and were adepts at posing, so their play was really very pretty. Madox, in especial, absolutely excelled himself as a robber and came out tremendously. He bowed gallantly in response to the storm of applause, and blew an airy kiss to Merle, who nearly collapsed with mirth. She thought her ten-year-old admirer deserved something in return for so graceful an attention, so she sent him a box of chocolates with a few verses written on a sheet of paper and placed inside.

TO DAGGERSDRAWN

You're a very handsome fellow, So gallant and so gay; And I really blush to tell you, But you've stole my heart away.

When you took the part of Daggersdrawn, My bosom swelled with pride To hear your voice of thunder And see your manly stride.

You seized the nasty pistols up Without a sign of fear, And thrust and parried with your sword Just like a Cavalier.

As you've escaped the lonesome wood— For so the story ends— I send these chocs, with best regards, And beg we may be friends.

Merle had no doubt the chocolates would be appreciated, but she had not expected to receive back a poetical effusion from her small knight. He evidently, however, had some slight gift for minstrelsy, for one day there was a tremendous rap on the front-door knocker at Burswood Farm, then a sound of running footsteps, and inside the letter-box was a note addressed to 'Miss Merle Ramsay,' in a rather wobbly and unformed hand. At the top of the sheet of paper was painted a boat with brown sails on a blue sea, and underneath was written:

You ask me, dear, will I be thine? How can you such a question ask When, 'neath the robber's fearful mask, I languish for thee, lady mine!

Thou art the lady that I love; Thou art the lady that I chose. Oh, fly with me from friends and foes! Oh, for the wings of a dove!

O sail with me to a southern sea, To where an isle is fair and warm, And the sea around it bright and calm: O Merle, will you come with me?

But for the nasty pistols, miss, I have one ready to shoot me dead! For already my heart is heavy as lead Unless you favour my wish!

[Footnote: These verses were really composed by a little boy.]

It's rather silly but it's the best I can rite. M C.

In the privacy of the parlour Merle had a good laugh with Mavis over what they termed her first love-letter.

"'Oh, for the wings of a dove!'" quoted Merle. "It's so Biblical, isn't it? He's a dear, all the same! I love him better even than Constable. He's such a bright little chap. Don't tell Clive, or he'd tease Madox to death about this. It must be an absolute secret. I can just picture the child sitting writing it with his sticky little fingers!"

"You mustn't let him know about 'Sweet William,' or there'll be a free fight!" laughed Mavis.

William was Mrs. Treasure's little boy, and also an ardent admirer of Merle, who gave him chocolates when she met him in the garden or the stackyard. In spite of his mother's injunctions to 'Behave and not trouble the visitors,' he would hang about the passages to present Merle with handfuls of ferns and flowers grabbed at random from the hedgerows and of no botanical value whatever; or sometimes the parlour window would be cautiously opened from the outside, a pair of bright eyes would appear, and a small grubby hand would push in a bird's egg or some other country trophy as an offering. It was William who told Merle about the 'headless horseman,' a phantom rider who was reported to gallop down the road after dusk, and whom Chagmouth mothers found useful as a bogey to frighten their children with.

"He'll get you if you're out when it's dark!" said William, with round awed eyes.

"What would he do with you if he did?" asked Merle.

But such a pitch of horror was beyond the limit of William's imagination, and he could only reaffirm his original statement.

Of course the girls and Clive were very excited to learn that a real live ghost was supposed to haunt the neighbourhood. They discussed it at the dinner-table over the jam-tart and cream.

"We've certainly heard a sort of trotting sound when we've been in bed at night," said Mavis, anxious to establish evidence. "We didn't think of getting up to look out of the window, but I don't suppose we could have seen on to the road if we had."

"Yes; I remember people used to believe in the 'headless horseman,'" said Mr. Tremayne, who had known Chagmouth very well as a boy. "There was a demon dog, too, that ran down Tinkers' Lane, and an old lady who 'walked' by the well."

A delighted howl arose from the family at the mention of two more spooks.

"O—o—h! Tell us about the demon dog!" implored Clive.

"It had eyes as big as saucers, and they shone like fire. It used to scuttle along the lane, and no one ever waited to see where it went, though there used to be a hole in a bank where I was told it had once disappeared."

"Was it really ever seen?" asked Merle.

"I believe all these phantoms were clever devices of the smugglers in the old days, when it was very desirable to have the roads quiet at night in order to carry about contraband goods. It would be quite easy to fake a demon dog. You take a black retriever, fasten two cardboard circles smeared with phosphorus round his eyes, give him a kick, and send him running down a dark road, and every one who met him would have hysterics. As for the headless horseman, that's also a well-known smugglers' dodge —false shoulders can be made and fixed on a level with the top of your head, and covered with a cloak, so that the apparently headless man has eyes in the middle of his chest, and can see to ride uncommonly well. It was generally to somebody's interest to make up these ghosts and frighten people."

"You take all the romance out of it!" pouted Mavis.

In spite of Mr. Tremayne's most reasonable explanations they clung to the supernatural side of the stories. It was much more interesting to picture the demon dog as the property of his Satanic Majesty, than to believe it an ordinary black retriever with circles of phosphorus round its eyes.

"I vote we go and try and see it for ourselves!" suggested Clive, waxing bold one evening. The girls agreed, so just before bedtime they sallied forth in the direction of Tinkers' Lane, a lonely stretch of road that led from the hillside towards the sea. They were all three feeling half valiant and half scared, and each had brought some species of protection. Mavis carried a prayer-book and a little ivory cross, Merle grasped a poker, and Clive was armed with the hatchet from the wood-pile. So long as they were on the uplands and could see the stars they marched along tolerably bravely, but presently Tinkers' Lane turned downhill, and, like most of its kind in Devon, ran between high fern-grown banks, on the tops of which grew trees whose boughs almost met overhead and made an archway. To plunge down here was like taking a dip into Dante's 'Inferno,' it looked so particularly dark and gloomy, and such a suitable place for anything ghostly.

"I wish we'd brought a lantern with us!" murmured Mavis.

"Then we shouldn't see any spooks!" declared Merle. "Come along! Let's go as far as the old gate at any rate. I dare you both to come! Who's afraid?"

Clive certainly was not going to show the white feather, and Mavis, though rather nervy, preferred to venture forward with the others than to remain by herself, so it ended in their all going on, arm-in-arm. They had worked themselves to such a pitch of excitement that the whole atmosphere seemed charged with the supernatural. There were mysterious groanings and rustlings in the hedge, and the long branches of the trees moaned as they swayed. It was so dark they were almost groping their way, and could barely see the banks on either side. Suddenly, through a rift in the trees came a faint gleam of starlight, and oh! horror of horrors! What was that black dog-like object running rapidly towards them up the lane? Mavis, whose over-sensitive nerves were strung up to the last point, yelled with terror, and clung screaming to Merle, who gave a shriek of agony herself as the phantom approached and leaped at them.

"Whatever's the matter?" cried a voice, and a figure came hurrying forward and flashed an electric torch upon the scene.

In the circle of light thus formed the girls saw nothing more alarming than Bevis and his spaniel Fan, who was jumping up affectionately at Merle and licking her hands. They drew long breaths and then laughed.

"They thought you were Old Nick himself and his demon dog!" vouchsafed Clive, very brave now the alarm was over.

"What are you all doing down Tinkers' Lane so late as this?" asked Bevis.

"We came out to see spooks!"

"You won't find anything worse than Fan and myself! Better let us take you home."

"Oh, I wish you would," said Mavis, accepting the escort with alacrity. "I don't think I like this dark place. I'm rather scared still. I don't wonder people see bogeys here. If you'd been riding, Bevis, I should certainly have taken you for the headless horseman. He rides here, doesn't he?"

"I'll tackle him for you if we meet him, never fear!" laughed Bevis. "I'll tell him it isn't respectable to go about without a head, and he must put it on again at once! All the same, though" (more gravely), "I think, if I were you, I wouldn't come down this lane in the dark all by yourselves."

"We certainly shan't!"

"It's a good thing I didn't use the hatchet on poor Fan," said Clive, forbearing to mention that he had been huddling in the hedge, much too paralysed to take such violent measures.

"Bless her! She's an angel dog—not a demon!" murmured Merle, fondling the silky ears that pressed close to her dress. "But you gave your auntie rather a scare, darling! Another time you mustn't bounce upon her in the dark! You must be a good girlie, and remember!"

The adventurous trio were not at all sorry to be taken safely to their own gateway by Bevis, but all the same they felt a little disappointed that they had no real peep at phantom forms in the lane. The girls did not intend to tell their experience to William, but Clive let it out, so they had to give him the full account. He looked at them with awe-struck admiration.

"Suppose it had really been the ghost and it had got you!" he ventured.

William took the supernatural side of life seriously. It was no laughing matter to him. On the very next day he came to Merle with important news.

"There's something queer in the wood above the house. I was up there with Connie, and we both heard it!"

Of course Merle had to go and investigate. William escorted her at once to the spot. There was a large elm just at the edge of the wood, and certainly it was emitting very strange sounds. At intervals a curious clicking whirr came from among the branches. Mr. and Mrs. Treasure, who had also been informed of the mysterious noises, had hurried up from the farm with little Connie. They stood staring upwards in much perplexity.

"Could it be a bird?" suggested Merle.

"That's no bird! It's something beyond that!" said Mr. Treasure solemnly.

"Oh! Is it an omen? My mother's been ill the last fortnight!" exclaimed Mrs. Treasure in much distress.

"Maybe it's a warning of some kind or another!" opined the postman, who had been passing and had joined the party.

Whatever might occasion the noises, they continued with great regularity. The postman, continuing his round, spread news of the strange happening, and soon quite a number of people came into the wood to listen for themselves. No one was in the least able to account for the sounds, and the general opinion was that the tree was haunted. Superstition ran rife, and most of the neighbours considered it must be a portent. Poor Mrs. Treasure began to be quite sure it had some intimate connection with her mother's illness. Several girls were weeping hysterically, and one of them asked if the end of the world was coming. Meantime, more and more people kept crowding into the wood, and the idea spread that some disaster was imminent.

"My John's out with the trawler!" wailed one woman. "I wish I'd not let him go! As like as not he'll be wrecked!"

"You never know!" agreed a friend.

Old Grandfather Treasure, who had hobbled up from the stackyard, quoted texts from Scripture and began to improve the occasion. His daughter-in- law, with Connie clasped in her arms, sobbed convulsively.

Into the midst of all this excitement suddenly strode Bevis.

"I heard about it down on the quay," he said. "I came up at once. I'll soon show you what it is!"

He was buckling climbing-irons on to his legs while he spoke, and with the aid of these he rapidly mounted the elm tree to where the boughs forked, put his hand into a hollow, and drew out a wooden box, which he brought down with him.

"It's nothing at all ghostly," he explained. "The fact is I'm fearfully keen on photographing birds, and I've just got a cinema camera. There's a sparrow-hawk's nest in the next tree, and I want to take pictures of it; only I knew the clicking of the cinema business would scare them away probably for hours, so I made a little mechanical contrivance that would go on clicking and let them get used to the noise, so that they'd take no notice when I really went to work. You can look at it if you want to."

It was such a simple explanation that those among the neighbours who had most loudly expressed superstitious fears looked rather foolish, and the crowd began to melt away.

"Why didn't you tell us about it, Bevis?" asked Merle in private.

"Well, Soeurette, the fact is the birds are so shy that the fewer people who go and watch them the better for the success of a photograph. I'm afraid this will have sent them off altogether. Annoying, isn't it? Can't be helped, though, now. It's a good dodge all the same, and I shall try it again in some other tree when I can find a nest I want to take. Better luck next time, I hope!"



CHAPTER XV

Leave-takings

The precious delightful holidays at Chagmouth seemed to be flying only too fast. All the various young people were busy with their several hobbies, but they liked to meet and compare notes about them, and took a keen interest in one another's achievements. Bevis's bird-photography, and especially his cinema camera, was highly appreciated, particularly by the younger members of the party, who persistently tried to track him and follow him, greatly to his embarrassment, for their presence frightened the birds away and defeated the very object for which he had gone out. Mavis had struck up a friendship with Miss Lindsay and Lorraine Forrester, and often went to see them at the studio which they had temporarily hired. Lorraine's principal branch of art was sculpture, and she was modelling a bust of Morland, who came readily for sittings, though he had refused point-blank to act model for his father.

The two were on terms of what Lorraine called "sensible friendship," which Mavis suspected might mean a good deal more some day, if Morland stopped merely drifting and put his shoulder in dead earnest to the wheel of life. Lorraine was much the stronger character of the two, and could generally wind up Morland's ambition while he was with her, though it often came down again with a run as soon as her influence was removed. Whether or no her feelings went deeper than she would at present allow, she was a loyal chum to him, and almost the only person who could really persuade him to work. To Claudia also Lorraine was a splendid friend. The girls lived together at a Students' Hostel in London, and shared all their jaunts and pleasures. Claudia held a scholarship at a college of music, and was training for grand opera. With her talent and lovely face she had good prospects before her, but the Castleton strain was strong in her, as also in Morland, and it needed Lorraine's insistent urging to make her realise that it does not do only to dream your ideals, that you must toil at them with strong hands and earth-stained fingers, and that on this physical plane no success can ever be achieved without hard work.

"They'll both of them absolutely have to be towed through life!" thought Mavis. "I could shake the whole family sometimes. Beata's the most practical, but the others might have strayed out of a poetry book! Of course they're all perfectly charming and romantic, but you want to frame them and glaze them and hang them in exhibitions, not set them to do ordinary every-day things. They don't fit somehow into the twentieth century. Lorraine stirs them up like yeast. She'll be the making of Morland if she elects to take on so big a job."

The Ramsay girls were very much attracted by the Macleods. They liked Fay and her father and mother, whose experience of the world and sensible views appealed to them. They often went to Bella Vista and enjoyed a chat, or sat looking at American art magazines, while Morland, who could not keep away from the grand piano, sat improvising memories of Debussy or compositions of his own. Mrs. Macleod was one of those delightful women who can appreciate other people's daughters as well as their own. Her adoration for Fay did not hinder her from genuinely admiring Mavis and Merle and Romola, and the other young friends who flocked to her hospitable house. She had a nice word for them all, and was so sympathetic that they always wanted to tell her of their little achievements. It was a most congenial atmosphere.

"She's such a dear!" commented Mavis. "Now when Fay and I went out painting together, she praised my sketch, although it was a daub compared with Fay's! Once I was silly enough to show one of my efforts to Mrs. Earnshaw; she put on her pince-nez, and looked at it most critically, and said,' Oh, you must see Opal's work! She's done some really beautiful paintings at Brackenfield! They know how to teach there!' I felt so squashed!"

"Mrs. Earnshaw is the limit!" agreed Merle. "The last time I went to tea there-when you had a cold and couldn't go-she asked me to play the piano. I'd brought my music, but I didn't like to seem too anxious, so I said I'd rather not. 'Oh, never mind then!' she said, 'you play something, darling!' (to Opal). And then she whispered proudly to me, 'Opal plays magnificently since she's been to Brackenfield!' I wanted to sing out 'Cock-a-doodle-doo!' only I remembered my manners. Then a friend came in, and she introduced us. 'This is Miss Ramsay,' she said casually, 'and this (with immense pride) is our daughter Opal!' I felt inclined to quote, 'Look on this picture and on that!' It was so evident which of us he was expected to take notice of! I simply wasn't to be in it at all!"

"Opal's more decent, though, since she's been at Brackenfield."

"There was room for improvement. I shall never like her, not if I know her to all eternity."

The glorious three weeks at Chagmouth were over at last, and there would be no more picnics on the beach, or walks down primrose-decked lanes, or rambles on the cliffs, or merry parties at The Haven or Bella Vista, or expeditions in search of flowers or shells. The girls were almost weeping when it came to saying good-bye to Burswood Farm, and to Mr. and Mrs. Treasure, and William and little Connie, and Ethel the small servant (brought up from the village to wait on the visitors), and Charlie, the boy who helped to milk the cows and weed the fields. Mavis and Merle had been very busy concocting one of their wonderful rhyming effusions, and wrote it in the Visitors' Book, much to the delight of their landlady, who appreciated such souvenirs.

Who welcomed us to Burswood Farm Amid the heart of Devon's charm, With skies so blue and seas so calm? 'Twas Mrs. Treasure.

Who was it chopped our logs of wood To make our fires so bright and good, And brought from Durracombe our food? 'Twas Mr. Treasure.

Who brought our luggage to the door And then went back to fetch some more, And showed us cows and pigs galore? 'Twas Charlie.

Who made our boots and shoes to shine, And brought us plates wherewith to dine, And boiled our breakfast eggs by nine? 'Twas Ethel.

Who was it gave us ferns so green From hedges that we'd often seen, And called the holiday a dream? 'Twas William.

Who was it down the passage ran And shouted, 'Kiss me if you can!' And hid her face when we began? 'Twas Connie.

Who was it left with many a sigh, As to the farm we said good-bye, And wanted sheets wherein to cry? We all!

The very best of things, however, must come some time to an end; schools were reopening, college terms recommencing, Mr. Tremayne's duties claimed him in London, and, most prosaic of all, another batch of visitors was expected at Burswood, so that they could no longer have the rooms. After tremendous leave-takings the jolly party separated, Dr. Ramsay fetching Mavis and Merle in the car, while Mr. and Mrs. Tremayne took Clive home with them, for he was to try another term at his preparatory school. It seemed quite quiet at Bridge House without their lively young cousin, though in some ways his absence was rather a relief. After his many escapades at Chagmouth the girls felt that discipline under a headmaster would be very wholesome for him. They themselves were busy with the work of the coming term, and not sorry to be free from his continual interruption of their preparation time. There were other things besides lessons. They meant to take up tennis very seriously, and practise both on the school courts and at home. Miss Mitchell was a tennis enthusiast and also Miss Barnes.

"If we can only persuade Miss Hopkins and Mademoiselle to do their duty we could have a match 'Mistresses versus Girls,'" sighed Merle. "It would be something new at 'The Moorings,' and such an excitement for every one."

"I wish they would!"

"If I were a boarder I'd simply make them! What they want is somebody to keep them up to it. Day-girls are really very much hampered. They haven't half a chance when they go home from school at four o'clock. I really sometimes think I'd like to be a boarder, just for the fun of it."

It is not very often we get what we want, but on this occasion Fortune waved a fairy wand and gave Merle the luck she coveted. It happened that the cook at Bridge House developed a sore throat, and Dr. Ramsay, having his suspicions, had the drains examined and found them to be in an exceedingly wrong condition. It was necessary to take them up at once, and as the process would probably be unpleasant, Mrs. Ramsay arranged for the girls to stay at 'The Moorings' until everything was once more in good sanitary condition.

"You can't be too careful where young people are concerned," was her motto. "Mavis is so marvellously well now that we don't want to run any risks, and Merle, too, strong though she is, will be better out of the way of drains. We elders can take our chance."

To be temporarily transformed into boarders was a novel experience for the girls. To Merle it meant an opportunity for making a much more intimate acquaintance with her idol Miss Mitchell, with whom she would now be at close quarters. To sit at the same table with her for meals seemed an unspeakable privilege. Merle was at the age for enthusiastic hero-worship, and in her eyes the popular mistress almost wore a halo. That she bestowed no particular tokens of favour made the devotion none the less, because it gave an added incentive for trying to win at least a glance or a smile.