But all this is by the way, and does not help us to get up the Junior Reception.

There had been an early morning expedition to the neighbouring woods (not, however, through the fire-escape), and Peggy and the Owls had returned each with a wheelbarrow-load of boughs and ground pine and all manner of pleasant woodland things. The leaves had turned, and were glowing with scarlet and gold and russet. These were put in water, lest they should begin to curl and wither before night; while the evergreens were heaped in a corner and left to their fate. Now it was afternoon, and the girls, released from their tasks, had flown to the scene of action. Already the gymnasium began to assume a festive appearance. Several garlands were in place, and on the floor sat six or eight juniors, busily weaving more. Ladders stood here and there. At the top of one stood the Snowy Owl, arranging a "trophy," as she called it, of brilliant leaves, on another, Peggy was valiantly hammering, as she arranged in festoons the long folds of green and white bunting that the Fluffy handed up to her. The Fluffy was a curious sight, being swathed in bunting from head to foot. When Peggy demanded "more slack," she simply turned around a few times and unrolled herself, thus presenting the appearance of an animated spool.

"It's effective," said Gertrude, surveying her from her perch, "but I can't say that it looks comfortable. How ever did you get yourself into such a snarl, Fluff?"

"Why, I was measuring it, don't you know?" said Bertha, "and it got all into a heap on the floor, and there was so much of it I didn't know what to do. So I began to roll it round and round myself, and the first thing I knew I was the cocoon-thing you see before you. I feel as if I ought to come out a butterfly, somehow."

"They are lovely colours!" said Peggy. "There's nothing so pretty as green and white. How do you choose your colours? We haven't chosen ours yet, but I suppose we shall soon."

"The Snowy chose them," said Bertha. "They were Sir Somebody-or-other's colours at the Siege of Acre. I wanted scarlet, because that was Launcelot's—"

"Fluffy! it was nothing of the kind!"

"Well, you know what I mean, Snowy; don't make a cannibal meal of me. Scarlet was Elaine's colour, and Launcelot wore it; that was what I meant."

"I thought—" said Peggy, timidly, "I thought she was the Lily Maid; I thought she wore white."

"Did, herself," said the Snowy, with her mouth full of tacks. "But she gave him a scarlet sleeve embroidered with pearls, and he wore it on his helmet, and that was what made Guinevere throw the diamonds into the river."

"Oh!" said Peggy, meekly. She had tried to read the "Idyls of the King," but could not make out much except the fighting parts.

"Never understood why they had sleeves so often," said Bertha, abstractedly bunching the green and white draperies. "Never could see how they got the sleeve on the helmet in any kind of shape. What sort of sleeves did they have then, anyhow? Why, they were those tight ones, weren't they, with a slashed cap at the top? Well, now, Snowy, that would look perfectly absurd on a helmet, you know it would."

The Snowy deigned no reply; or perhaps the tacks were in a perilous position at that moment. Bertha went on, thoughtfully:

"A balloon sleeve, now, would be more sensible; you could slip it over the helmet, and it would look like—like the shade of a piano lamp. But somehow, whenever I read about it, I see a small, tight, red sleeve, spread out like a red flannel bandage, as if the helmet had a sore throat—"

"Fluffy, you are talking absolute nonsense!" said Gertrude, regaining utterance. "And after all, they had gloves oftener than sleeves; not that that makes it much better. For my part, I always think of a glove with all the five fingers sticking up out of the middle of the crown, as if they had tried to be feathers and been nipped in the bud."

"Feathers don't bud!" said Bertha, handing up more slack.

"But the real thing," Gertrude went on, "the beautiful, graceful thing for the knight to wear, was the scarf. He could do anything he liked with that; tie it around his helmet, or across his breast,—that was the proper way of course,—or around his waist.

"A green scarf, that is what I would have! Very soft, so that it would go through a finger-ring, and yet wide enough to shake out into wonderful folds, you know, so that he could wrap himself up in it, and think of me, and—what's the matter, Peggy, why do you sigh?"

"Did I sigh?" said Peggy, looking confused. "It was nothing, Snowy. I was only thinking—thinking how stupid I was, and how Margaret would like all the things you talk about."

"Meaning sleeves?"

"No, oh, no! but about knights, and chivalry, and all that kind of thing. Margaret loves it so! She used to try to read Froissart to me, but it always put me to sleep. I suppose you like Froissart, Gertrude?"

She spoke so wistfully that Gertrude took the tacks out of her mouth (she should never have put them in; a junior should have known better!) that she might reply the better.

"Why, Peggy, yes, I do like Froissart, but it never troubles me when people don't care for my kind of books. You see, there are so many kinds, such an endless variety, and good in so many different ways. Now you, for example, would like the Jungle Books, and the 'Cruise of the Cachalot,' and all kinds of books of adventure."

"I don't know what is adventure if Froissart isn't," Bertha put in.

"Yes, but it's all too far away, too remote. I know how Peggy feels, because I have a cousin who is just that way. She used to think she should never read anything at all; then one day she got hold of Kipling, and the worlds opened, and the doors thereof. Just you come to me for the Jungle Books some day, Innocent, and you'll see. Look here, I want lots and lots, and again lots more leaves. Where are they all? I don't see any more, but there must be any quantity. I brought in a whole copse, myself."

"We put them all into the old swimming-tank, don't you remember? Oh, no; you went in before we had finished this morning. Well, they are there. Stay where you are, Snowy, and Peggy and I will get a couple of loads."

The two girls ran down-stairs to the lower floor. Part of this was taken up, as we have already seen, by dressing-rooms, but it was only a small part. The larger space was occupied by the great swimming-tank, five feet deep, and twenty by thirty feet in area. The tank was not used now, but the water was still connected, and could be turned on by special permission. Now, accordingly, the water in the bottom was about two feet deep, and the whole surface was a blaze of autumn colours, great branches of maple, oak, and ash covering it completely.

"Pretty, isn't it?" said Bertha. "Like a little sunset sea all alone by itself, without any sun to set. The next question is, how are we to get at them?"

"Oh, that's easy enough!" said Peggy. "I can reach them easily from the edge, and I'll hand them over to you."

Suiting the action to the word, she climbed up on the broad marble slab which formed the edge of the great tank.

Then, bending down, she brought up a great branch of golden maple, fresh and dripping. She shook it, and a diamond shower fell back on the dark space left vacant; then another branch floated quietly over and filled the space again.

"You'll be wet through!" said Bertha. "I don't suppose you care?"

"No, indeed! I'd rather be wet than not, when I'm doing things."

"I'll remember that," said Bertha, slyly, "and come round with a watering-can next time you are reciting your rhetoric. Give me some red now; oh, that is a beauty! There! that's enough for one load; unless you see just one more little one that is superlatively beautiful."

"That is just what I do see! Hold on a minute! this is such a beauty, you must have it, if I—oh!"

Peggy had been leaning as far as she could over the broad tank, fishing for the gay branch, which floated provokingly just out of reach. At last she touched it—grasped it—drew it toward her; when all in a moment she slipped on the marble, now wet and glossy with the falling drops, clutched the air—slipped again—and fell headlong into the tank, with a mighty splash.

Bertha shrieked. There was an answering shriek from above, and Gertrude, followed by all the other girls, came flying down the stairs.

"What has happened? What—where is Peggy?"

"In the tank!" cried Bertha. "Oh! dear me, what shall we do? Peggy, are you much hurt?"

"No; I—think not!" spluttered Peggy. "I came down on my nose, that's all. Feels as if it was broken, but I don't know—no! It doesn't crack when I wiggle it. It's bleeding a good deal, though. Perhaps I'd better stay in till it stops."

Bertha tried to climb up to the perch which Peggy had so suddenly left vacant, but in vain; her legs were far too short. Gertrude, however, came with a flying leap, and scrambled cat-like up the side of the tank. Looking down, with the kindest heart in the world, and a world of sympathy to fill it, she still could not help bursting into a peal of laughter. Peggy, sitting in the tank, crowned with gold and scarlet leaves, and dripping like Undine, was certainly a funny spectacle.

"Oh, do forgive me for laughing, Peggy dear!" cried Gertrude. "You—you do look funny, but I'm dreadfully sorry."

"Well, I'm laughing myself," said Peggy, "I don't see why you shouldn't. But did you ever hear of a water-nymph with a nosebleed? If I could only get at my pocket—"

"Here, take mine," and Gertrude dropped her handkerchief, which Peggy caught adroitly.



"My dear," Gertrude went on, "it seems so strange to have some one besides me falling about and dropping herself. I used to be the one, always. They called me 'Dropsy' at home; and I fell in here last year, Peggy, and I know exactly how it feels. Here! take my hand and scramble out."

Peggy, still sitting in the water, which covered her to the waist, looked about her thoughtfully. "It seems a pity, now I am here, not to have some good of it," she said, philosophically.

"If it were only a foot deeper, or I weren't bothered with all these petticoats, I might have a good swim. However, I suppose I may as well get out—if I can. Take care, Snowy—oh! take care!"

Alas! for the Snowy Owl! After all, she was still Gertrude Merryweather. The marble was wet—she bent down to take Peggy's hand—here was another tremendous splash, and two Undines sat in the tank, gazing speechless on each other. This was too much for the composure of any one. Both Peggy and Gertrude sat helpless, shaking with laughter, and absolutely unable to move. Bertha, outside, fairly went into hysterics, and laughed and screamed in one breath; while the other girls raised such a clamour of mingled mirth and terror that Emily Cortlandt, who had just come in to take a look at the decorations, came running down-stairs, dreading she knew not what.

One look over the edge of the tank, and Miss Cortlandt was not so very much better than the rest of them; but she recovered herself sooner. Wiping her eyes, she proceeded at once to the business of rescuing the two involuntary divers. It proved impossible for them to climb up, the sides being too slippery, and the flying leap being out of the question in two feet of water. She brought a short ladder, and in another moment first one nymph and then the other came up from their fountain, and dripped little rivers on the floor.

"Is either of you hurt?" asked Miss Cortlandt.

"Not I!" said Gertrude, ruefully. "I fell on top of poor Peggy, and she makes a perfect cushion. How are you, Peggy? Did I half kill you?"

"Not a bit! I think perhaps I've sprained my wrist a little, but that was when I went in myself. No, I'm all right; truly I am, Miss Cortlandt. I'll just go and change my clothes, and then come back and finish."

Emily Cortlandt did not come of amphibious stock. "You will do nothing of the kind!" she said. "You ought to go to bed, Peggy, and Gertrude, too; but I suppose you would think that a terrible piece of injustice."

"Yes, Miss Cortlandt, we should!" replied both girls, in a breath.

"And I know that you have both been brought up more or less like whales; so I'll let you off with camphor pills and peppermint drops. Those you must have. Run along and change everything—everything, mind!—and I'll come around in five minutes and dose you. Run, now; make it a race, and I'll add hot lemonade to the stakes,—first prize and booby prize!"

"Yes, Miss Cortlandt," cried the two Undines; and off they set in a shower of spray, with the other girls at their heels.



CHAPTER XII.

AN ADVENTURE.

It all came from Peggy's forgetting her handkerchief. That was nothing remarkable. Rapidly though our heroine was developing, there was still plenty of the old Peggy left; and when she looked up at Miss Russell with a certain imploring gaze, the Principal was apt to say, without waiting for anything further: "Yes, Peggy, you may; but do try to remember it next time!"

But this time it was well that Peggy had not remembered it. She stumbled across the long dining-room quite in her own way, stubbing her toe against a sophomore's chair, and sending the sophomore's spoon clattering to the ground. Stooping, in confusion, to pick it up, with muttered apologies, she encountered the sophomore's head bent down for the same purpose, and some mutual star-gazing ensued. Finally she did manage to get out of the room, after cannoning against the door and taking most of the skin off her nose, and made her way up-stairs ruefully, rubbing the places that hurt most, and wondering where in her anatomy lay the "clumsy bone" that her father always talked about. "And it isn't there all the time!" said poor Peggy. "Sometimes I don't fall into anything for days, and then, all at once, it's like this!"

Shaking her head dolefully, she reached her own room, got the handkerchief, remembered with a great effort to shut the drawer, and came out into the corridor again—to come face to face with a man emerging from the opposite room.

The opposite room was Vanity Fair; and the man's hands were full of trinkets and knickknacks, and his pockets bulged in a suspicious way. He cast a wild glance over Peggy's shoulder at the open door of her room and the fire-escape beyond; evidently he had entered by that way, and counted on the dinner-hour's keeping every one below stairs till he got safe away. Now, however, baffled in this, he turned down the corridor with some degree of composure.

"Stop!" said Peggy. "Who are you, and what are you doing here?"

"I'm the plumber, miss," said the man, still walking away.

"Put down those things!" cried Peggy. "Do you hear? or I'll call the police!"

Apparently the man did not hear, or else did not fancy the idea suggested to him, for he began to run down the long corridor as fast as he could go.

So it came to pass that the school, waiting peacefully for its pudding, heard a sound of hasty feet scurrying down the stairs. Then, all in a rush, came past the door the flying figure of a man, with Peggy Montfort in hot pursuit.

"Stop thief!" Peggy shouted it once, and then prudently saved her breath. The man fumbled for an instant at the front door, gave it up, darted into Miss Russell's study. Crash went a window; he was out, with Peggy at his heels, and away across the lawn.

"Stop thief!" the cry rang through the school; and, lo! in the twinkling of an eye there was no school there. The long dining-room was emptied as if by magic; the front door flew open, and out streamed the seventy maidens, all crying "Stop thief!" all running their very best to come up with the flying pair.

There were some good runners at Pentland School; but after the first few minutes of running together, jostling and pushing, two girls drew rapidly away from the rest, and soon left them far behind. Gertrude Merryweather and Grace Wolfe had long been friendly rivals in what they called the royal sport of running. Perhaps neither of them was sorry of this opportunity for a "good spurt." Certainly it was a pretty sight, the two tall, graceful creatures, lithe and long-limbed as young greyhounds, speeding over the ground, their arms held close at their sides, their eyes flashing, youth and strength seeming to radiate from them as they ran. Now one drew ahead a little, now the other; but for the most part they kept side by side, for both were running their best, not only for the joy and honour of the thing, but because it was necessary to arrive, to help Peggy and catch the thief.

The thief was evidently not a trained athlete, but he was doing his best. He had cut himself a good deal in smashing the window, and had thrown away part of his booty, hoping that his relentless pursuer might be content, and might stop to pick up the brooches and belt-buckles that lay at her feet; but Peggy never looked at them, and held on straight after him, gaining, undoubtedly gaining. The man doubled back across the lawn, hoping to reach the gate and safety; but Peggy headed him off as quietly and coolly as if he were an unruly steer in the home stock-yard. Again he doubled, and again the girl was running in a diagonal to cut off his approach to the wished-for retreat. But now he caught sight of the two tall avengers bearing down upon him, and the school in full cry behind. He made a desperate spurt and reached the gate; it was half open, and as he rushed through he slammed it behind him with a hoarse shout of defiance. But much Peggy cared for gates! She was over in an instant, and at his heels again. And realising this, the rascal suddenly changed his tactics. He stopped short, and, turning on Peggy a villainous face, bade her with an oath, "Come on, and see what she would get for it!"

The words had not left his lips, when a ludicrous change came over the man's face. He uttered a wild yell, and fell headlong, almost at Peggy's feet. When Peggy saw this, she knew what to do; and when Grace and Gertrude came flying up a moment after, they found her sitting quietly on the rascal's head, and telling Colney Hatch to go for the police.

Colney had been watching the evolutions of a new and extremely interesting spider. The spider had made her web in the hedge beside the road; and Colney, as soon as morning recitations were over, had hastened thither, and sat down under the hedge to watch, undisturbed by thoughts of dinner or of any other known thing. So watching, it came to pass that she heard the sound of rushing feet so close that it actually did disturb her; and looked up to see an extremely ill-looking fellow in full flight, hotly pursued by Peggy Montfort. When he turned to bay, it was within a foot of the spot where Colney sat under the hedge; and without more ado Colney stretched out her long, lean hand, and, grabbing the fellow by the ankles, "tripped up his heels, and he fell on his nose."

Presently up came the school, panting and breathless; with them Miss Cortlandt, who had been saying to herself that if she ever let herself get out of practice in running again she would know the reason why. Finally, up came William the chore-man from one direction (for Miss Russell had gone straight to the kitchen and given the alarm there), and the next-door neighbour from the other; whereupon Constable Peggy got up from her uneasy seat, and handed over her prize to the tender mercies of his own sex.

"Git up, ye varmint!" said William, stirring the prostrate figure with his foot. "Git up, and say what ye've got to say for yerself."

The man got up, bewildered, and shaking his head as if he expected it to come off.

"She 'most killed me!" he spluttered. "I ain't got no breath left in my body."

"Small loss if ye hain't!" retorted William. "What's he ben doin', gals?" William never would say "young ladies," which distressed Miss Russell; but he was so valuable, as she said.

"Stealing!" said Peggy, briefly. "I met him coming out of one of the rooms."

"I snum!" said William. "You're a nice kind o' harmonium, ben't ye? Tu'n out yer pockets!"

"She sot down on my head!" muttered the man. "Somethin' come up out o' the ground at me and knocked me down, and then she sot down on my head. I'm 'most killed, I tell ye!"

"Well, who cares if ye be?" replied William, with some irritation. "It's a pity she didn't finish the job, that's all I've got to say. Tu'n out yer pockets, will ye?"

The man obeyed unwillingly, still muttering; and out came a mass of lockets, pins, and chains, enough, in spite of those he had thrown away, to furnish half the girls in the school.

After searching to see the surrender was complete, William adjured the next-door neighbour, a stout and silent person named Simpson, who had been standing by, to "take t'other arm, and we'll walk him down to the lock-up jest as easy!" The thief begged and prayed, and, finding that useless, took to cursing and swearing; whereupon William and Mr. Simpson marched him off in short order, and all three disappeared around the turn leading to the High Street.

The school was left standing in the road, still panting with haste and excitement. They had been silent during William's colloquy with the man, but now the strings of their tongues were loosened, and the flood of speech broke loose.

"My dear!"

"My dear! I never was so excited in my life, were you?"

"Where did he come from?"

"Who saw him first?"

"Why, Peggy Montfort, of course! Didn't you see her?"

"No; I just ran, because every one else was—"

"Perfectly distracted! I never heard of such a thing."

"He was in the closet—"

"No; he was on the stairs—"

"Just getting out of the window—"

"With just her bare hands, I tell you. Just took a—"

"Pair of earrings, nothing else in the world."

"But who was he—where did he come from? What does Peggy say about it?"

"Girls! girls!" cried Miss Cortlandt. "Will you please be silent for a moment? Peggy has not had a chance to say a word yet, and I for one want to hear her story. Have you got your breath yet, Peggy? because we all want to hear, very much indeed."

"There isn't much to tell," said Peggy, blushing. "I went up to get my handkerchief,—I had forgotten it,—and as I was coming out of my room, this fellow was just coming out of the other room."

"What other room? Whose was it?" cried a dozen voices.

"Why, Van—I mean No. 17, Miss Vincent and Miss Varnham's room."

"Oh! oh!" a shrill scream was heard; and Viola Vincent pushed her way through the crowd of girls, and threw herself upon Peggy.

"My Veezy-vee!" she cried. "It was my room! V., do you hear? It was our room that horrid wretch was robbing. My dear, if we had been there we should have been murdered in our beds, I know we should. Peggy Montfort has saved our lives. Isn't it perfectly awful?"

"That she should have saved your lives?" asked the Snowy Owl, laughing. "Come to your senses, Vanity, and don't strangle Peggy. She's black in the face, and I shall have to set about saving her life if you don't let her go."

Released from Viola's embrace, Peggy gasped, and shook herself like a Newfoundland puppy.

"Don't be ridiculous, Vanity!" she said, looking at once pleased and shamefaced. "It wasn't anything, of course; it was just what any one else would have done. But do look out for your things! They are scattered all about the lawn; he threw away a lot of them when he first came out, and we shall be stepping on them if we don't take care. Oh! oh, please don't say anything more about it. It was just the merest chance I happened to go up." This was to Vivia Varnham, who, trying to overcome her ungraciousness, was expressing her gratitude for what Peggy had done. It was evidently an effort and was not pleasant for either girl.

The girls scattered over the lawn, picking up here a hairpin, there a brooch or buckle. It really seemed as if Vanity Fair was stocked like a jeweller's shop. Gertrude Merryweather, standing by Peggy, uttered an exclamation. "My dear! Peggy! Why, you are all over blood! You are bleeding now. What—where—oh! oh, Fluffy, look here!" Bertha came running, as Gertrude lifted Peggy's arm, which was indeed dripping blood. Both girls exclaimed in horror, and Bertha turned quite white; but Peggy looked at it coolly.

"Oh!" she said. "That must be where I went through the window after him."

"The window?"

"Yes, didn't you hear the crash? He smashed the window in Miss Russell's study and got out, and I followed him, of course. It isn't anything. Why, I didn't feel it till you spoke."

"That is excitement!" said the Snowy Owl. "You must come in and be bandaged this minute, Peggy! Come right along to the Nest; I have bandages and lint all ready."

The Snowy Owl was all on fire with ardour and sympathy. Peggy looked at her in surprise, but the Fluffy Owl laughed. "You have struck the Snowy's hobby," she said. "She is going to study medicine, you know. Go along; she will be happy all the rest of the day, bandaging and cosseting you."

"But it doesn't hurt!" said Peggy, still wondering.

"Never mind!" said the Snowy Owl. "It ought to hurt, Peggy Montfort, and it will hurt in a little while. Come along and be bandaged!" and, meekly wondering, Peggy went.



CHAPTER XIII.

PEGGY VICTRIX!

"Well, it certainly was a great success!" said the Scapegoat. It was the day after the reception, and she had drifted into the Owls' Nest toward twilight, and now stood by the mantelpiece, swaying backward and forward in the light, wind-blown way she had.

"A great success!" she repeated, thoughtfully. "Why, it was actually pleasant! How did you manage it?"

"We didn't manage it," said honest Bertha. "It just came so. Everybody was ready to have a good time, and had it; that was all."

"More than that!" said Grace, absent-mindedly. "There has to be a knack, or something, and you have it. I haven't. I couldn't do it, even if I wanted to, and I don't think I do."

"Do what?" said the Snowy.

"Be an Owl!" said Grace. Suddenly she left her hold of the shelf, and turned upon them almost fiercely.

"Why should I?" she exclaimed. "Tell me that, will you? It is all natural to you. Your blood flows quietly, and you like quiet, orderly ways, and never want to throw things about, or smash a window. I tell you I have to, sometimes. Look here!"

She caught up a vase from the shelf, and seemed on the point of flinging it through the closed window, but Gertrude laid her hand on her arm firmly. "You may have a right to throw your own things, my dear," she said, good-naturedly. "You have no possible right to throw mine, and 'with all respect, I do object!'"

Grace gave a short laugh, and set the vase down again; but she still looked frowningly at the two girls, and presently she went on.

"It's all very well for you, I tell you. You have a home, and a—my mother died when I was five years old. My father—"

"Grace, dear," said Gertrude; "come and sit down here by me, and tell me about your mother. I have seen her picture; she must have been lovely."

But Grace shook her head fiercely.

"My father is an actor, and I want to be one, too, but he promised my mother before she died—she didn't want me to be one. What do I care about all this stuff we are learning here? I tell you I want to take a tambourine and go on the road with a hand-organ man. That would be life! I would, too, if I only had the luck to have hair and eyes like yours, Fluffy."

"You could wear a wig, of course," said Bertha, soberly. "The eyes would be a difficulty, though, I'm afraid."

"Well, I am here now! and I'm supposed to stay another year, and then go to college. Four—five years more of bondage, and tasks, and lectures on good behaviour! Am I likely to stand it, I ask you?"

"I hope so!" said Gertrude, steadily. "It would be a thousand pities if you didn't, Grace, and you know it as well as I do."

"And if I do, it must be in my own way!" cried the wild girl, swinging round again on her heel. "And if I can make things more endurable here—if I can get rid of—it must be in my own way, I tell you. Snowy, you are like your name, I suppose. You are white and gold and calm,—I don't know what you are, except that we are not of the same flesh. I tell you, I turn to fire inside! I must break out, I must go off when the fit comes on me. I do no harm! It doesn't hurt anybody for me to go down the wall and cool myself with a run in the fields. Why can't I be let alone? I am not a child! I tell you it is the way I am made!"

The Snowy Owl rose, and, going to the fireplace, laid her arm around Grace's shoulder.

"You are making yourself!" she said. "It's your own life, Wolf; are you making it worse or better?"

"I'm not doing either. I am taking it as it comes, as it was meant to come."

Gertrude shook her head quietly.

"That can't be!" she said. "That is impossible, Wolf. We have to be growing one way or the other; we can't stay as we are, for a year or a day. And there's another thing: you don't seem to think about the others, about the effect on the school. If you are to break the laws, why should not every one do the same?"

"Because they are different!" said Grace, sullenly.

"You don't know that! They may have the same temptations, and be stronger than you to resist them. You ought to be a strong girl, Grace, and, instead of that, you are weak—as weak as water."

"Weak? I!" cried Grace, her eyes blazing. "If any one else had said that to me, Gertrude Merryweather, I would—"

"But no one else would say it to you!" said Gertrude. "Because no one else—except Miss Russell—cares as much as I do—Fluffy and I. We love you too much, Grace, to flatter you and follow you, as most of them do. I tell you, and you may take it as simple truth, for it is nothing else, that which you think strength is simply weakness,—lamentable weakness. And as for your influence on the other girls—just listen a moment!"

Taking up a little book from the table, she opened it—indeed it seemed to open of its own accord at the place—and read:

"'Little thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown Of thee from the hill-top looking down; The heifer that lows in the upland farm, Far-heard, lows not thine ear to charm; The sexton, tolling his bell at noon, Deems not that great Napoleon Stops his horse, and lists with delight, Whilst his files sweep round yon Alpine height; Nor knowest thou what argument Thy life to thy neighbour's creed hath lent. All are needed by each one; Nothing is fair or good alone.'"

There was silence when she finished reading. Then—"What is that?" asked Grace, stretching out her hand. "Give it to me!"

"Emerson. Take him home with you, and let him talk to you; he speaks well."

Grace took the book, looked it over, and dropped it into her pocket. For a moment she leaned her head against Gertrude's arm, and a sigh broke from her involuntarily. Then, all in a moment, a change came. Her face lightened in an indescribable way, and her eyebrows lifted with a look that both girls knew well.

"And have you heard the news?" she said. "There is a rumour that my Puggy leaves me at the end of the term. How to exist, I ask you, without her? Othello's occupation would be gone indeed."

"No! is it true? Why is she going? What does it mean?"

Grace shrugged her shoulders with an elfish gesture.

"How should I know? It appears she sees ghosts. A ghost must be hard up, one would think, to visit my Puggy; there ought to be an asylum for impoverished spectres. Would you subscribe for it, Owls? Good-bye! I must go. You mean well, and I don't bear malice. Oh! by the by,—" she came back for an instant, and stood balancing herself on one foot and looking round the edge of the door, and she certainly looked hardly human,—"I forgot the thing I came for. Stand by the Innocent this evening, will you, if she should get into trouble? I am sent for to the study, and shall be in for a good hour's lecture, and then bed."

"What do you mean, Goat? What is it?" asked both girls, anxiously. But the Goat was gone.

* * * * *

Peggy was enjoying herself extremely. She had learned all her lessons, for a wonder, and now she had curled herself up in a corner with the "Jungle Book," and the rest of the world was forgotten. There was nobody, there never had been anybody, but Mowgli and the Wolves. She had hunted with them, she had slain Shere-Khan, she had talked with Baloo and Bagheera. Her outdoor nature had responded in every fibre to the call of the Master of Magic, and he filled her with joy and wonder. As the Snowy had said, the worlds were opening, and the doors thereof.

Things being thus with her, she hardly heard her own door open softly. Before she had torn her eyes from the enchanted page, the room was filled with silent, flitting figures—as it had been often filled before. The girls nodded to her with silent laughter and friendly gestures. In another moment they would have been at the window; but Peggy was not dreaming now. In an instant she had sprung from her corner among the cushions, and stood before the window, with arms outspread. "No!" she said.

The girls recoiled, paused, in amazement. There were six of them: the two V's, Blanche Haight, and three other sophomores. Peggy saw with a throb of joy that Grace Wolfe was not among them. That would have made it harder.

"What does this mean?" asked Vivia Varnham, with her cold smile. "You have never made any trouble before, Peggy; isn't it rather late in the day?"

"Oh, she's only in fun!" cried Viola Vincent. "Aren't you, Veezy-vee? Why, she's acting, girls, and she does it elegantly. It's perf'ly fine, Veezy-vee. I didn't know you had it in you."

"No, I am not acting," said Peggy, quietly. "I am sorry, girls, but you can't go out. You never can go out again, so long as I am here."

"Upon my word!" cried Blanche Haight, who had not spoken yet. "This seems to be a pretty state of things. Perhaps you are not aware, Miss Montfort, that this exit was used, long before you came to adorn the school with your presence. We acknowledge no right of yours to forbid us the use of it. Stand out of the way, please."

For a reply, Peggy backed against the window; her face assumed an expression with which her family was acquainted.

"When Peggy looks dour," Jean used to say, "look out for rising winds and a falling barometer!"

Then Viola came forward, and began to plead, in her pretty, wheedling way.

"Let us go, just this once; that's a dear, good Veezy. I know what has happened; Miss Russell has found out, hasn't she?"

Peggy nodded.

"And she has spoken to you, and of course I know just how you feel. But you see, Peggy, we have an appointment this time, truly we have, with some college girls, and you wouldn't make us break it, would you, Veezy? Of course you don't want us to go, and we won't again,—at least most probably we won't, if it is going to get you into trouble. But we really have to go this time, Peggy, dear, so do be nice and sweet, and let us pass."

"No," said Peggy. "I'm sorry, Viola, but it's no use. Nothing you can say will make any difference."

"Possibly not!" said Blanche Haight; she pushed Viola aside without ceremony, and came close to Peggy.

"Possibly nothing we can say will make a difference, Miss Montfort, but something we can do may make a good deal. I ask you, fair and square, will you come away from that window? We are six to one, and I give you the chance of settling this in a quiet and friendly way. Will you come away from that window?"

"No," said Peggy, "I will not. Is that square enough?"

"Then, girls," said Blanche, turning to her followers, "we must help ourselves. We shall see whether one freshman is going to block the way of the Gang! You take one arm, Viola, and I'll take the other."

"Oh, don't hurt her!" cried Viola. "Don't hurt her, Blanche. I'm awfully fond of Peggy. I know she only means to do what she thinks she ought to. Peggy, do give up! You are all alone, and there are six of us. Do give up, Peggy; for my sake, Peggy! I—I'll give you my gold bangle, the one with the locket, if you'll only give up, Peggy!"

Peggy smiled, and said nothing. She could not be angry with the little butterfly, but there was no use in wasting breath; she might need all she had.

Blanche Haight seized one arm, Vivia Varnham the other, and tried to drag her away from the window by main force. With her favourite Newfoundland-dog motion, Peggy shook them off, planted a quick blow here, another there, and her assailants staggered back for a moment. In another instant, however, they returned to the attack, and this time the other sophomores joined, and all five threw themselves on Peggy. Once more she shook them off, but they closed in again, and a struggle began, all the more fierce that no word was spoken, no cry uttered. No cry, that is, by the combatants. When the five set upon Peggy, Viola ran in and made an effort to pull them off, with piteous entreaties. But no one paid the smallest heed to her, and the poor little butterfly, frightened and distressed, burst into tears, and ran away.

At the same moment, any one who had been listening in quiet might have heard a singular sound that seemed to come from above, from outside—no one could tell from where; the cry of an owl, followed by a long, low howl. Three times this was repeated; and many a junior, studying under her lamp, looked up and said, "What is up now, I wonder?" for the sound recalled freshman days, before the Lone Wolf and the two Owls had come to the parting of the ways.

Three minutes later, two figures, speeding silently along Corridor A, were met at a turn by a third, which flung itself sobbing upon them.



"Oh, Snowy, oh, Fluffy, they are killing Peggy Montfort! I was coming to call you—oh, be quick! be quick!"

Without stopping, somehow the Snowy Owl managed to open a door and thrust Viola in. It was to be noticed that neither girl looked at her. They ran on, swift and silent.

Indeed, it was time! Peggy's lip was bleeding, where Vivia Varnham's head had struck against it as she fell, tripped by a pretty trick that was learned on the Western farm. Her hair was dragged down and hung in her eyes, her dress was torn in a dozen places. With one of her sudden movements she had thrown off her assailants, and stood for an instant alone, looking the very Spirit of Battle, with blazing eyes and scarlet cheeks. Blanche Haight rushed at her again, and this time Peggy seized her around the waist in a deadly grip. The others closed in once more, furious, determined this time to finish with the insolent freshman. It was like to go hard with Peggy Montfort this time.

What happened? A flash, the glance of an eye, and all was changed. The assailants fell back, staggering across the room, gasping and staring; and the Snowy and the Fluffy Owl were standing shoulder to shoulder with Peggy, one on either side, with stern and angry looks.

For a moment there was dead silence, save for the hard breathing as Blanche Haight tried to wriggle out of the iron grasp that held her—in vain! Then Gertrude Merryweather spoke.

"Miss Varnham, Miss Floyd, Miss Johnson, Miss White, Miss—who is this?—Miss Haight. Found out of bounds and out of hours, making a disturbance in the rooms. To be reported to the Principal. Go to your rooms, if you please!"

Was this the Snowy Owl, gentle and friendly, beloved of all? No! it was the Junior President and the Monitor of Corridor A. She might have been an avenging angel as she stood there, tall and white and severe.

Her face softened as she bent over Peggy. "You can let her go now!" she said. "We are here, Peggy, Bertha and I. It is all right! Let her go, child!"

Slowly and reluctantly Peggy loosed her hold, and Blanche, half-fainting, dropped upon the bed. She looked with feeble venom at the two rescuers.

"Spying, eh?" she whispered. "Very dignified, I'm sure, for a president. That little sneak Viola Vincent was here too, mind! Put her down in your precious report."

"I don't see Miss Vincent here!" said Gertrude, coldly. "Go to your rooms, if you please! I think I understand the case thoroughly, Blanche, thank you. Will you go, or shall we help you?"

But Blanche preferred to go unaided. Silent as they had come, they slunk away, flitting like shadows along the corridor. And when they were gone, the two Owls sat down on the bed and took Peggy between them, and rocked, and petted, and soothed her; for lo! the Goddess of Battle was crying like a three years' child.



CHAPTER XIV.

ON SPY HILL.

Things were quietly managed at Pentland School; there was never any outcry, any open flurry of excitement and gossip. Many of the scholars never knew why five girls left school in the middle of the term. The seniors who did know shrugged their shoulders, and said it was a pity to have such things take the girls' minds off their parts—looking at everything from the point of view of Senior Dramatics. The juniors looked pretty sober for a week, even the sophomore spirits were dashed for the time. But nothing was said openly, and after awhile the scared whisperings died away, and work and play went on as usual. Poor little Viola Vincent mourned deeply the loss of her mate. She herself had escaped with a severe reprimand, having gone to Miss Russell to plead Vivia's cause, and confessing frankly her own share in the escapade. Vivia was anything but an agreeable girl; but she and Viola had grown up together, next-door neighbours and companions from their cradles, and Viola was lost without her. She threw herself upon Peggy for consolation, and Peggy found herself in the curious position of protecting and comforting a junior, and a girl two years older than herself. Viola would come in, and, curling herself up in the corner of Peggy's divan, declare that she had come for a good cry. A few sniffs would follow, and then perhaps actual tears, but more likely a river of speech.

"It's no use, Peggy! I cannot live! I simply can not live on in this way. I know V. was horrid to you—yes, she was! Oh, I am not blind, you know, if I am a goose! She was horrid to most of the girls, I know she was, but she was good to me, generally, and it didn't matter much if she wasn't. I was used to her little ways, and I didn't mind. And I have always had her, you see, all my life, and I don't—see—how I can get along without her. I wanted to be expelled, too! Yes, I did! that was why I told Miss Russell about my being there and all; I thought she would be sure to send me away, too. I think it was very unjust of her not to, I'm sure."

"Viola, don't talk so! You had nothing to do with the—the attack, or any violence. You would have gone away quietly when I said you could not use the window; you know you would."

"How do you know I would have? I might have torn you limb from limb, Peggy, for all you can say. What are you laughing at?"

For this statement, coming from a small person with a grasp about as powerful as that of a week-old kitten, was too much for the stalwart Peggy's composure.

"You don't know what I am when I am roused!" Viola went on. "I'm awful, simply awful!" And she opened her blue eyes wide, and looked like a tragic baby.

"But—my! Peggy, how you did look that night! I wonder this whole room didn't turn blue with fright. I was frightened almost to death; I wonder I'm alive to-day. Well, wasn't it too perf'ly awful for anything, the whole thing?"

"It was pretty bad!" Peggy assented. "But it's all over now, Viola; I would try not to dwell on it too much, if I were you. Of course I know how you must miss Vivia, and I'm dreadfully sorry about it all. But just think how dear the Owls have been to both of us."

"Haven't they?" cried Viola, drying her tears, her eyes brightening. "Aren't they too perfectly lovely for anything, the Owls? I think the Snowy is just the sweetest thing that ever lived in this world, don't you?"

"I think she's one of them," said honest Peggy. "But I'm just as fond of Bertha. She was my first friend here, my very first."

"Oh, how funny you were that first day, Peggy!" cried Viola, laughing now, her sorrows forgotten for the time. "You were too killing! I thought I should have died, when you went tumbling all over yourself. You were killing, weren't you, now?"

"You seem to have survived!" said Peggy, good-naturedly. It was not pleasant to be laughed at, but no one ever minded Viola.

"Where are you going?" demanded Viola, as Peggy got out her "Tam" and pinned it on with a resolute air. "Peggy, you are not going out, just when I have come to see you? I was so lonely, and I wanted some one to talk to; and now the minute I come, you get up and go away. I must say I don't think you are very polite." And Viola pouted and looked like a child of six instead of a girl of sixteen.

"Viola!" said Peggy. "You have been here an hour and a half, do you know it? and I must have a walk; I haven't been outside the door this afternoon. Put on your Tam and come along with me! You'd feel ever so much better if you would take more exercise."

"Oh, no, I shouldn't! and I cannot see what you want to be walk, walking, all the everlasting time for, Peggy Montfort. What's the use of it?"

"The use?" cried Peggy, with sparkling eyes. "Why, there's all the use in the world. In the first place, it makes you strong and healthy, and keeps you well."

"Oh! but gym does that! We have to do gym, and I don't mind that; in fact it's rather fun, only it spoils your figure dreadfully."

"But gym isn't enough, if you don't take any other exercise," said Peggy. "And besides, V., just think of the joy of walking and running. Why, you see all the things growing, and breathe the air, and—and—hear the birds, and the water, and—well, I shouldn't want to live if I couldn't walk, that's all. Come along, and you'll see!"

"Oh, I can't, I'm too tired."

"You are tired, because you have been sitting in the house all day. And you are pale, and—"

"No! am I?" cried Viola, running to the glass. "I'm so glad! I just love to be pale, it's so interesting. It makes my eyes look larger, too, doesn't it, Peggy? They do look very large to-day, don't they, Peggy?"

Peggy sighed. "You do discourage me, Viola!" she said. "Well, good-bye. I must go. The others are waiting for me."

"What others? Who else is going? What are you going to do?"

"Why, I told you! We are going to walk."

"Yes, but what for? Are you going to the shops, or going to see somebody? I can't see any sense in just stupid walking, without any object. And you didn't tell me who was going."

"You didn't give me a chance. Well, Rose Barclay is going, and two other freshmen whom I don't think you know, Clara Fair and Ethel Bird—and Lobelia Parkins."

"Peggy Montfort! why do you go with that little animal? I've told you before that I could not, for the honour of the corridor, have you seen with a creature that looks like that. Let her go with Colney Hatch if she wants company; they'd be two of a kind."

"Colney Hatch is one of the brightest girls in school, Miss Cortlandt says so!"

"Very likely; but that doesn't make her a fit associate for you, my Veezy-vee. You never seem to understand about different sets. I want you to belong to the smart set, and you won't."

"Do the Owls belong to it?" demanded Peggy, turning red.

"Peggy, how dense you are! The Owls don't belong to any set because they won't. Of course they could belong to any set they pleased."

"Does Grace Wolfe belong to it?"

"The Goat? Why, she used to; but she's so awfully queer, you know; the Goat has grown too awfully queer for anything. She stays by herself mostly, ever since she cut loose from the Gang. And Vivia is gone," she wailed, "and Blanche Haight,—Blanchey was not very nice, but her gowns fitted like a seraph's, and the style to her hats was too perfectly killing for anything, you know it was. And now there isn't any one, not a single soul, that I care to talk to about clothes. I've had my pink waist done over, and it's simply dandy—the sweetest thing you ever saw in your life; and nobody cares. I am so unhappy!"

"I haven't seen that new hat you told me about!" said Peggy, with a happy stroke of diplomacy. If any one had told Margaret Montfort that her Peggy would ever develop a talent for diplomacy she would have opened her eyes wide indeed; but one learns many things at boarding-school.

Viola brightened at once.

"No! didn't I?" she cried, her whole manner changing. "Would you like to see it, Peggy? It is really too cute for anything, it just is! What makes you shut up your mouth that way?"

"Oh, nothing! Well, yes, it is something. You won't mind if I tell you? Well, I used to say 'cute,' and Margaret showed me what bad English it was, and how silly it sounded. So I made up my mind to stop it, and every time I wanted to say it I screwed up my mouth and counted ten. Just the same with 'elegant.' I've broken myself of that, too, but it was hard work."

"Elegant! simply elegant!" repeated Viola, thoughtfully. "The Goat won't let you say that, either, or the Owls. What's the use of being so fussy? besides, elegant is a real word, they can't say it isn't, so now!"

"Oh! of course it is, and it has its real use. You can speak of an elegant dress, or an elegant carriage, and then it's all right; but I used to say I had had an elegant time, don't you know? and talk about elegant cake, and all that kind of thing. And when once you have learned better, it does sound awfully silly."

"Well, they make just as much fuss about 'awful,' and there you are saying that, and you say it all the time."

"I know!" said poor Peggy, hanging her head. "I know I do, though I try awfully hard not to. There! that's the way it is. It does seem as if I couldn't get over that, but I'm going on trying. And if you don't get your hat this minute, V., I shall go without you. I can't wait any longer. It's awfully—it's very late."

"Why, I'm coming, as fast as I can; how impatient you are, Peggy! You aren't half as fond of me as I am of you, or you would not be in such a hurry to get away to that little fright. There, here it is! Now isn't that dandy, simply dandy? I do think it is too perf'ly sweet for anything!"

It was a pretty hat, and Viola certainly looked charming in it. She was so pleased with her appearance that she could not resist the temptation of "showing off" to the other girls; so she followed Peggy down to the lawn, where a little group was already gathered. At sight of a junior, even so unformidable a junior as Viola Vincent, poor little Lobelia Parkins shrank into a small knotted heap of misery. Through Peggy's intercession, Rose Barclay and the two other freshmen had been kind to her, and had agreed to let her share their walks, which they took now semi-weekly under Peggy's leadership. None of them cared for her, or felt much interest in her, but they did care for Peggy Montfort, partly because she was the strongest girl in the class, partly because of the fame that had accrued to her since her exploit in resisting and breaking up the famous Gang; but mostly, perhaps, because everybody felt and said that Peggy Montfort was "all right," which in schoolgirl parlance meant that she was a cheerful, kindly, and right-minded girl. So, though her chief friends were still among the juniors, she was well known and well liked in her own class.

Peggy took Lobelia's hand, and drew it resolutely through her arm.

"We'll lead the way!" she cried. "Rose and Viola, you two come next, and Clara and Ethel bring up the rear. How's that?"

All agreed to the arrangement; and the six started off in high spirits.

"Where are we going to-day?" asked Rose Barclay. "Don't kill us, Peggy! I haven't got over being stiff yet, from the last tramp. It was jolly, though."

"It was splendid!" chimed in Ethel Bird. "Why, I had no idea what pretty places there were about here. Shall we go to the woods again?"

"I thought of going up Spy Hill!" said Peggy. "It isn't very high, and there's a lovely view from the top."

"Oh, I never can get as far as that!" cried Viola, aghast. "You said a little walk, Peggy, and that is miles and miles, I know it is. Oh, I think I'll go back."

"Oh, don't!" cried Rose, in a tone of heartfelt interest that won Viola's susceptible heart. "It isn't very far, truly it isn't; and I want to ask you where you got that hat. It is too perfectly lovely for anything! I've got to have a new hat, and I do wish—"

"My dear!" cried Viola, dimpling all over with pleasure, "I'll tell you all about it. You see—"

There was no more trouble with Viola. Peggy chuckled, and started off at a round pace, the others following.

The two Owls, standing at their window with arms intertwined, just thinking of taking a little flutter in the cool of the afternoon, looked after them with friendly eyes.

"What's the matter with Peggy Montfort?" said the Fluffy to the Snowy.

"She's all right!" said the Snowy to the Fluffy. And then they looked at each other sternly, and shook their heads in grave rebuke. "My dear," they said both together, "we are surprised!"



CHAPTER XV.

WHAT WAS THE MATTER WITH LOBELIA PARKINS?

"Lobelia, I insist upon knowing!"

"Oh, Peggy, please don't ask me!"

"But I will ask you. I do ask you. What is it that you are afraid of? I shall find out sooner or later, so you might as well give up at once and tell me."

Lobelia looked around her uneasily. She and Peggy were sitting in a cosy little hollow under the lee of a great brown rock, waiting for the others to come up.

"Come!" said Peggy. "There's nobody behind that rock. What is the matter with you, Lobelia Parkins, and why don't you sleep? Out with it!"

Lobelia sighed, and twisted her buttons. "I—I never am a very good sleeper," she said at last. "I—I'm nervous, Peggy. And then—"

"And then, what?"

"Oh, dear me! I can't tell you. You won't believe me if I tell you. Things come into my room and frighten me."

"Things? What do you mean, Lobelia?"

"I don't know what I mean!" cried the poor girl, looking about her again, as if in dread of some unseen terror. "I don't know who it is, or what it is. Something—or somebody—comes through my room at night and goes out of the window."

"Ah!" said Peggy. "Well, go on. How long has this been going on?"

"Oh, ever so long! At first—Peggy, you will feel badly if I tell you this."

"Well, then, I've got to feel badly," said Peggy, stoutly. "Though I can't see what I have to do with it—so far. I'll have plenty to do with it from now on!" she added, significantly. "Go on, Lobelia."

"Well, you know that time you were so good to me, Peggy; when Blanche Haight and those others were teasing me, and you came in like a lioness and drove them off. I never shall forget it as long as I live, Peggy, never!"

"Nonsense!" said Peggy. "It wasn't anything at all. Don't be absurd, Lobelia. Well, what since then?"

"It began after that. She—I know that it used to be Blanche Haight then—she used to come in after I was in bed, and frighten me. She had a sheet on, and at first I thought it was a ghost, and I fainted the first time, I think; and then she used—she used to make faces and pinch me, and one time I saw her ring, and so I knew who it was."

"The cowardly brute!" muttered Peggy. "It's well for her that she's out of this school. Now, Lobelia Parkins, why, in the name of all that is feeble-minded and ridiculous, didn't you tell me this before?"

"Oh, I couldn't!" said Lobelia. "I had given you enough trouble, Peggy. And besides—"

"Well! besides what?"

"I was afraid! I was afraid she would kill me if I told."

"My goodness gracious me!" cried Peggy, bouncing on her mossy seat, till Lobelia shrank away scared and trembling. "Do you think we live in the Middle Ages, Lobelia Parkins? This is what comes of reading history; it puts all those old-fangled notions into your head, till you have no sense left. I know! You had all that stuff about Florence and Rome, and poisoning, and all that. I had it too; awful stuff, and probably two-thirds lies. History is the father of lies, you know; somebody says so somewhere."

"I—I thought it was Herodotus who was called that," Lobelia ventured, timidly.

"Perhaps it was; it's all the same."

"No, I am wrong. Herodotus was called the father of history, and then some other people said he was the father of lies; but now it has all come true, so he isn't any more!"

Lobelia, who was stupid and painstaking, proffered this lucid explanation painfully, and then gasped; it seemed a liberty for her to explain anything to anybody.

"Who cares?" said Peggy. "He's dead, anyhow. Oh, how it used to provoke my dearest Margaret when I said that. I only mean, I never see how it can matter so much as people think. But you are not dead, Lobelia; and the idea of your being killed, here in this school, in the nineteenth century! Why, it is absurd, don't you see? It is funny! You must laugh about it, my dear!"

Lobelia, with an effort, produced a watery smile; seeing which, Peggy's mood changed, and she laid her hand instantly on the skinny, shrinking arm.

"My dear, don't think I was laughing at you," she cried, warmly. "No; I am going to be furious in a minute, when I get round to that part again. Well, but Lobelia, Blanche Haight is gone now, and a good riddance, and yet you say you are still afraid. What are you afraid of?"

"I—I don't know who it is now!" said Lobelia. "But some one comes through, just the same."

"How do you mean, just the same? some one pinches you?"

"No! oh, no! this person never speaks to me or looks at me. It—she—only wants to go through the window. It has something light gray over its head and shoulders. It goes down the fire-escape and stays about half an hour, and then comes back. I—I don't mind it so very much, now. I dare say it's all right, only—I can't sleep very well, you know."

"I see!" said Peggy. "Well, I think we can settle that matter, Lobelia. Hush! here come the others. We won't say anything more about it now. Well, girls, how did it go? Isn't it a lovely little scramble?"

Rose Barclay and Viola appeared, with the other two just behind. Viola was panting, and her delicate colour was deepened by exertion till she was almost as rosy as her companion.

"My dear!" she cried. "You are responsible for my life! I am killed; simply killed, Peggy Montfort. I shall never recover from this awful fatigue, I know I shall not."

"Nonsense!" said Peggy, briefly. "Here! sit down here, V., and get your breath; you'll be all right in a minute. It wasn't bad, was it, Rose?"

"It was a bit stiff in one place!" Rose admitted. "I rather think we took the wrong turn, Peggy. Did you say left, after the big pine?"

"No, right; you didn't come up that bank? Poor little V.! no wonder she thinks she is killed. Let me take your hat off, V., and get you some water or something."

But Viola refused to part with her hat. She sat panting and crimson, and seemed really exhausted. Peggy eyed her with remorse. "I couldn't know that you would take the wrong turn, could I?" she said. "I'm awfully sorry!"

"Oh, but it was fine!" said Ethel Bird. "How do you find out all these places, Peggy? This is just lovely, isn't it?"

"By looking," said Peggy. "I like to poke about, and I came on this the other day. See, here's a little baby spring, trickling right out of the rock here. Isn't it pretty? and the water is clear and cold as ice. Shall I make you a leaf-cup, Viola? The best way, though, is to put your mouth down and drink, this way."

"Oh, I never would do that!" cried Clara Fair. "Why, a snake might go right down your throat, Peggy Montfort; truly it might. There was a man—"

"Oh, don't talk about a man!" cried Rose Barclay. "How could you, Clara? You remind me of my German lesson."

"I never said a word about your German lesson," said Clara, who was literal and matter-of-fact.

"No, but you reminded me," said Rose, who was imaginative and poetic. "All the morning I was saying to myself:

"'Der dickere Mann, Des dickeren Mannes, Dem dickeren Manne, Den dickeren Mann.'"

"You seem to have learned it, anyhow," said Peggy, laughing.

"Oh, but that isn't all!" said Rose. "There is more horror. It goes on, you know:

"'Die dickeren Manner, Der dickeren Manner, Den dickeren Mannern, Die dickeren Manner.'"

"I think foreign languages are the silliest things in the world!" declared Peggy. "Well, I do! Such perfect foolishness as they talk! I have no patience with them."

"Well, but Peggy, they aren't foreign when they are at home!" protested Ethel.

"Well, then, I wish they would stay at home. I don't know whether German is so bad, though that sounds awful, all that you said just now, Rose; but I have French; and I have to try to mince and simper, and twist my mouth up into all kinds of shapes, just saying things that are too silly to be said. I wish there was a law that no one in this country should ever speak anything but English. It would be ever so much more sensible."

"So it would!" assented Rose. "I say! what a pity we didn't think to bring something to eat! I'm awfully hungry, walking all this way."

"All this way, Rose!" said Peggy. "Why, how far do you think it is?"

"Oh, four or five miles, I'm sure!"

"Well, it isn't two. Look here, girls, what is the reason none of you seem to know how to walk?"

"What do you mean? We have walked, haven't we? Here we are."

"Oh, you call this a walk! that's just it, I tell you. You walk a mile, or two at the very most, and you think you have done something wonderful; and poor Viola is all tired out, and says she will never come again. Well, but this isn't what I call walking, you know. Why, I went with the Owls the other day, and we walked fifteen miles if we did a step, and it was perfectly glorious. That's what I call walking, and I do wonder how it is that none of you ever learned. You are all strong and well, aren't you?"

Yes, they were all strong and well; except Viola, who still declared she had got her death, and should never recover.

"Well, but what's the use?" asked Rose. "I think this is great fun, to come to a pretty place like this, and sit and talk and look at the view; but just to go on walking and stalking along the way you and the Owls do,—what's the use of it? We are not ostriches, and why should we pretend we are? Besides, it takes such a lot of time."

"And what would you be doing with your time?" asked Peggy, hotly. "Reading stories, or just sitting, sitting, and talking, talking. My goodness gracious me! the way some of the girls just sit around all their spare time, doing nothing, makes me tired. Why, if I hadn't stalked, as you call it, how would you have come here to-day, and seen the prettiest place you ever saw since you came here—for it is, and you can't deny it, girls. I do hate to see people doing nothing. I don't much care what they do, so long as it is something!"

"Peggy, you're getting very ferocious, do you know it?" said Clara Fair. "And, after all, we did come, and now we are doing just as much as you are, and why are you shouting at us?"

"I won't shout any more," said Peggy, laughing. "I suppose we all have our hobbies, haven't we? Walking is one of mine; and you are going to like it just as much as I do, girls, before we get through the term. Why, there are about twenty of the loveliest walks, and none of them—hallo!"

Peggy stopped abruptly, and seemed to listen.

"What's the matter?" asked Rose. "I didn't hear anything."

"I thought I did," said Peggy, quietly. "Be still a minute, will you?"

She bent her head. There was a moment of perfect silence; then, somewhere close at hand, a singular dry, rattling sound.

"What a queer noise!" said Ethel. "What is it?"

"It's time to go home, girls!" said Peggy. "You'd better start along, and I'll come behind you. Come, Viola, give me your hand—so! Now take her, Rose, and hurry along! Lobelia, go with them, will you?"

"What upon earth is the matter, Peggy Montfort?" asked Rose, eyeing her curiously. "What do you want to get us out of the way for? I believe you have found something, and want to keep it to yourself."

"Rose, please go!" said Peggy, earnestly. "I am coming, I tell you. No, not there! that way—along by the big pine. Keep away from the rock—so! Now hurry, and I'm coming right along."

The girls hardly knew why they obeyed; but there was such a singular earnestness in Peggy's look and gesture that they did not stay to question her, but one and all—or so it seemed—turned and hastened down the side of the hill.

No sooner were their backs turned than Peggy, whose keen eyes had been fixed all this time on one spot, moved swiftly behind a great rock that stood close by. There, stooping, she sought with eager hands and eyes; sought and found a stout stick. She tried its strength—it was strong and tough. Then warily she came back, and looked once more at the pile of withered leaves that had riveted her attention before. The pile seemed to move—to undulate; and from it came once more the dry, rattling sound. Something reared itself, brown and slender; at the same instant a shriek rang through the wood. It did not come from Peggy's lips. Like a flash, the girl had sprung forward, and caught the snake's neck under her crotched stick, just as he was raising himself to strike. Pinned firmly to the earth, the creature could only twist and wriggle in impotent rage. Looking around coolly, Peggy saw Lobelia's face peering around the trunk of a tree, pale with horror.

"Well!" said Peggy. "You are a nice obedient child, aren't you? Since you are there, you might get me a good stone; he's all right; he can't get his head round."

Gasping and trembling, Lobelia found and brought a stone, which she held out at arm's length.

"Oh, Peggy!" she whispered. "Is it—is it a rattlesnake?"

"That's what!" said Peggy, relapsing into slang in the absorption of the moment. "He won't be a rattlesnake much longer, though. There! now you can look, Lobelia; he's dead. I tell you he's dead, as dead as Julius Caesar. What are you crying for, child?"

Lobelia came forward, trembling and cringing.

"Oh, Peggy, I knew it was. I didn't say anything, because I thought you wouldn't want me to—"

"Quite right," said Peggy. "Sensible rabbit!"

"And—and I am terribly afraid of snakes—oh, I was sure you would be killed, Peggy!"

"And so you came back to be killed with me? Lobelia, what a foolish girl you are. There, there, don't cry. Why, the snake isn't crying, and he really has been killed."

"Oh, Peggy, if you had been killed, I should have died. I shouldn't have needed any snake to kill me."

"Nonsense!" said Peggy, gruffly. "Lobelia, do stop crying. My goodness gracious me, come along, or we shall have them all back again after us. I'm going to bring him too, and get Colney to dry him for me. He's a beauty! look at him, Lobelia! Not look at him? Why, I tell you he's dead, as dead as—who was he?—the Father of Lies! Come along, now."



CHAPTER XVI.

THE TERROR BY NIGHT.

All was quiet in No. 18, Corridor C. It was the room directly above Peggy; and was tenanted, as we have seen, by Lobelia Parkins. Lobelia was in bed at this moment, though it was before the usual bedtime. She had felt ill and dizzy-brained for several days, and Peggy had begged her to go to bed early and get a good long sleep. Peggy herself lay on a mattress on the floor. It was against the rule, but for once the law-abiding Peggy was wilfully breaking the rule. She felt strong in Miss Russell's confidence in her; and she meant to find out who and what it was that was "frightening Lobelia silly," as she expressed it. Accordingly, here she was, in her wrapper, with a blanket rolled around her. The night was warm, and the window was thrown wide open, Peggy having been brought up to love fresh air. Lobelia shivered, but would rather have frozen stiff than say a word, if Peggy preferred to have the room cold. Each girl hoped the other was asleep. Lobelia hardly dared to breathe; she lay still as a mouse, feeling a delightful sense of comfort and security, such as she had not felt since she came to this nightmare of a place. Not to be alone any more, with the night and the terrible things it brought; to have this friend, so strong, so kind, so helpful, lying close beside the bed, ready to help, to comfort,—Lobelia's poor shrinking spirit took courage, and she held her breath now and then, for the pure pleasure of hearing Peggy's calm, regular breathing. Surely she must be asleep! She could not breathe like that unless she were sleeping quietly. Oh, might nothing happen to break her friend's rest!

Peggy was very nearly asleep, it was true. She had meant to stay awake as long as there was any possibility of any one's coming into the room. She was valiantly wide awake at first, and lay blinking at the moon, which Was shining in the most obliging manner full upon the spot where she lay. Peggy wondered what those mountains were like which made the strange figures on the broad, silver disk. They must be tremendous! Think of them, miles high, with deep, awful valleys between, and all dead and white and dry like bone. And all they seemed to be good for now was for us to make faces and things out of, and stories—to please—the—children. Peggy was getting very sleepy. She opened her eyes wider, and stared harder at the moon. It seemed to be staring back. They were certainly eyes, not—mountains—and one of them was winking at her; and now she seemed to hear a sound, a voice, coming from far, far—ages away, and saying, whispering—

Then, all in a moment, sleep, and the moon and its mountains were as if they had never been.

The door opened, swiftly and noiselessly, and some one darted in,—a tall, slender figure, with gray drapery over the head and shoulders. It turned and halted, facing the door. Peggy sprang up in bull-dog silence, and was about to fling herself bodily on the intruder; but an arm thrown out, a familiar gesture, a whispered word, checked her, and she stood motionless, hardly drawing breath. Next moment footsteps were heard in the corridor, as of some one hastening, and making every effort to be silent. The door was pushed hastily open, and Miss Pugsley stood on the threshold. She was panting, and her dress was disarranged.

"Ah!" she cried, in a spiteful whisper. "I have caught you at last, have I? I know you, miss! No need to hide your face! I know you well enough, and this is the end of your fine doings. Lift up that veil, I command you!"

The gray figure advanced toward her one step, and lifted the veil; and even Peggy's stout heart turned to water within her. Miss Pugsley recoiled with a wild shriek from the waxen countenance, the hollow burning eyes, the fleshless, grinning lips; recoiled, staggered, and fled back moaning along the corridor. The gray figure dropped its veil and darted in pursuit. Peggy, running to the door, saw them vanish around the corner; then she returned, to find Lobelia fallen into a dead faint, her head hanging over the side of the bed.

As she bent over her anxiously, rubbing her hands and trying to rouse her, a single board creaked in the corridor; next moment the gray figure entered again, this time quietly and without hurry. The veil was thrown back, revealing a well-known face. The hideous death's head was now carried in the hand.

"Sorry if I alarmed you, Innocent!" said Grace Wolfe. "What in the name of unreason are you doing here?"

"Oh, Grace, she has fainted!" cried Peggy. "Help me! Bring some water, do!"

Grace vanished again, and was back in two minutes with water and smelling-salts. As they bent over the unconscious girl, bathing her temples and holding the salts to her nose, a few hurried sentences were exchanged.

"What was it? What have you there, Grace?"



"Oh, nothing; merely Colney's skull; not her own, you understand, but that of her charmer."

"But—but the eyes glared! I saw them glare, like fire."

"Phosphorus, my sweet babe! Hast no chemistry to thy name? 'Twere well to mend thy ways."

"And why—what were you doing, Grace? Oh, see what you have done! Look at this poor child, and tell me why you came to play such pranks in her room."

Peggy's voice was stern enough. She forgot her love and admiration for Grace; she only saw what seemed like wanton cruelty toward a forlorn and helpless creature, and her blood was up.

Grace shrugged her shoulders.

"I am sorry," she said. "I am even very sorry, Innocent. What more would you have? I didn't mean to come in; indeed, I had no thought of the little creature at all. I had a vow that the next time that woman looked through my keyhole she should repent it. I think she did. If she does it again, I'll shoot her; I've just told her so."

"Why—how did you know? What did she do?"

"Oh, child, I can't always tell you how I know things. I feel them in my bones. This is full moon, and it was borne in upon me that she thought I would be up to something to-night, and would be upon the watch; so I went on the watch, too. I arranged a pretty scene of confusion in my room, open window, things all thrown about,—just as it would look if I had been having a lark; left the light burning, went and borrowed this soulful smiler, and treated it a little,—no, Colney knows nothing about it; no use in getting her into trouble; then I took my mosquito-netting mantle, and hid in the broom-closet near my door. Sure enough, I hadn't been there long when along comes my Puggy, in felt slippers, and looks in at my keyhole. I waited, to make sure, then I came gliding past, without observing her, you see, corridor being pretty dark. She observed me, however, and pursued. I led her quite a pretty dance, till I thought her breath would be getting short, and then I turned in here, partly because it was handy, partly because—well, I have been in the habit of passing through here, when the kid was asleep. See! she's opening her eyes. Speak to her, you! She's more used to you."

Peggy lifted Lobelia's head into her lap. "How are you now, dear?" she asked, stroking the thin hair affectionately. "Lobelia, it's Peggy! You are all right; there's no one here, no one to hurt you. That—that was only a trick, Lobelia."

Lobelia moaned, but made no reply. Grace leaned forward. "Peggy is right," she said, softly. "It was a trick, Lobelia, and not meant for you at all. I—I never thought about you, I'm afraid. Do you feel better now? I'm truly sorry, my dear."

There was no answering look of intelligence in Lobelia's face. She lay shivering, with wide, frightened eyes.

"Oh, Grace, I'm afraid she's ill!" said Peggy. "See! she doesn't seem to know us. What shall we do? Lobelia! Do look at me! Do speak to me! Oh, Grace, what shall we do? Where are you going?"

"I am going to call Miss Russell," said Grace.

Miss Russell came presently, and looked very grave when she saw Lobelia's face, which was now flushed with fever, her eyes still staring wide, as if they saw some dreadful vision.

"What has happened?" she said, briefly. "I must have the truth!"

Grace told her the truth, every word, not keeping back anything: merely adding that Peggy had nothing to do with it all.

"And what were you doing here, Peggy?" asked Miss Russell.

Peggy explained. "I meant to tell whatever I found out, to-morrow, Miss Russell," she added. "I thought you would want me to discover what—what had been going on."

Miss Russell nodded. "Go to your rooms now, girls," was all she said. "Or—no; Peggy, ask Miss Cortlandt to send at once for Doctor Hendon. Grace, you will remain in your room till I come to you."

Grace tried to rise in obedience; but the sick girl grasped her dress, and held it tight. "Don't leave me," she said, in a hardly audible whisper.

"You don't want me, you poor thing!" said Grace; and though she spoke low, her tone was very bitter. "Let me go, and you shall never see me again. Don't trouble about me, Miss Russell. I'll pack my trunk, and be off in the morning before any one is awake."

"You will do as I tell you," said Miss Russell, quietly. "Peggy, go quickly! Now, my poor child, let me take your hand. Move softly, Grace, and I think you can slip away."

Grace tried once more to loosen the hold of the cramped, skinny hand, but Lobelia only clutched the tighter; and now, in her delirium, she caught Grace's hand with her other one, and held it tight, tight. "Don't leave me!" she muttered. "Peggy, Peggy, don't leave me!"

Upon this, Grace looked up at Miss Russell; the hard, defiant look was gone, the wild blue eyes were swimming in tears. "Let me stay," she murmured. "Miss Russell, let me stay with her. I'll go away after she gets well. She thinks I am Peggy, and you know I am a good nurse. Let me stay and take care of her, and I will bless you all my life, even if I never see you again."

"You shall stay," said Miss Russell. "My poor Grace, this may be the hardest and heaviest punishment I could give you. You shall stay, and see what your cruel and wilful carelessness has brought to pass. God help us and you!"



CHAPTER XVII.

WAITING.

In the dreadful days that followed, Grace Wolfe hardly left the sick girl's side. The doctor came, and pronounced the trouble a brain fever, brought on by fear and worry. A trained nurse came and took charge. Lobelia submitted to her care, but her one conscious instinct was that of clinging to Grace. Whether, as seemed most probable, she took her for Peggy, or whether she simply felt and craved the magnetism of the wild girl's touch and presence, they could not tell; but she was never quiet save when Grace's hand was resting on her. Her aunt came, her sole living relative; and seeing her, poor Lobelia was explained. Prim, fussy, and forbidding, her rich dress showing the same utter tastelessness that marked that of her niece, Miss Parkins was not the woman one would have chosen to be the mother of a girl like Lobelia. She looked at the sick girl, and said it was very unfortunate; she was always having illnesses, and had given them no end of anxiety.

"She has had everything that money could buy!" she said, over and over. "It has never seemed to make any difference; her mother was the same sort of person, unreasonable, always wanting what she couldn't have. My brother had a great deal of trouble with her, and Lobelia is like her. I have tried to do my duty by her. Do you think she will get well, doctor?"

"Yes, I do think she will get well!" replied Doctor Hendon, glaring at her in a way that made Miss Russell feel alarm for her safety. "I think she will get well if she stays here, and has care and tenderness and sympathetic treatment. You are her sister?" He turned upon Grace, who sat beside the bed, passing her light hand over the sick girl's forehead with smooth, regular strokes.

"No," said Miss Russell. "This is one of the pupils, Miss Wolfe. She—was in the room when this attack came on, and Lobelia has clung to her from the first in a singular manner. I did not dare to remove her, and so, as you see, she has simply stayed here, helping the nurse."

"I see!" said the doctor. "I suppose she was—hum! stay close by her!" this was to Grace. "You have a touch, I see. Probably you have been kind to her,—poor, forlorn, miserable little creature as ever I saw in my life!" The last words were hurried out as if they were one, in a gruff, not to say savage whisper.

Grace looked up at him. "I am the cause of her illness," she said, quietly. "I have never been kind to her, or taken any notice of her. I have come through her room, using it for a passage when I was breaking bounds, and have frightened her—to death."

The doctor looked at her under his bushy eyebrows. "That may all be so!" he said. "All the same, you may now have the chance of saving her life. Stay by her, that's all I have to say to you."

"And what have you to say to me, doctor?" asked Miss Parkins. "I have a great responsibility. Lobelia will inherit a large fortune if she lives. She has had everything that money—"

"You can go home!" said Doctor Hendon, with a sudden movement suggestive of biting. "Go home, and stay there—I—mean, have things ready for her when she is ready for a change. Good morning! Ya-ouw!" this last was a manner of snarl with which he favoured Miss Parkins as he trotted out of the room. The lady stared after him. "Is he a little touched?" she asked. "He doesn't seem quite sane."

Miss Russell assured her that Doctor Hendon was eminently sane, and got her out of the room as soon as possible.

Grace remained, and hour by hour kept her watch at the sick girl's pillow, laying her magic touch on the burning brow, singing the soft songs that seemed more than anything else to soothe the sufferer. So sitting, hour by hour, day after day, the old life seemed to slip away from Grace Wolfe. She felt it going, felt the change coming on spirit and thought, but made no effort to hinder the change. All the restlessness, the wild longing for freedom, the beating her head against the friendly bars,—where was it now? She was content to sit here, watching with the nurse the changes that came over the face of their patient. They talked together in low voices which soothed rather than disturbed; one asking, the other relating, the woman of experience and the eager girl exchanged thoughts and confidences. Many times in the day the girls came to the door, Peggy and the Owls, and now and then an anxious, frightened freshman. Peggy had longed to assist in the nursing, but she had too heavy a hand, and hers was not the gift. Gertrude Merryweather had it, and she sometimes took Grace's place, and sent her down for a breath of fresh air and a run with Bertha or Peggy on the lawn. Grace went obediently, for she knew she must keep up her strength; but she was always back again at the first possible instant, and her thoughts never seemed to go with her, but stayed at her post.

"My dear," said Miss Russell once, "I cannot let you wear yourself out. Let Gertrude watch to-night while Miss Carter rests!" But Grace only said, "I'd give my life if I could, Miss Russell. She's going to get well if my life can do it!" and Miss Russell, looking into the blue eyes and meeting the spirit of resolution that shone there, could only kiss the girl's cheek and pass on.

Lobelia was very ill, and a shadow hung over the whole school. Lessons went on as usual, but the girls spoke low in their recitations, and there was an unconscious hurry in both teachers and pupils, all anxious to get through, to ask and hear the last tidings from the sickroom. In those days, too, teachers and pupils learned to know each other as never before. The grave women who cared so much—so strangely much, it often seemed—whether a lesson were well or ill learned, who made such a fuss about trifles, and set such hard tasks, and made such unreasonable rules, behold! they were just as anxious and troubled as if Lobelia had been one of their own number, instead of the most insignificant freshman in the whole school. Miss Boyle was not simply a mathematical machine, Rose Barclay found out. She really cared about them, cared enough to call them into her room, and want to hear all about that last walk, when Peggy had killed the rattlesnake,—oh, how brave Peggy had been,—and how poor Lobelia had seen it, too, and with her inborn terror of snakes had perhaps got the first panic that, after brooding and brooding, and being added to the terror by nights, had ended in this.

Miss Pugsley was gone. Her departure had hardly been noticed, was well-nigh forgotten by this time; but Colney Hatch found Miss Mink sniffing mouse-like sniffs in a corner, and wept with her, and offered her a live bat that she had just caught, by way of consolation. But their tears were for Grace, for they hardly knew Lobelia save by sight.

As for Miss Russell and Emily Cortlandt, they were the life and stay of the school in these days. Steadfast and cheerful, always hopeful, bringing forward every favourable symptom and sharing it with the whole school; not a girl of all the seventy-odd who did not feel their sympathy and friendship like strong hands ready to take theirs and uphold them.

One day, when things were at the worst, Peggy found Viola in her room, crying on the divan.

"What is the matter?" she asked, rather briefly. Viola's troubles seemed microscopic in this time of heart-wringing anxiety.

Viola raised her head, and her eyes were red with weeping.

"They say she's going to die, Peggy!" she said.

"Nonsense!" said Peggy, gruffly. "Who says so?"

"Oh, all the girls. They say Doctor Hendon shook his head when he went out this morning; you know that's a very bad sign. Oh, Peggy, I wish I had been good to the poor little thing. You have always been good to her. I don't believe you suffered as much as I did from her clothes, but I wish I had been good to her all the same. Peggy, if she gets well, I'm going to do over her hats for her, and try to make her look different. Peggy, where are you going? Don't leave me! Lobelia is going to die, and I feel so frightened."

"I don't believe she is going to die," said Peggy. "I am going to the study to see Miss Russell; come with me if you like, V."

Viola crept along beside her, cowering in Peggy's shadow as they passed the door of the sick-room. Peggy paused to listen. From within came the sound of soft singing, and the faint rustle of a wood fire. What was Grace singing? one of the quaint French songs that she loved,—

"Trois anges sont venus ce soir, M'apportaient de bien belles choses; L'un d'eux avaient un encensoir, Le deuxieme un chapelet de roses. Et le troisieme avait en main Une robe toute fleurie, De perles, d'or et de jasmin, Comme en a Madame Marie. Noel! Noel! Nous venons du ciel, T'apporter ce que tu desires; Car le bon Dieu, Au fond du ciel bleu, A chagrin lorsque tu soupires!"

The two girls crept softly past, Viola wiping the tears from her eyes. They went down to the study, and, knocking gently, were bidden to enter. Miss Russell and Miss Cortlandt were sitting together, and at their feet sat the Snowy and the Fluffy Owls, curled up on two hassocks. Peggy looked in timidly.