Study hour began at five o'clock and lasted until six-thirty.

The girls found it impossible to get to work. At exactly five-eleven, Angela threw a note to Polly.

"Her train is due," it read. "Do you suppose we'll have to wait until dinner to see her?"

Polly shrugged her shoulders and shook her head in reply, and tried to get interested in her history.

A few minutes later, Lois left her seat and went over to the dictionary by the window. The sound of carriage wheels made her completely forget the word she was hunting for. She peeked out of the window. There was Connie on the driveway. Lois watched her pay the driver and pick up her suitcase. Then she went back to her seat.

"She's here," she whispered to Angela and Polly in passing.

Angela almost shouted with joy, but the Spartan's frown of displeasure at the disturbance at the back of the room made her bury her head in her desk. Just as the clock struck the half hour, Betty came in. She went up to the platform and said, loud enough for everybody to hear:

"Miss Hale, Constance Wentworth is here, and Mrs. Baird wants Angela in her office."

There was a general murmur of "oh, good!" through the room, and Angela was half way to the door before Miss Hale had given her permission. Everybody laughed as they heard her running down the stairs, two steps at a time.

Connie was waiting for her. They fell into each other's arms and kissed heartily. Mrs. Baird was sitting at her desk.

"Take Constance upstairs, will you, Angela," she said, smiling. "I'll excuse you from study hour, for I know you wouldn't be able to do any real studying. Constance will room with you. Betty has arranged it. Isn't it nice to have her back?" she asked with a special smile for Connie.

Tears, the sudden, grateful kind, sprang to Constance's eyes.

"Oh, if you knew how homesick I get for all this," she said falteringly. "I was afraid to come back for fear I'd feel out of it, but I don't," she added happily.

Angela took her bag and hurried her up to their room.

"Now, tell me all about everything," she demanded when Connie had taken off her things. "Don't you like the Conservatory?"

"Of course, it's wonderful," Connie answered, enthusiastically, "and I'm working like mad. I get awfully lonesome when I don't. How's everybody? I saw Bet for a second; she hasn't changed much."

"Everybody's fine. Lo saw you coming, and nearly jumped out of the window with excitement," Angela told her. "I've written you all the news. We're going on a straw-ride to-night—just the old girls that you know and like."

"Oh, fine! I hoped we could coast anyway." Connie was delighted. "Honestly, Ange," she said, seriously. "You don't know how good it is to stop being grown up. I have to be so dignified and ancient all the time, especially when I give concerts. Oh, by the way! I've got a surprise for you."

"What?" Angela demanded.

"I'm going abroad next spring to study for a year— I've won a scholarship."

"Connie! Not honestly?"

"Yes, it's all decided; mother is going to take me over and leave me; it's a secret, so don't tell any one."

Angela studied her friend's familiar face in silence for a minute. It was just like Connie to win a scholarship and then not tell anybody.

"I don't believe it's a secret," she said at last. "You just don't want anybody to know about it. Well, I'm going to announce it to the whole school," she finished grandly.

"Don't you dare, Ange. I'd die of embarrassment," Connie pleaded. "Promise you won't."

"I'll promise nothing," Angela insisted. "There's the bell. Come on and see Poll and Lo."

It was almost a marvel the way Angela followed out her threat. In the ten minutes before dinner, while Connie was surrounded by her other friends, she managed to convey to every girl in the school that Constance Wentworth was the most wonderful pianist in the world, and that she had, by her superior ability, won a scholarship.

Poor Connie! She was always shy where her music was concerned, and she blushed in misery under the torrent of congratulations, and never touched a bite of dinner.

At seven-fifteen the sleigh was waiting at the door. It was filled with fresh straw, and every available robe and blanket that could be found in the stables had been brought.

Old McDonald, one of the chief characters of Seddon Hall, sat on the front seat, muffled up to his eyes. He had grown quite old and feeble in the last two years, and many of his duties had been given to younger men, but no one thought of even offering to drive in his place to-night. He always drove the young ladies on their straw-rides, and he would never have even considered trusting them to the care of another.

Polly and Lois came out first, to be followed by Betty, and Angela and Connie.

They all got in and began sorting the robes—all but Polly—she went around to the horses' heads.

"Good evening, McDonald," she called. "Why, aren't these new?" She looked surprised at the splendid gray team—she had expected to see the two old bays.

"Yes, Miss Polly; they were bought last summer. The others were getting old and we put them out to pasture. How do you like this pair?"

"Why, they're beauties." Polly stroked their velvety noses, affectionately. "Are they frisky?"

"Well!" McDonald took time to think, "they are a bit, but nothing to be afraid of. I can manage them."

"Oh, of course you can!" Polly said, with so much conviction that the old man beamed with pride.

"All in!" Betty called, "and all aboard! Move your foot, Lo. I want one side of Connie."

"Where are we going?" somebody asked.

"Out towards Eagle's Nest," Polly answered. "The roads are not used out there and it ought to be good for sleighing."

"We're off."

"Cheer once for Seddon Hall," Betty commanded and was promptly obeyed. "Now for Connie. We've time for one song before we reach the village," she said, after Connie had been lustily cheered. "Everybody sing."

They reached the foot of the hill, and the horses broke into a quick trot—the bells on their harness jingled merrily in the crisp, cold air. It was a wonderful night. The moon was almost full, and its brilliant rays, falling on the white snow, made it sparkle like millions of stars.

"Are you quite comfy, Miss Crosby?" Lois asked. "There's a rug around here, somewhere, if you're cold."

"Thanks! I don't need it; I'm as warm as toast. My feet are lost somewhere in the straw. I feel as if I were back in Alaska again," Miss Crosby said, "only the horses should be dogs."

"Were you ever in Alaska?" half a dozen voices asked at once. The song was over and they were just entering the village.

"Tell us about it," Lois said.

"No, no, go on and sing some more!"

"We can't, not for a mile—that's a rule," Betty told her. "Mrs. Baird doesn't think the village people would appreciate our music," she explained. "They're not very nice people, but we can't annoy them. Please tell us about 'straw-rides in Alaska.'"

Miss Crosby laughed, and began. She was a charming woman and a gifted story-teller. She had traveled all over the world, and because she was interested in all the little things, her adventures had been many. She told them to-night about one ride she had taken for miles inland and held every one of them spellbound by her account of it.

They were far beyond the village before she stopped. "We finally did get to camp, and, of course, after it was over, it didn't seem so terrible," she finished. "Now do sing some more; you've made me talk quite long enough."

"And did the dog's foot get well?" Polly inquired, still miles away in fancy.

"No; he died," Miss Crosby whispered. "Plucky little fellow! Do sing."

There was a whispered consultation, and then:

"There's a teacher on our faculty, her name it is Miss Crosby," Betty sang, and the rest joined in the refrain: "Oh, we'd like to know any one with more go, and we will stand by her to the end-o." From one song they went to another, until they reached Eagle Nest.

"Everybody out!" Polly ordered, "and stretch. Where's that chocolate you were talking about, Ange? I'm hungry."

For five minutes they walked around, stamped their feet to warm up, munching crackers and chocolate in between.

Then McDonald called: "You've all got to come back, young ladies. I'm sorry, but these horses do hate to stand even a minute." He was very apologetic, but the grays were showing signs of restlessness, and pawing the ground.

The girls scrambled back into the sleigh and almost before they were seated the horses broke into a run.

About a mile farther on, as McDonald slowed down at a cross-road, they heard the jingling of other sleigh bells.

"Who do you suppose that is?" Connie asked. "Listen, they're singing!" A minute later a sleigh like their own swung round the corner—it was full of boys. Their driver slowed down to give McDonald the right of way.

"Why, it must be the Seddon Hall girls," they heard one of the boys shout. "Let's give them a cheer, fellows!"

"What school is it?" Miss Crosby asked. "Do you know, Lois!"

"Perhaps it's the Military Academy," Angela suggested.

Betty stood up in the middle of the sleigh and balanced herself by holding on to Connie and Lois.

"No!" she said. "They haven't any uniform on. I can see— I wish McDonald would let them get ahead."

By this time the yell was in full swing. When it ended the boys waited in vain for a reply.

"Maybe they didn't hear us," one of them shouted. "Let's give them a regular cheer with horns."

Polly, who had been edging up slowly toward the front seat of the sleigh, ever since they had started, gave a sudden spring and climbed up beside McDonald. She knew exactly what was going to happen.

At the first sound of the horn, the horses—already frightened out of their senses by all the singing and yelling—reared up on their hind legs for one terrifying second, and then bolted. Poor McDonald tried to bring them back under his control, but as he realized their condition, his nerve failed him.

"They're gone, Miss," he said in an agonized whisper to Polly, and his hands relaxed on the reins.

The girls, now thoroughly conscious of their danger, hung on for dear life, and some of them cried out.

The deafening shouts and the blowing of the horns kept up in the sleigh behind. The boys thought they were being raced.

Polly thought hard for just the fraction of a minute. Then she took the reins from McDonald's unresisting hands and pulled. She knew that her strength was not equal to stopping those wild runaways, but she felt she could keep them headed straight, and avoid tipping the sleigh. Just as she was trying to remember where she was and to place the hill that she knew was on the right at a cross-road, poor old McDonald fainted and fell backwards into the sleigh.

She didn't dare turn her head, but she heard Lois say:

"I've got him; help me, Bet," and Miss Crosby cry out:

"The reins! The reins!"

"I've got them; don't worry!" Polly's voice sounded miles away. Her head was throbbing. "Can I make it? Can I make it?" she kept saying over and over under her breath.

She saw the cross-road ahead; on the right a steep hill led up to an old, deserted hotel. For a minute she hesitated. The horses were good for miles more at top speed. She knew if they had level ground, that meant entering the village. She decided quickly. It must be the hill. If she could only make the turn. She tightened her grip on the reins and felt the horses slack just the least little bit. She pulled hard on the left rein, and then as they came to the turn—on the right one—so as to describe a wide half circle and save the sleigh from tipping. The sudden turn frightened the girls.

"Where are we going?"

"Oh, stop them!"

Polly heard their cries as in a dream. She took time to smile and toss her head to get a lock of hair out of her eye. She had felt the slight, but certain relaxing on the lines, and she knew the worst was over.

The hill was about a mile long, and by the time the horses reached the top, Polly had them completely under her control. She stopped them, finally, under the old tumbled down porte-cochere of the hotel. They were trembling all over and they were sweating.

"Get out!" Polly ordered, "and don't make any noise. We'll have to wait a minute before we go back—give me some blankets for the horses, and look after McDonald."

Miss Crosby was already doing it. The old man had collapsed and lost consciousness, but now he was coming around. With Betty to help, she had rolled him up in a robe in the middle of the sleigh, and tried to soothe him; his grief was pathetic.

"I'm done for; I'm done for!" he kept repeating.

Lois helped Polly with the horses.

"Sit down, Poll," she said, authoritatively. "You need rest, too. You'll have to drive us home."

Polly looked at her gratefully—her knees were trembling.

"I better keep going," she answered. "Just don't let the girls talk to me and I'll be all right." She was stroking one of the horse's necks.

Lois went round to the back of the sleigh. The girls were standing in a huddled group.

"Lo, will we ever get home?" Angela asked, tearfully.

"Of course, silly," Lois replied, calmly. "Polly stopped the horses running away; I guess she can drive us back all right; she's nervous, of course, so don't talk to her."

"We won't," Mildred said. "Mercy, but she's a wonder! I'm, oh! I'm going to cry."

Lois left the others to deal with her and returned to Polly.

"When do we start?" she asked, abruptly. Don't think for a minute she was acting under her natural impulse. If she had been, she would have thrown her arms around Polly and been very foolish; but she was trying to act the way she knew Bob would have—without fuss. She knew how Polly hated a fuss.

"Now, the horses mustn't catch cold and McDonald ought to see a doctor," Polly said. "Tell them to get in, will you? and, Lo," she added with a grin, "pray hard going down hill. I have my doubts about the brake."

When they were all in, Miss Crosby said:

"I think we better take McDonald to the hospital."

Polly nodded: "All right, I know where it is."

The horses, sure of themselves by now, and confident in their driver, behaved very well.

At the outskirts of the village, they drew up before the little white hospital, and Betty jumped out and rang the bell. A nurse answered it. In a few minutes they were carrying McDonald in on a stretcher.

As they started up the steps with him, he called: "Miss Polly!" in a shaky voice.

Polly jumped down from her seat, and went to him.

"I'm done for," he said, slowly, "and you're a very wonderful girl. You stopped those horses, you did, and I— I couldn't—" He broke down.

"Nonsense, McDonald! Your hands were cold," Polly said. "You'll be fine in the morning and able to drive anything. Cheer up!" But McDonald only repeated: "I'm done for."

A lump rose in Polly's throat at his distress, and she leaned down and kissed his wrinkled old face.

She cried quite shamelessly all the way back to school—secure in the fact that no one could see her.

In the sleigh the girls were beginning to recover.

"Jemima!" Betty said, breaking a long silence. "Poll saved all our lives; do you know it!"

Connie shivered. "I'm just beginning to realize it," she said, solemnly. "All the time everything was happening I was trying to remember the last duet I learned." Everybody laughed.

"Polly is—" Miss Crosby began. "Well, she's so splendid that— But I guess we'd better not talk about it. We're all on the verge of tears."

"Let's cheer for her," some one suggested. "Maybe we'll get our courage back."

They gave it—a long, long one—that had in it all their admiration and gratitude. And every poor tired muscle in Polly's valiant little body throbbed with joy at the sound.



CHAPTER IX

A STARTLING DISCOVERY

The next morning Polly stayed in bed for breakfast, as befitted a heroine, and received visitors. All the faculty came in, one after the other, to congratulate her. Miss Crosby's ability as a story-teller had served to picture the events of the night before in vivid colors, and Polly's splendid courage had not lost in the telling.

Lois and Betty kept watch at the door, and admitted only the girls that they knew Polly would want to see. They were not many, for she had a headache and was thoroughly tired. When the bell rang for study hour, they left Connie with her.

"Sit down and make yourself comfy. Here's a pillow." Polly threw one of Lois' to the foot of the bed, and Connie stuffed it behind her back.

"It's perfectly silly, my lying in bed like this," Polly went on, yawning and stretching luxuriously, "but Mrs. Baird insisted."

"I should think so. You must be nearly dead." Connie looked at her, wondering.

"Honestly, Poll, you were wonderful. How did you think of that hill, and have sense enough to go up it?"

Polly buried her head in the pillows and groaned.

"Not you too, Connie?" she asked, tragically. "Do I have to explain again that I was brought up with horses and have driven all my life, and been in any number of runaways, so that I am not afraid of any horse that lives? There, now, I've told you, and if you mention last night again, I'll ask Miss King to pull you out of my room by the hair of your head."

"I won't, I won't, on my oath!" Connie promised, laughing. "I'll even contradict all these people who are calling you a brave heroine, if you say so."

"I wish you would," Polly said, crossly. "Heroine! how perfectly silly."

"Of course it is, now that I come to think of it. You didn't do anything so great," Connie teased, "just stopped a couple of wildly running horses, and saved fifteen girls from sudden death—and what's that? A mere nothing."

"Connie, I'll—" Polly threatened, sitting up in bed, but Connie pushed her back. "You'll behave like a good child and answer me some questions."

"Well, go ahead and ask them."

"First, what's wrong with Dot Mead? I heard her say to one of the girls: 'Polly's bravery is so awfully evident, that it almost looks like showing off,' and when Dorothy Lansing said: 'I think so, too,' I simply couldn't help laughing. It was so like the Dorothys."

"Who were they talking to?" Polly asked, indifferently.

Connie smiled at a sudden recollection.

"A girl named Eleanor Trent. She was furious. She told them they were jealous cats. Imagine!"

Polly smiled grimly. "Eleanor Trent is on my team; she naturally would resent it. Hasn't Ange told you about the fuss yesterday, with the Dorothys?"

"No; what happened!" Connie was interested immediately. She felt this was a personal matter of her class. For the minute, she completely forgot she was only a visitor.

Polly described the scene on the hill—

"Three cheers for Betty!" Connie laughed, heartily. "I can just imagine her rage. But what is the matter with this Fanny!" she asked.

"Nobody knows." Polly shook her head. "We hurt her feelings early in the year, and I don't think she's ever forgiven us. I'm sorry, too; she's a dandy girl, if she'd only forget the chip on her shoulder."

"Going with the Dorothys won't help," Connie said, slowly.

"I know, but what can we do? Warn her that too much association with our classmates will not improve her disposition?" Polly unthinkingly imitated Miss Hale's manner.

"The Spartan," Connie laughed. "You might take Fanny up yourselves," she suggested.

"We might," Polly said, thoughtfully; "oh, there's the bell!"

Study hour was over, and a minute later, Lois, Betty, and Angela came in. There was an air of mystery about them, and Betty said: "Then you'll attend to it, Lo?"

"No; Miss Crosby's going to. I've just come from the studio," Lois answered, as she walked over to her bureau.

"Attend to what?" Polly demanded.

"Nothing!" Angela assured her. "Lo and Betty are fussing over some art secret."

"Oh, well, what's the news?"

"News?" Betty said, wearily. "Why, haven't you heard? Last night a girl hero stopped two rearing, plunging—"

"Betty, if you say one word more," Polly protested feebly—she was laughing in spite of herself.

"Hello, what's this?" Lois had been straightening Polly's dresser and discovered a note beside the pin cushion. "It's for you, Poll." She tossed it on the bed. "Must have been here since last night."

Polly opened and read it.

"Oh, what next?" she groaned. "Listen to this: 'To the captain of the basket ball team,' she read, 'I wish to say that I resign from your team to-day. Signed, Fanny Gerard.'"

"Why, she's crazy," Betty said, with indignation.

"That's the dear Dorothys," Angela remarked, airily. They were all discussing the note at once, when a tap sounded on the door.

"Go see who it is, Lo. I don't want to see any one else this morning," Polly protested.

Lois went to the door. They heard Jane's excited voice in the corridor.

"Please let us see Polly," she asked. "We won't stay a second."

"And we won't talk about last night," Phylis' voice joined in. "We've something awfully important to tell her and you."

Lois looked inquiringly at Polly and the other girls.

"Oh, let them in," Polly said, good naturedly. "Hello, you two, what's the secret?" she greeted them.

They came over to the bed. They were very much embarrassed by the presence of the others.

"You're not awfully sick, are you, Polly?" Phylis asked, real distress in her voice.

"Bless your heart, no," Polly assured her. "I'm just being lazy; I'll be up for luncheon."

"Tell us the something important," Lois said, pulling Jane down beside her on the window box.

Jane looked at Angela and Connie.

"Oh, never mind them," Lois said, understanding her hesitation. "What is it?"

"Well," Jane began, desperately, "I've got to tell you first—that Phylis and I were not very nice—"

"We listened behind a door," Phylis confessed, calmly; "we just had to."

"We were in Eleanor Trent's room," Jane took up the story again. "You see, yesterday she borrowed my gym shoes, and I went down to her room to get them. Well, you know her room is next to Fanny Gerard's, and just as we were coming out, we heard some one crying—"

"Fanny doesn't like us much," Phylis went on, "but we stopped to listen, and we heard Dorothy Mead say:

"'Well, don't be a baby about it. Of course, if you want to have Polly boss you, you can, and Fanny—'"

"No, then Dorothy Lansing said, 'you'd only have to coast down the hill once, to show her you wouldn't let her,'" Jane interrupted.

"Fanny was crying and saying she wanted to go home, and that she wouldn't ever speak to anybody again. We left them, and— Well, we thought we'd better tell you." Phylis ended the tale and looked at Polly.

"Poor Fanny," Polly sighed, "she's not very happy. The Dorothys shouldn't talk that way, of course, but it's not very important. Thanks for telling me, though. Don't listen any more. Fanny wouldn't like it." She treated the whole thing so lightly that both the younger girls thought they had attached more importance to the affair than was necessary. After they left, however, Polly sprang out of bed.

"Something must be done," she declared. Betty ground her teeth. "Jemima! I'd like to give both those Dorothys a ticket to the Fiji Islands," she said angrily. "They're spoiling our class."

"What about Fanny!" Lois inquired. "She's the one; evidently she's miserable, and look at that note."

Polly got back into bed.

"Everybody get out!" she ordered. "And, Bet, go find Fanny and ask her to come here. I'm going to talk to her. She's got some foolish idea in her head about us, and I'm going to find out what it is."

"What about the Dorothys?" Angela inquired, lazily. "Don't tire yourself out, Poll, they're not worth it."

"Oh, the Dorothys don't matter. They'll come around in time if we're nice to them. Of course, my being a heroine for the present won't help any," Polly said, with a grimace.

The interview with Fanny straightened everything out. Polly's surmise had been correct. Fanny was harboring the idea that, because Polly and Lois and Betty did not keep any love letters, they must, of course, consider her vain and foolish for doing it.

"I just know you all don't like me," she said, mournfully.

"Oh, Fanny, how silly you are." Polly laughed at her. "We did like you, and still do; you're loads of fun; you play basket ball wonderfully. You've no idea what a chance you have to be popular," she said, earnestly. "If you only wouldn't think everybody was trying to hurt your feelings. We really want to be friends."

It was a new experience for Polly to plead for friendship, but she did it, sincerely, and Fanny gave in. Lois and Betty joined them and a lasting peace was proclaimed.

Maud arrived in the afternoon. Mrs. Banks came with her, but acting under Mrs. Baird's advice, she did not spend the night. Lois and Betty and Polly took charge of them both for the afternoon. They showed them the school and grounds and, after Mrs. Banks left, they introduced Maud to all the girls.

Maud met them with a calm indifference, and looked them over with appraising eyes. Those she liked, she talked to. The others she ignored. The three girls were completely baffled.

"What'll we do with her?" Betty demanded. "Does she always act like this?" They were in the Assembly Hall before dinner. "Do you see anybody you'd like to meet?" she asked Maud a few minutes later.

"No, I don't," came the answer, without hesitation.

Lois laughed right out.

"Maud, you're too funny for words. Tell us what do you think of Seddon Hall?"

Maud gazed at her steadily for a moment.

"Oh, I like it no end," she said, warmly. "Why?"

"Nothing," Polly hastened to say, "we just thought perhaps you didn't."

The bell rang for dinner.

"You go down with your table," Lois explained. "You can do what you like, after dinner. We have a lecture to-night but it doesn't begin until eight."

Little did any of them guess how literally Maud would take Lois' words.

After dinner the Seniors were detained by Mrs. Baird to meet the lecturer and see that the Assembly Hall was in order. This took up their time.

The lecture was already on its way when Polly suddenly nudged Lois: "Lo, Maud is not here," she said in an agonized whisper, "what'll we do?"

Lois looked carefully all over the hall. Maud was nowhere in sight. "She's probably in her room," she whispered back.

They sat in nervous silence. The lecturer paused in his discourse for a minute.

"If I had a buttonhook and a piece of string," he said, turning to Mrs. Baird, "I could demonstrate what I mean."

Polly jumped from her seat, caught Mrs. Baird's eye, before any one else, and, in obedience to her nod, left the room.

She hurried over the Bridge of Sighs, for she hoped to get the articles required, and discover Maud without being absent from Assembly Hall too long. The sound of splashing made her stop and listen half way down the corridor. Some one was apparently taking a bath in the faculty tubs. She thought for a minute, and remembered all the teachers were on the platform. A horrible fear entered her mind. A second later the bark of a dog, followed by a low growl, crystallized the fear to a dreadful certainty.

She pushed open the door. Maud, her sleeves rolled up to the elbows, was kneeling beside the tub scrubbing a little wiry-haired yellow puppy, who was protesting vigorously.

Polly looked for a full minute, then she closed the door, and hurried over to her room.

When she got back to her seat, Lois whispered:

"See anything of Maud?"

"She's giving a dog a bath in the faculty's corridor," Polly answered, struggling to keep back the laughter.

"Poll!" Lois' jaw dropped, "I don't believe it," she said.

Polly knew that all the teachers would go to the reception hall for coffee before going back to their rooms. So the minute the lecture was over she called Betty and Lois. "Come with me, quick," she said, hurriedly, and led them back to the faculty corridor. The splashing had stopped. She opened the door.

"Jemima! What under the sun—" Betty and Lois could hardly believe their eyes.

Maud was still on her knees, but the dog was out of the tub; he stood shivering on the blue mat, while she rubbed him vigorously with a towel. She was not at all surprised to see the girls.

"Isn't he an old dear?" she asked, casually. "I found him out by the stables to-night when I was taking a walk. He needed a scrub most awfully."

Polly started to explain, thought better of it, and turned to Betty. The events that followed were swift and purposeful.

Betty washed out the tub, while Lois mopped up the water that the dog had splashed on the floor.

Polly took the astonished Maud with one arm and the very wet puppy under the other and hurried them, by way of the kitchen, into the furnace room.

"You can't have him in your room, you know," she said by way of explanation. "We'll tie him up here for to-night, where he'll be warm, and I'll get him some milk. You go up to your room as fast as you can. The bell has rung and you're supposed to go to bed right away. Can you find your way?"

Maud's brows drew together in a puzzled frown, but she didn't protest.

"Yes, of course," she said, wonderingly. "Good night, pup; I'll see you in the morning."

"Better hurry," Polly warned. "Good night."

"Good night," Maud said, cheerfully, as she went upstairs.

Polly followed her after she had found some food for the dog.

Betty and Lois were already in her room. Betty was stifling roars of laughter in one of Lois' pillows, and Lois was dabbing at her eyes and babbling foolishly.

Polly, the second the door was closed, threw herself down on her bed and gave vent to all the pent up mirth within her.

Finally Betty sat up.

"Oh, Lordy!" she choked; "how rare, how perfectly, gloriously, joyously rare. Think of Maud scrubbing a yellow pup in the faculty's private bath, and the Spartan liable to come in any minute. What a treat? Oh, Maud! I welcome you."



CHAPTER X

A SURPRISE TO MANY

Much to the disgust of all the girls, four days of warm sunshine had melted the snow, spoiled the coasting and made rubbers a first consideration.

The roads were hidden under inches of slush, the gutters were miniature brooks, and the ground seemed to be completely covered by a thick coating of red, oozy mud.

Polly, an empty basket over one arm, was picking her way gingerly along the back road that led from the farm.

As she came in sight of the gym, Betty met her.

"Hello, where are you going?" she demanded.

"I'm not going, I'm coming," Polly answered.

"Where from?"

"The cottage. I've just been to see McDonald; he's back from the hospital, you know, and Mrs. Baird sent me over with some fruit for him."

"Is he better?"

"Yes, but I don't believe he'll ever do any driving again; he's pretty feeble."

"Good old McDonald! It won't seem right not having him around; he's been here ever since I can remember, and that's six long years."

Betty gave a sigh to express great age, and resumed: "Do you remember the night you and he, between you, turned off the power for the lantern and got us out of a lecture by the Spartan's cousin?"

Polly chuckled. "McDonald was just talking about it. He said: 'Sure an' Miss Polly, I couldn't be after spoiling your evening, that I couldn't; so when I got back to the power house, I just let well enough alone, and all the time all I needed to do was to turn on the switch again.' I told him about Maud and the dog, and he laughed till he cried. What's doing this afternoon?"

"Nothing, absolutely nothing," Betty said dolefully. "The coasting's spoiled, and the gym is packed with girls."

"Then, that's where I'm going," Polly announced, "and you've got to come with me. Do you realize that February is not so very far away, and that our sub team is very, very weak?"

"I do," Betty answered, solemnly. "What are you going to do about it?"

"Find out who else can play. Bet, I can't lose either big game this year. We've just got to build up the team." Polly was very serious. "I'm worried."

"Who about?"

"Eleanor Trent; she can't get used to girls' rules, and she makes fouls all the time."

"Who subs for her?"

"Katherine Welbe, and she's no earthly good."

"Come on, then; let's see who's playing now," Betty gave in resignedly.

They went to the gym and sat down in the first row in the gallery. The game in progress was being played by Freshmen and Sophomores for the most part, and Jane and Phylis seemed to be doing most of it. They were both playing jumping centers. It was not very exciting to watch; some one fumbled or made a foul every other minute and the whistle sounded incessantly.

"I hoped Maud would be here," Polly said, thoughtfully. "Have you seen her to-day?"

"Yes, she's up watching Lois paint, I think. You know she draws awfully well herself. Did you see the pen and ink sketch she did of her little yellow pup, yesterday? It was great."

The question of the dog had been solved by Polly. She had received permission from Mrs. Baird—who had laughed heartily at the story—for Maud to go round to the stable and see him after school hours.

"Yes, she showed it to me," Polly answered Betty's question. "Then Lo made her let her show it to Miss Crosby. But that's not basket ball." She returned to the original subject abruptly. "I'll tell you what I'm going to do, as soon as this game is over. I'll ask Miss Stuart if we can't have the gym to ourselves for practice."

"Do you mean the big team?" Betty asked. She was not very anxious to change into her gym suit for so short a time.

"No; I'm going to pick out some of these girls and find Maud and make her come. Then I'm going to change them around in different positions. I'll bet I'll find some one that's good at something."

"Well, what do you want me to do?" Betty stood up ready to act. "Go find Maud?"

"Darling Betty, if you would be so kind," Polly teased. "I'll be—what is it Maud says?—'no end grateful'; then come back and help me."

Miss Stuart not only granted Polly the permission she asked, but stopped the game at once. "It will give you more time," she said, "and I'm not sorry to give up my whistle to you."

When Betty returned with Maud they began.

"I met Fanny on my way over, and I told her you wanted her. I thought she might as well help, too," Betty said.

"Good! she can watch the guards. You watch the centers and I'll take the forwards. Maud, I'm going to put you on as a guard; you're so tall."

"Oh, all right," Maud agreed, "what do I do?"

"You keep the ball away from the girls of the other team. Wait till we start, then I'll show you." Polly, a minute later, blew the whistle and placed the teams. Jane and Phylis were so excited that they nearly forgot to jump when she threw the ball up between them.

For two hours and a half they worked. Polly and Betty and Fanny explaining and showing them how, and now and again getting into the game themselves.

While they were struggling with clumsy forwards and slow guards, Lois, who really ought to have been there, was having a very important talk with Mrs. Baird and Miss Crosby.

"Do you think Polly knows anything about it?" Mrs. Baird asked. "I do hope not."

"She hasn't the slightest idea," Lois assured her. "Betty just told me she would be in the gym all afternoon, so there's no chance of her seeing any of the preparations."

"Hadn't you better fix the table?" Miss Crosby asked. "Here's everything for it, I think; do the rest of the girls understand?"

"I spoke to Miss Lane about the younger children eating at the Senior table," Mrs. Baird said. "The girls all know I've told each one." Lois was gathering up yards of pale green crepe paper as she spoke. "I think it will be a lot of fun, don't you? And Polly will be awfully surprised."

The mystery of this conversation was not explained until dinner time that night.

Polly and Betty came in, hot and tired from playing and just in time to take a shower and dress before study hour. It is true that Polly might have noticed that some of the girls were exchanging mysterious glances behind their desks, had it not been for the fact that a letter from Bob claimed her attention. She found it on her desk.

"Dear Polly," she read.

"Hark to the joyful news. My foot is all well, and I've started training. I haven't forgotten what you said, and every time I think I'm no good I just say: Cheer up, May's a long way off. Wish me luck.

"Bob."

Polly was so delighted that she spent the rest of study hour trying to compose a fitting answer, and she was so anxious to tell Lois on the way to dinner that she didn't realize she was being led into the lower school's dining-room, until she was at the very door.

"Where are we going?" she asked, turning suddenly.

"Come and see; we're having dinner in here this evening," Lois answered, as she opened the door and displayed a table decorated with green paper with a centerpiece of pale pink roses.

Mrs. Baird was standing at one end, and Miss Crosby at the other. The rest of the places were filled by the girls who had been on the eventful straw-ride.

Lois led Polly, too surprised to speak, to her place at Mrs. Baird's right, and there she found a big box tied with green ribbon with her name on it. Every one was looking at it, and Polly realized in a dreamy sort of way that she was expected to open it. All she could say was:

"Why, er, what—" she was so astonished.

She opened the box and discovered a bulky chamois bag packed in with tissue paper. She looked at it, wondering, and then gave an exclamation of joy, when she discovered that it covered a big silver loving cup. On one side was engraved the date and the words: "To Polly, in grateful recollection of her splendid courage," and on the other, the names of all the girls, Connie's included, who had been on the ride.

Polly looked at it for a long time, without a word. Then she turned, appealingly, to Mrs. Baird.

"What can I say?" she asked. "I can't think of anything but 'thank you.' And that's so little. Though if I could only be sure you knew how much I meant by it, it would be enough. Do say you know," she pleaded, looking around the table, "because I'm terribly embarrassed," she ended, laughing.

"Very good speech, Poll," Betty teased from her seat opposite, "and quite long enough; my soup's cold."

"Betty!" Mrs. Baird tried to look shocked, and failed, because she simply had to smile.

Then followed the happiest meal imaginable. At the end a big cake, with Polly's name on it, was brought in, and then everybody told her all over again how brave she'd been.

"But I wasn't," she insisted. "It was just a simple thing to do—nothing that really took courage."

"You may be right," Betty told her, "but you'll never find any one to agree with you."

Polly smiled. "If I do," she said, "will you promise never to mention it to me again?"

"Yes," Betty said, promptly; "I will."

"All right."

After dinner she led the way, followed by all fifteen girls, straight to Maud. They found her in one of the class rooms.

"Tell her just what I did," Polly directed.

And Betty described the ride in her most extravagant style. Finally she displayed the cup.

"Now, what do you think of it?" she ended triumphantly.

Maud's eyes had been wide with interest throughout the recital. She looked at Polly with perfect understanding.

"By Jove!" she said earnestly, "wasn't it lucky the hill was there. Did you remember to rub the horses down when you got back, Polly?"

There was a second's silence.

"Yes, and I put blankets on them," Polly answered. Then, turning to Betty: "Do I win?" she asked, laughing.



CHAPTER XI

THE CONCERT

"'Flow gently sweet Afton among thy green braes," caroled Betty. She was picking out the accompaniment with her first finger on the Assembly Hall piano, one stormy afternoon, for the benefit of Angela and Polly. They were trying to compose a Senior class song to Seddon Hall.

"'Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise.'"

"That ought to do," she said, abruptly swinging around on the piano stool to face them.

"The rhythm is good and I love the tune."

Polly and Angela considered for a moment.

"It is rather nice," Polly agreed, "if we can only find words to fit it."

"That's easy, use the same idea as the song," Betty suggested. "Supplement Hudson for Afton, and—"

"Oh, Bet, how can you?" Angela's poetic taste objected. "Imagine a school song that began 'Flow gently sweet Hudson.' I suppose you'd go on with: 'Among thy sign bordered banks.' It would never do, would it, Polly?"

Polly was laughing too hard to reply at once.

"I don't know; it would be original, anyway, Ange," she said at last.

"And you know our class has always been original," Betty reminded her.

"There's a difference between originality and silly nonsense, but I suppose it's too much to expect either of you to appreciate it," Angela said, with dignity.

Betty played a loud chord on the piano.

"Ange, when you're crushing, I always feel like running away," she said, timidly. "However, I still protest that there's nothing wrong with telling the Hudson to flow gently," she added. "Of course, I'm open to argument."

Angela was exasperated. The rest of the Senior class had appointed these three to write the class song, over a week ago. It had to be ready before the Senior concert. This was as far as they had gotten.

Christmas vacation began the next week, and the concert was to be the night before. Angela felt, that given a piece of paper, a pencil and a quiet place, she could compose a fitting song, but with Betty and Polly saying ridiculous things every minute to make her laugh, she couldn't think of even one sensible line.

"You can't use the words, gently and sweet, in relation to a mighty river like the Hudson." She referred to Betty's question. "You might as well call it a cute little brook," she finished in disgust.

"Why, Angela! I do believe you're cross." Polly looked up in sudden surprise at the irritable note in Angela's voice. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing but a cold in my head and pages of Virgil translations," Angela replied, woefully. "You and Betty won't be serious for a minute. It'll mean I have to sit up the night before the concert with a wet towel around my head and write a song that won't be any good."

"Polly, we ought to be ashamed. Angela's right," Betty said with sudden seriousness. "From this minute on, I promise to behave," she added solemnly, "and agree to anything you say. We'll discard 'Flow gently sweet Hudson,' as no good, and proceed."

"How about starting 'On Majestic Hudson's Banks?'" suggested Polly.

"We can't use majestic, it's too long and grand's a horrid word." Angela considered, frowning.

"Well, leave out the adjective and say:

"On Hudson's bank Stands fair Seddon Hall—

"That's all right, listen, I'll play it."

They sang the words to Betty's accompaniment.

"Truth, honor and joy Is her message to all."

Angela added inspired:

"Her daughters are loyal"—

Betty would have gone on, but Polly stopped her.

"I won't agree to that, every class song I ever heard, said exactly the same thing," she protested. "Let's get something about happiness."

"Hardly more original." Betty laughed, but Angela interrupted.

"I know what Poll means. How's this?"

"There's no limit to"—

"Slang," Polly said abruptly.

"It isn't really."

"Yes, it is. 'Common usage often converts the most ordinary phrase into slang or colloquialism. The writer should take care to avoid them,'" Betty quoted. "Try limitless depth."

"All right, that's better still," Angela agreed.

"There's a limitless depth To her bounteous store."

"Oh, marvelous!" Polly exclaimed. "What rhymes with store—paw, law, door, war, more— More, that's it."

"Each year she gives of—her—her— We can't use bounty again. Give me a word somebody."

"Riches," Betty suggested.

"Of her riches the more.

"Oh, that's perfect!"

Angela didn't exactly agree, but she didn't say so. Instead she gave them the verse she had just composed.

"Each daughter has shared In the wealth of her days, United we join now In singing her praise."

"Jemima, one of us has a brilliant mind!" Betty exclaimed. "That's too good to forget. Wait till I find a pencil."

There was one in the pocket of her sailor suit and she wrote the words down on the back of a sheet of music.

"Why, that's three verses," she said as she finished with a flourish.

"Let's add one more!" Polly suggested, "with Seddon Hall in it and something about leaving like this:

"And when the time comes"—

"Yes, I know," Betty interrupted eagerly.

"When we must depart"—

"That's good, but I like each, better than we," Polly said critically.

"And when the time comes When each must depart"

"Finish it for us, Ange."

"The memory of Seddon Hall Will remain in our hearts."

Angela chanted promptly. "Seddon Hall is rather too long for the line but I guess it will do."

"Of course it will!" Polly assured her, as Betty scribbled hurriedly. "We'll claim poetic license. I'm sure it's worth it. Let's go find the girls, and read it to them."

"Where are they?" Angela inquired. "I think the Dorothys have gone to the village."

"Evelin's in the gym, and Mildred's in the Infirmary," Betty said. "Where's Lo?"

"In the studio." Polly closed the lid of the piano, preparatory to leaving.

"Well, we can get her at any rate," Betty said. "Come on."

Fanny was in the studio with Lois, when they got there. Ever since Polly's promise of friendship, she had been with one or the other of the three girls. Even Angela had taken an interest in her, now and then.

As the friendship grew, and the girls found that she "filled the want that the year lacked," as Betty put it drolly:

"Fanny's so nice and such a relief just because she isn't 'us.'" By this she probably meant that the little Southerner would always see things differently from the three who, though totally different, thought and looked at things in pretty much the same way.

"We've finished the song," Polly announced, proudly, as they entered the studio.

Lois looked up from her drawing board.

"I've nearly finished the poster. How do you like it?"

The girls crowded around her, to admire a crayon sketch of a group of wakes dressed in costume, singing. There was a house like Ann Hathaway's cottage in the background, and a big yellow moon just rising behind a hill.

They were delighted with it.

"Just right, Lo!" Polly insisted. "It ought to be English because all the ballads we're going to sing are early English—'Good King Wenceslas Looked Out' and 'God rest ye, Merry Gentlemen,'—and the rest."

"Oh! I adore those old things," Fanny said eagerly. "We always sing them down home, every year."

"Read the song," Lois demanded. "I'm crazy to hear it."

"Hadn't I better go?" Fanny offered. "I'm not a Senior."

"Oh, never mind," Polly said, "you won't tell."

"Just the same, I'll go. Will you all have tea in my room this afternoon? I've just gotten a box of cookies from down home," she asked at the door.

"We will," Betty replied without hesitation. "Tea and homemade cookies are the one thing I need after my labors."

The others accepted with equal enthusiasm and Fanny left to prepare for them.

When she had gone, Betty seated herself on the window seat and referred to the piece of music.

"Here's the song entire," she announced. "We all helped with, but most of it is Angela's."

"I knew that," Lois said with a grin, but Betty ignored the interruption.

"The tune is 'Flow gently Sweet Afton' and the song is dedicated to Seddon Hall, with apologies to Robert Burns. Here it is," and she read:

"On Hudson's bank Stands fair Seddon Hall. Truth, honor and joy Is her message to all."

"That's the first verse."

"Go on," Lois prompted, "I like it."

"Each daughter has shared In the wealth of her days. United, we join In singing her praise.

"There's a limitless depth To her bounteous store, And yearly she gives Of her riches the more.

"And when the time comes When each must depart, The memory of Seddon Hall Will remain in our heart."

"Somehow it sounds better when it's sung," Betty said, wonderingly. The poem was not quite up to her expectations, but Lois' enthusiasm banished all doubts.

"I think it's great, and I know the others will too. Isn't it a relief to have it finished? All my poster needs now is the printing, and Maud's promised to do it for me in Old English Script."

"Fine, but put your things away, and let's go over to Fannie's room. Those cakes call." Betty smacked her lips in anticipation as she helped Lois collect her materials.

Fanny was singing as they entered Junior Mansions. It was an old Negro melody, and the crooning notes were soft and beautiful.

"Why I didn't know Fanny could sing," Polly exclaimed in surprise, and the rest stopped to listen.

"'Swing low, sweet chariot— I'se comin' for to carry you home'"—

The music ended abruptly, and they heard the rattle of the cups.

"Why didn't you ever tell us you had a beautiful voice?" demanded Betty between cookies, a few minutes later. "You ought to be studying."

"The very idea!" Fanny laughed in reply.

"Hasn't anybody ever told you you had before?" Lois asked wonderingly. But Fanny shook her head.

"I reckon they none of them ever had time to pay any attention to me," she said. "They were always busy listening to my cousin."

"Which cousin?" Polly inquired.

"Caroline," Fanny said. "We were brought up together, and when we were little, Mammy Jones used to say: 'Honey, the only way for to do, if you wants to sing, is to swaller a hummin' bird.' One day Caroline came in and said 'she had swallowed one.' Well, later, she did develop a lovely voice you know, and poor mammy believed till the day she died that 'Miss Carrie had done swallered a hummin' bird.'" The girls were delighted.

"How rare," Betty chuckled.

"Bless her old heart," Polly added. "Where's Caroline now?"

"In Washington. She's studying both voice and piano."

"I don't believe her voice is any sweeter than yours," Lois insisted. Fanny shook her head.

"Maybe not, but everybody thinks so, so there you are. Carrie just naturally does get ahead of me in everything. I told you she cut me out with one of my beaux," she added, laughing at herself. "A thing she could never have done two months before."

Three days later the discovery of Fannie's voice proved of much more importance than any of the girls had foreseen. Evelin Hatfield, who had a very clear soprano voice, and who had been cast for the solo parts in the concert, came down with tonsilitis and had to go to the Infirmary. The Seniors met in English room to discuss finding a substitute, after Miss King had assured them that there was no chance of Evelin's immediate recovery.

"Of course it's a Senior concert, and as long as I can remember no one has ever helped them out, but our class is hopeless," Lois said. "Evelin's was the only real voice, except yours, Ange, and you're already cast for the King. Do you think you could take the page's part in 'Good King Wenceslas,' Dot?" she asked Dorothy Lansing.

"Goodness! No! Why, I'd be scared to death," she answered hastily.

"Then there's nothing to do, but to ask one of the Juniors to help us," Polly said decidedly. "She could leave the platform when we sang our song."

The rest agreed. "But who?" Helen inquired.

"Fanny Gerard has a sweet voice, and I know she knows the carols," Betty said, "and she's a Junior."

There was a little discussion before Fanny was selected, but in the end Betty carried her point.

The few days before the musical were taken up with rehearsals. The party was to be very informal—just something to do on the last night. The Seniors sang carols in costumes and later on served light refreshments.

Fanny was delighted to sing. The day of the concert she went out with Polly and Lois to get evergreen branches to decorate the hall with, and between them they turned the platform into a veritable forest.

By seven-thirty the school was assembled, and at a quarter to eight the Seniors entered. They marched around the room and up to the platform singing: "God rest ye, Merry Gentlemen." Fanny's clear voice was so above the others that the girls and teachers began to whisper among themselves. There was a lull of expectancy as they began "Good King Wenceslas looked out on the feast of Stephan."

Angela, who was dressed as the King, sang her part:

"Haste thee, page, and stand by me, If thou knowest it telling, Yonder peasant, who is he? Where, and what, his dwelling?"

With so much expression that the deficiency of her voice was overlooked.

But it was Fanny, in her green page suit that was to score the triumph of the evening. She stepped out a little from the others, when her turn came to answer the King.

"Sire, he lives a good league hence— Underneath the mountain. Right beyond the forest fence By Saint Agnes' fountain."

Her notes were full and beautiful, and the sympathetic quality of her voice enchanted her audience. They broke out into enthusiastic applause.

"I told you so," Betty whispered as Fanny bowed her thanks.

The rest of the evening may be truly said to have belonged to Fanny. Even the Seniors' class song was hurriedly applauded, so that she might return to the platform.

The girls made her sit down at the piano when the carols were over, and sing them song after song.

At nine o'clock, Betty insisted that she stop long enough to have some refreshments.

"You all don't really think I can sing, do you?" she asked seriously, when they had joined Polly and Lois and Angela.

"Of course we do," everybody told her with enthusiasm.

"You've swallowed a bird all right," Betty laughed.

Fanny shook her head. So much praise was embarrassing.

"Maybe I did," she said shyly, "but it was probably nothing but a poor no account sparrow."



CHAPTER XII

CHRISTMAS

The two-seated sleigh jingled merrily up the drive and stopped at the carriage block. Polly and Lois jumped out and turned to help Mrs. Farwell.

"Home again," Polly exclaimed, joyfully looking around her with pardonable pride, for the splendid old house they were about to enter was her own, and every corner of it held the dearest of memories.

Lois and her mother were no less delighted to return to it. It had been Uncle Roddy's suggestion that they all spend Christmas there, and every one had heartily agreed to it.

"How splendid it looks in the snow, doesn't it?" Mrs. Farwell asked. "My, I shall be glad to see an open fire-place. I hope Sarah has started a fire in the drawing-room. Just put the bags in the hall, Tim," she added, to the old coachman who was busy unloading the back of the sleigh. He nodded respectfully.

"Where's Sandy?" Polly demanded, "I thought he'd be here to meet me, surely."

Tim shook his head. "He's gettin' old, Miss Polly," he said. "And he spends most of his time lying before the fire."

Sandy was Polly's beautiful big collie. She found him as Tim had said, a few minutes later, after Sarah had opened the door for them and ushered them in with a hearty welcome. He was lying on the hearth rug in the library. And as he heard Polly tip-toe in, he got up stiffly and held out his paw.

"Darling old fellow," Polly said, dropping to her knees beside him, and patting his silky head.

Sandy licked her hand affectionately and made as great a fuss about her, as his rheumatic old joints would permit. Then Lois claimed her and together they roamed over the house, enjoying the spacious rooms and reveling in the blazing wood fires.

Bob and Jim arrived the next day with Dr. Farwell and Uncle Roddy. The sleigh was not large enough for Polly and Lois to go and meet them. So, to make up for it, Bob and Polly hitched Banker, the pony, to the cutter, later in the afternoon, and drove out into the woods in search of a Christmas tree.

"Get a nice bushy one," Lois called after them, as they drove off. "And don't get lost."

Bob tucked the rug around Polly's feet. "We won't," he called back. "Which direction?" he inquired.

"Down the hill and take the first turn to the right," Polly told him. "Jemima! but it's cold." And she snuggled down in her furs. "I can't believe this is Christmas Eve."

"Neither can I," Bob said. "What's this I hear about you and Lois going to visit some one for New Year's?"

"We're going to Fanny Gerard's," Polly answered. "Won't it be fun? She lives in South Carolina. We're going specially for her New Year's dance. It's the event of the season—and I'm so excited. I was afraid when the letter came, Aunt Kate wouldn't let us go—their being strangers—and it's so far, but it seems your darling father knew all about old Mr. Gerard and his sister, so it was all right, and we leave December thirtieth—taking with us our very best clothes," she added, smiling.

There was something like disapproval in Bob's patient silence.

"Well, I hope you have a good time," he said, finally. "But what you want to leave this place for to go South is more than I can see. It's just like girls. They'd cross the country to dance. I think it's a crazy idea, if you ask me," he added with vehemence.

"But I didn't, Bobby," Polly answered sweetly. "Oh, there's a wonderful tree! It's just the right size and it's bushy," she exclaimed suddenly. "Do let's get it."



Bob pulled Banker in, and fumbled under the seat for the ax. But when they got out Polly found she had lost sight of the tree and they had to wade around in the snow up to their knees for fully ten minutes before they found another that suited them. They cut it down, dragged it to the sleigh and bore it home in triumph. It was dark long before they reached the house, and they found everybody dressed for dinner and waiting for them in the library.

"Oh, we've had a glorious ride!" Polly said brightly. Her cheeks were whipped red from the wind and her eyes sparkled.

"Is the tree bushy enough for you, Lo?" Bob asked.

"Yes, it's a beauty," Lois said, examining it.

"You two should have been with us," Polly said, speaking to Jim, "just to have seen Bobby work."

"While Polly told me how to do it," Bob said, teasingly. "You'd think, to hear her talk, she'd cut down trees all her life. When she found that I wasn't paying any attention to her, she got back in the sleigh and recited 'Woodman Spare That Tree' from the depths of the nice warm robes while I froze."

"Bob," said Polly, indignantly, "if you'll let me pass, I'd like to go upstairs and dress for dinner."

That evening, they decorated the tree, that is, Lois and Jim did most of it while Polly and Bob rested in two big chairs before the fire, with Sandy between them, and made suggestions.

"Jim, that tinsel would look much better going around the tree instead of up and down," Bob said critically.

Jim, who was upon a stepladder, went on trimming, while Lois came to his defense.

"Bob, do you know what tinsel is supposed to represent," she asked.

"Isn't supposed to represent anything," Bob said calmly.

Lois looked at Jim in sympathetic understanding. "You see, he doesn't know," she said. "Tinsel, dear brother, is supposed to represent the silver rays of the stars," she explained.

"Oh, get out," Bob objected. "It's no such thing. Anyway, that has nothing to do with putting it around the tree."

"Robert, you grieve me." Jim shook his head mournfully. "You a college man. How could the rays of the stars go around a tree? I ask it in all seriousness."

Bob was fairly caught. Even Polly laughed at him. Mrs. Farwell came in just in time to save him from more teasing.

"Oh, how beautiful the tree looks," she said. "I wouldn't put another thing on it, it's quite perfect as it is. Come into the other room and sing some carols, and then we must all hang up our stockings and go to bed; to-morrow will be a busy day."

"What are we going to do besides eat dinner?" Uncle Roddy demanded from the other room.

"Why, Sarah is packing some baskets for Polly to take to some of the poor families in the village," Mrs. Farwell explained, "and of course, we'll all go to church in the morning. In the afternoon I suppose—"

"Now, Kate," interrupted the Doctor, laughing, "In the afternoon do let us digest our dinner."

After they had all sung the carols around the old tinkly piano, they wished one another a Merry Christmas, found their candles on the big table in the hall—for there were no electric lights in Polly's house—and went upstairs.

"Come along old man," Polly said to Sandy. "Do you want some help?" she asked, as the old dog prepared to follow her. He always slept on the rug beside her bed.

"How feeble he is," Bob said. "He doesn't act a bit well, Poll."

"It's old age, I'm afraid," Polly replied, sadly. "He's over fourteen, you know."

"I'm going to carry him up," Bob said. "I believe it hurts him to take these steps." He picked up Sandy ever so gently and carried him to Polly's room. "Good night again," he said at the door, "and Merry Christmas."

But all the wishes in the world cannot make happiness. That Christmas Day was far from merry for either Polly or Bob.

About two o'clock in the morning Polly awoke with a start. Some one was groaning. As she sat up in bed and tried to rub the sleep from her eyes, she felt something touch her arm. It was Sandy's paw.

After groping about in the dark she found the matches and lighted her candle, and jumped out on the floor.

"What is it, boy?" she asked, resting his head in her lap.

Sandy rolled his eyes, as dogs do when they are in pain and the agonized appeal in them made a lump rise in Polly's throat.

"Dear old fellow, what is it?" she said, gently. "What can I do for you!" She was seized with sudden fright. It seemed as if she alone was awake in all that black, still night. She called Lois two or three times but got no reply. She went to the door and listened. Her friend's regular breathing came to her faintly from the other room.

"What can I do?" she whispered. "Oh, Sandy boy, don't," she pleaded as the dog groaned again.

A minute later, she was hurrying into her clothes. When she was dressed she tip-toed down the hall and knocked at the farthest door. "Bob," she called softly.

"Yes," came the instant reply. "What is it?" Fortunately the wind had rattled his shade, so that the noise had awakened him a few minutes before.

"Get up," Polly called. "Sandy's awfully sick and I'm frightened."

Bob hurried into his things with full speed and joined her. Together they carried the dog into the morning room at the head of the stairs, and put him on the lounge. Bob lit the lamp.

"He can't breathe," Polly said desperately. "Oh, Bob, what can we do?"

Bob went for water and moistened the dog's tongue while Polly held his head in her arms. His breathing grew more labored.

"Could Tim do anything?" Bob suggested, forlornly. He knew that he couldn't, but it was terrible to just watch the dog suffer.

Polly shook her head. She didn't dare trust herself to speak. After a little while the breathing grew quieter. Sandy turned his head and licked Polly's hand. Then quite suddenly it stopped—his body trembled and he lay still in her arms.

Bob put his hand on her shoulder.

"Better leave him, Poll," he said huskily.

Polly looked up at him. It was a second before she understood.

"Bob, he's not— Oh, Sandy! You've left me," she sobbed, and buried her head in his silky coat.

All Christmas day Polly tried to keep up her spirits and not spoil the others' pleasure, but her heart had a dull, lonely ache that wouldn't go away. Any one who has loved and lost a faithful dog understands. And Polly had loved Sandy from his first puppy days.

All the family did their best to cheer her up, but the day was a woeful failure. Uncle Roddy and Bob were the only ones who understood her grief, and their own was so great that they could find no words of comfort.

After dinner she disappeared. She knew that all the afternoon callers would be dropping in to exchange greetings, and she could not bear the thought of talking to them.

Bob found her about four o'clock, curled up on her favorite window seat, at the head of the stairs. He had been despatched by his mother to tell her that some of her friends were in the drawing-room.

"If she doesn't want to come don't urge her," she had warned him. "I'll make some excuse."

"Bobby, I just can't," Polly said when he had told her. "My eyes are all swollen and I've such a headache."

"What you need is air," Bob said decidedly. "Go get your coat and hat, and we'll fly off with Banker for a little ride. Come on, Poll," he coaxed, "it will do you loads of good."

Polly gave in reluctantly.

"Where are we going?" she asked when they were in the sleigh.

"Never mind, I've a scheme," Bob told her. "Shut your eyes." He headed the pony toward the bay. The cold air acted as a tonic on Polly. By the time they stopped before an old tumble down fisherman's hut, she was quite herself again.

"Why, it's Uncle Cy's place!" she exclaimed. "Bobby, how did you ever think of him?"

They pushed open the door, without knocking, and entered the one little room that served for all purposes.

Uncle Cy was one of Polly's earliest and best of friends; he was an old fisherman. They had spent many long, happy days together, when she was a little girl. He welcomed her heartily.

"Why, Miss Polly. I was beginning to think I'd have to go one Christmas without a word from you," he said. "How are you? You're getting mighty handsome," he teased "and I'm sorry to see it. I never did hold with handsome women. 'Handsome is as handsome does,' I always say," he added with a wink. "And you, Mr. Bob, how do you do again? That basket you brought me this morning was mighty good," he said with a chuckle.

"We're just here for a second," Polly explained. "Banker's freezing outside. Have you had a Merry Christmas?" she asked brightly. No one could be unhappy long under the spell of Uncle Cy's genial smile.

"Fair to middling," the old man answered, contentedly. "Have a seat," he offered.

They stayed chatting for a few minutes more, and then returned to the sleigh.

"The old darling," Polly laughed, "he hasn't changed a bit."

When they reached home, they stole in the back way. One of Lois' merry laughs greeted them as they entered.

"Jimmy, you wretch," they heard her cry.

"What's the matter, Lo?" Bob inquired from the door of the drawing-room.

Lois looked up in confusion.

"Jim kissed me under the mistletoe," she said, "after I'd expressly told him not to."

Polly joined in the laugh that followed.

"Bobby," she said as they were taking off their coats in the hall, "I'm ashamed of being such a baby to-day. I acted as if I were eight years old."

Bob pulled a big wadded handkerchief out of one of his pockets. "Don't apologize, Poll," he said. "Look at this. I wasn't so very grown up myself." Then he added, gently, "Good old Sandy."



CHAPTER XIII

POLLY'S LETTER

Polly and Lois left for Fanny's the following Thursday and arrived the day before the dance. A description of their good time can best be gotten by reading Polly's letter to Betty, which was written a few days after:

"Dearest Betty:

"What a shame you couldn't be here. I know it's mean to tell you, but you've really missed the funniest kind of a time.

"I do hope your mother is much better by now. Please give her both Lois' and my love.

"And now to tell you all about the dance—as I promised. So many things happened it's hard to know where to begin. The first day I guess—

"Well, we arrived at this adorable little town about ten o'clock in the morning, and I thought when I looked out of our window as the train pulled in, that I was dreaming and it was a story book village. The sun was shining and it was as warm as toast. I don't know why the fact that the grass was green made such an impression on me, but it did. We've had so much snow up home that I couldn't believe there could be summer anywhere else.

"Is this lengthy description boring you, Betty dear? What is it Miss Porter always says, 'Create your atmosphere first, before you begin your story.' That's what I'm doing and you'll just have to be patient while I create a little longer. I simply must tell you about the funny little cabins. They're all over the place. A relic from the days of slavery, I suppose, and they're so little—just a room or two—that you gasp when you see large families standing out in front of them. It's beyond me to figure out how they can all go to sleep at once.

"Lois suggests that they take turns and I think she must be right. The little pickaninnies are too sweet for words; they have innumerable little braids sticking out all over their heads, and their big black eyes just dance with impishness. You'd love them.

"Fanny lives in a most wonderful story book house. It's red brick that's really pink. Oh, you know what I mean! And it's trimmed with white. Big colonial pillars up the front, and a lot of little balconies jut out where you least expect them. I have one out of my window, and every night I play Juliet to an imaginary Romeo in the rose garden below. Lo insists I am getting sentimental, but it's only the effect of the 'Sunny South,' which brings me, no matter how indirectly, to the boys we've met—and the dance!

"Oh, Bet, such a lark! There were over a hundred people—both old and young, and even then the ballroom—oh, yes, the Gerards have a ballroom—looked half empty. We danced from ten o'clock until four in the morning, and went for a picnic the next day. Imagine!

"Fanny looked beautiful. She wore a lovely white dress without a touch of color on it, and it just set off her wonderful dark hair to perfection. The cousin, Caroline Gerard, is here at the house, too. You know, the one Fanny said could sing, and who 'just naturally gets ahead of her.' Well! Intermission of four minutes.

"No use, I've been struggling with my better self, but I can't resist the temptation to tell you just what Lo and I think of her. Betty, she's horrid. I mean it! She's so conceited and sure of herself and without the least reason to be. She looks a lot like Fanny, but with a difference. She's larger and much more definite, if you know what I mean, and she walks into a room with a 'Well, here I come' sort of an air. She completely puts Fanny in the background. I'll tell you later, how Lo and I pulled her out again—Fanny I mean—but now, I'll go back to the dance.

"Caroline was there of course. She wore a wonderful red gown and carried a big yellow ostrich fan. She looked like a Spanish dancer. It took me all evening to get used to her. The combination was rather startling. Lo, in spite of her dislike, wanted to paint her. I did not—jealousy, on my part of course—for every time she came near me, she killed my lovely green frock. You see, before I came down stairs, I looked in the glass and I rather fancied that I looked quite nice, but, I turned pale by comparison, and naturally I didn't like it. Are you getting curious about Lois? I hope so, I'm saving her on purpose for the end. Betty, she was the belle of the ball. You can't, no, not even with your imagination, picture her. She looked like some lovely fairy. But you know that dreamy style of hers. Well, just try and see her in your mind—draped in yards and yards of pale yellow chiffon, with touches of blue here and there,—and you'll understand the effect. Her gown was just nothing but graceful soft folds. I tell you everybody went quite mad about her, and you know how beautifully she dances.— Excuse me, that's the luncheon gong— I'll finish later.

"Ten P.M.

"Hello, again Bet:

"It's late and I'm oh, so sleepy, but I must go on. Let's see where was I? Oh, yes, clothes. But poor dear you must feel as if you'd been reading a fashion book, so I'll skip the rest of the dresses, which really didn't amount to anything, and go on with the dance.

"Of course we met so many people that I can't even remember their names, but some of my dances stand out rather vividly in my mind. Do you know, Southern boys can say more pretty things in one minute than our boys up North can in a whole month. Don't think I consider it a virtue, far from it. I think they're awfully silly—on top. Of course underneath they're splendid—just like boys anywhere else—but certainly they are more fun to talk to.

"I danced the first dance with Fanny's 'Jack.' He's quite as handsome as she said and he came to the dance in his uniform. After the music had stopped we went out in the rose garden for a walk.

"Betty, what can a girl say, when a boy tells her she is fit company for roses and moonlight? If there is a proper answer, I certainly couldn't think of it at the time and I did the very last thing I should have done— I laughed—and I went on laughing as he waxed more eloquent. Finally I said:

"'Oh, for pity's sake, do stop and talk sense.' He looked as if he had never heard the word.

"'You're very hard to please,' he said in oh, such offended tones. 'What shall we talk about?'

"'Why not Fanny,' I suggested; 'she's the only subject we have in common, except flowers and birds and moonlight, and we seem to have exhausted those.'

"'But I'm very fond of Fanny!' he said quite feelingly. I told him I was too and that we ought to make the best of it. I explained how popular she was at school, and how she'd made the team, and raved at great length over her voice. And do you know what that boy did? When I stopped for breath he stood stock still in the middle of the path and looked at me, then he whistled.

"'Well, I'll be darned.' It was the first natural thing I'd heard him say. 'I never met a girl before in all my life that would talk that way about even her best friend,' he said.

"The music started then, and we had to hurry back—but, Bet, what do you suppose he meant?

"Lois evidently had much the same trouble understanding her partners. I heard her say—'how absurd' during supper, and it sounded so like you that I was startled for a second.

"Oh dear, I almost forgot to tell you the funniest thing that happened through the whole evening. Poor Fanny, being hostess, had to dance with all the clumsy, unattractive boys that were there, and every time I saw her, she seemed to be having a dreadful time of it. I think it was the eighth dance and I was sitting out with a boy named Wilfred Grey—the one Caroline cut Fanny out with, you remember? I was arguing with him about clothes—he said he preferred bright colors, and I insisted there was nothing as lovely as white. Of course we both knew he really meant Caroline, and Fanny. Well anyway, in the middle of the dance—we were in a sort of a little alcove—Fanny came by pulling a big, lanky youth after her. I never saw anything so funny; he was just walking, and making no kind of an effort to keep to the music. Mr. Grey and I laughed about it, and when they came around again, we were watching for them. Imagine our joy when they stopped just beside us, and we heard Fanny say, in that killing way of hers:

"'Look here, Sam Ramsby, if you'll get on my feet and stay there, I'll tote you around this room, but this jumping on and off is more than I can stand.' Betty, wasn't that rare—it was the best minute of the whole evening. Lo is furious that she missed it.

"Mercy! It's twelve o'clock and I must go to bed. Lo is going to add a P.S. to-morrow. Please appreciate this long letter as I've really spent much valuable time over it.

"Sleepily, "POLLY."

Lois' postscript followed.

"Hello, Bet:

"I've just read Polly's scrawl, and I must really smile. If Caroline's dress made hers look pale you may believe it was at long range, for I never saw Poll the entire evening that she wasn't completely surrounded and hidden from view by a flock of dress suits. Wait until you see the green dress and you'll understand why.

"Polly says she promised to tell you about Fanny's triumph and forgot to. Personally, I'm glad she left me something easy. I know it will amuse you. It happened the first night we got here. There were a lot of Fanny's friends at dinner and in the evening we played games and Caroline sang. Poll has described her, but not her voice. It's one of those big throaty ones that quaver, and she sings the most dramatic of love songs. I hated it, it was so affected. Well of course, everybody raved about it and complimented her and asked for more. They didn't really want it, but Caroline has a way of insisting upon the center of the stage.

"She didn't stop until everybody was thoroughly tired of her and of music generally. Then Polly surprised every one by saying quite calmly: 'Fanny I wish you'd sing for us now.' Caroline couldn't understand. 'Why, Fanny can't sing,' she said. I don't think she meant to, but it was out before she could stop it. I was cross.

"'Oh, yes, she can,' I told her, 'the girls at school are crazy about her voice. Sing that pretty French song Fanny.' Poll joined in and we teased so hard that she finally did sing.

"Bet, I do wish you could have seen those people, they were overcome with astonishment. They were so used to Caroline talking of nothing but her voice that they had never thought of Fanny. But after that first song, I thought they would never let her stop. There, that's the story. Caroline hasn't been asked to sing since and Polly and I are mean enough to be just as pleased as punch. I must stop this instant. We'll see you next week at good old Seddon Hall. In the meantime, loads of love. I won't be sorry to get back. How about you?

"Affectionately, "LOIS."



CHAPTER XIV

MAUD'S DISAPPEARANCE

There was no need to consult the calendar. The subdued voices, and the worried frowns, to be seen in any of the corridors or classrooms of Seddon Hall proclaimed it the first of February, and examination week. Every girl carried a book under her arm and the phrase, "Do you think you passed?" was on every one's lips.

Outside the weather was clear and cold, the pond was frozen smooth as glass. The snow on the hill was packed solid and fit for coasting, but no one ventured that far away from their books.

The first half of the year was over and the girls knew from past experience that the rest of the time would hurry by. In one short month there would be a hint of spring in the air, and commencement would be in sight.

On this particular afternoon the Senior class were having their examination in Latin and, to judge by their frowns, they were finding it difficult.

Betty ruffled her hair every little while and scowled at Miss Hale, who was correcting papers at her desk. She had answered all the questions she could and done all the prose work. All that was left was a translation of Virgil. Betty stared at the unfamiliar text, and wondered where it had come from. "I don't believe it's Virgil," she said to herself. "If it is it's a part we haven't had." Then a few words from the confusing paragraphs caught her eye, and she began to remember. Her brow cleared—a few words were all Betty ever needed to start her on one of her famous translations. She wrote hurriedly for ten minutes.

"That will do, I guess. The Spartan's sure to say, 'a little too free, but correct on the whole,' anyway," she thought, ruefully, as she folded up her paper and put her pen and ink away.

Miss Hale raised her eyebrows in surprise as she handed in the examination.

"You have finished very early," she said, coldly, and Betty's heart sank. "Don't you want to look over your paper?"

"Jemima, no!" Betty exclaimed, without thinking. "That is, I beg your pardon, Miss Hale, but I don't think I do. You see I'd begin to wonder about all my answers and that would only make things worse," she said, desperately.

"Very well; you may leave the room," Miss Hale replied, with a resigned sigh that plunged Betty into the deepest gloom.

She wandered over to Senior Alley. It was deserted. The rest of her classmates were still in the study hall. She found Angela's history book on her bed and started to study, but gave it up in despair. They had covered over half of a thick book that year and there was no way of knowing what part to re-study.

"I'd be sure to learn all the dates that weren't asked for," she said, aloud, and closed the book.

She thought of the possible Juniors who might be free. She had passed Fanny on her way out of the study hall—she remembered the big ink spot that she had on one cheek. Suddenly she thought of Maud.

"I'll bet she's finished her exam, if she had one," she laughed to herself, for Maud's utter disregard of lessons that did not interest her was a much-discussed topic.

She went upstairs to the Sophomore corridor, expecting to find it almost as deserted as her own, but, instead, she found five of the teachers talking excitedly in the hall.

Mrs. Baird had her hand on the knob of Maud's door. Betty was a little confused at such a strange gathering.

"Excuse me," she said, hastily, and turned to go.

There was no need to explain that something was wrong—the whole atmosphere of the corridor was charged with mystery.

"Don't go, Betty," Mrs. Baird said, peremptorily, "I have something to tell you; perhaps you can help. Have you seen Maud to-day?"

Betty shook her head. "No," she said, slowly, "I don't think I have."

Mrs. Baird hesitated for a minute and then said, very distinctly:

"Maud is lost."

It was a startling announcement, and Betty couldn't understand. Who ever heard of any one being lost at Seddon Hall.

"But how?" she asked Mrs. Baird. "Where could she be?" Miss Crosby answered her:

"Nobody knows, Betty," she said. "Maud was at breakfast this morning, but at luncheon time she did not appear. I sent one of the girls up to look for her and she came back and told me she couldn't find her. I thought perhaps she was in the Infirmary, but after luncheon I asked Miss King, and she said she hadn't seen her."

"She's not in the building; we've looked everywhere," Mrs. Baird continued. "Where could she have gone? None of the teachers gave her permission to go out of bounds."

At the word permission Betty looked up. It struck her that Maud might not have considered it necessary to ask for permission.

"May I go to her room?" she asked Mrs. Baird.

"Certainly."

Betty opened the door and looked up at the wall over the bed. As she had expected Maud's snow shoes were gone from their accustomed place. She explained to the teachers.

"She's probably miles away by now," she finished. "Did she have any examination this afternoon?"

"Yes, in literature," Miss Porter told her, "and I can't believe she'd cut—"

"She wouldn't—not literature anyway," Betty said, confidently, and turned to Mrs. Baird.

"I'm sure I can find her by tracing her snow shoes," she said.

"But you mustn't go alone; something may have happened. Take one of the stable boys with you," Mrs. Baird answered.

"I'd rather have Polly and Lois," Betty said, "if there's anything wrong."

"Very well, where are they?" Mrs. Baird asked.

"Taking their Latin exams," Betty told her.

"Go and get them. I'll explain to Miss Hale, and, Betty, dear, do make haste; I'm really worried; the child may have hurt herself somewhere."

Betty hurried to the study hall. She knew it was useless to try to explain to Miss Hale; so she said: "Mrs. Baird wanted Polly and Lois at once." They handed in their papers and joined her in the corridor. She hurried them to their room, and explained on the way.

Fifteen minutes later they had found the track of Maud's snow shoes and started out to follow it.

Seddon Hall owned over five hundred acres of land and for the most part it was dense woodland. Trailing through it in winter without snow shoes was hard work, for the snow drifted even with the high boulders in places and you were apt to suddenly wade in up to your waist. Maud had taken the path that went out towards flat rock. This made following her tracks comparatively easy for the girls.

"What under the sun do you suppose has happened to her?" Polly demanded.

"I don't know," Betty replied; "I wish I knew when she'd started. As far as I can find out no one has seen her since breakfast."

"Did she have an exam this morning?" Lois inquired.

"No; her class had Latin and she doesn't take it. I'm not awfully worried," Polly said, suddenly. "I would be if it were any one but Maud. She's used to much wilder country than this and I can't help feeling that she's all right somewhere."

"But, where?" Lois demanded. "If she were all right and hadn't hurt herself she'd have been home by now."

"If she's kept up on top of the hill she can't have come to very great grief," Betty declared, "but if she's headed down to the river—then, anything could have happened."

"What do you mean?" Lois asked.

"Why, she might have fallen and broken her leg," Betty explained. "You know how dangerous those rocks are in winter; she may have stepped between two of them and gotten caught."

"Don't," Lois protested, with a shudder.

They trudged on for a quarter of a mile in silence, then the trail turned suddenly to the right.

"She's gone toward the apple orchard, thank goodness!" Betty exclaimed.

"Do you suppose she's gone round by way of the bridge and home?" Lois asked, stopping. "If she has, we'll have our hunt in vain."

Polly and Betty considered a minute. Then Polly said:

"Of course not; if she had, she'd have been home hours ago."

When they reached the apple orchard they noticed that the print of the snow shoes was less regular.

"She's stopped to rest here," Betty said, pointing to the ground. "Look how irregular these prints are."

"Come on!" Polly said, quickening her steps, "we may be near her."

"Hold on!" Betty cried, "look, something happened here; it looks as if she'd fallen down!" A big dent in the snow, as if a body had been lying on the ground, showed up in the prints of Maud's snow shoes.

"Here's a queer thing," Lois pointed out, "one shoe's going in one direction and one in another."

Polly walked on a little way, and then called to the others, excitedly:

"Here are the prints and look, side of them there's a mark as if she were dragging something along with her."

"What's that black spot farther on?" Lois demanded.

They looked in the direction in which she pointed and saw, a couple of hundred yards farther on, something that showed black against the snow.

"It's a man's hat! Oh, Poll, I'm scared to death," Lois said, trembling, when they came up to it. Murder and every possible form of highway robbery passed through her mind.

Betty turned white, and Polly bit her lip.

"Come on!" she said, bravely, "we've got to find her."

"Jemima!" Betty groaned; "it's beginning to snow, too." She picked up the hat; it was almost buried by the snow, and looked green with age. They were tired by this time—walking in snow shoes is very much easier than trudging in rubber boots—and they realized with a shudder that Maud and her unknown companion had a long start of them.

They followed the track as fast as they could. It went on through the orchard and down the hill, and then over the bridge. It stopped there and zigzagged in every direction. The girls looked and exchanged frightened glances. Betty's heart was beating furiously and Lois' knees trembled. They forged on, the prints were clear again, and went straight up the hill, always accompanied by the queer, uneven path beside them.

"She must be dragging something," Polly said. "That's all that that track can mean."

"Or some one is dragging her," Lois spoke the thought that was uppermost in Betty's mind.

"Nonsense!" Polly ejaculated. "I don't believe it. I tell you Maud is all right, wherever she is. I know it."

The road they were taking was a short cut to school. There was a steep hill—a level stretch, and then it joined the road from the school farm. The snow was falling heavily, and it was getting dark when they reached the top of the hill, and the prints were fast disappearing. By the time they got to the road they lost all track.

"Whatever happened, Maud's home," Betty exclaimed in a relieved voice, and broke into a run. The others followed her.

Mrs. Baird was walking up and down the Senior porch as they came up.

"Oh, girls! I'm so glad you're back; come in and take off those wet clothes right away; Maud's here."

"Is she all right?" they asked in chorus.

"Yes," Mrs. Baird assured them. "She must have been in the building when you started out."

"Where?" Betty demanded.

"In the bath-tub," Mrs. Baird said, hurriedly. "I'll explain it to you later. Now do go and change; you must be very wet. I'll have some hot soup for you in my sitting-room. Come as soon as you can. I'll excuse you from study hour."

The girls hurried upstairs without a word. In Senior Alley they met Fanny.

"Do you know where Maud Banks is?" Betty asked her.

"Yes; she's in her room," Fanny said; "where have you all—"

"Go up and tell her to come down here this minute," Betty interrupted her; "please, Fanny, like a dear," she added as an afterthought.

Fanny went up to the corridor and returned with Maud.

Polly and Lois and Betty were all changing their clothes in their separate rooms. Maud stood in the hall between, with the astonished Fanny.

"Did you get lost?" Betty asked the first question.

"No, rather not," Maud answered; "got out as far as an apple orchard, and it was awfully late. I'd no idea where the time went. I knew there must be a short cut, so I—"

"Never mind, we know that," Polly interrupted. "Did you sit down in the orchard?"

"As a matter of fact, I did; my snow shoe was loose. How did you know?"

"Were you dragging anything when you left the orchard?" Lois demanded.

"Yes, a branch of a tree; I say, I'm awfully sorry you had all that trouble of—"

"Did you see a man's hat by any chance, on your way to the bridge?" Betty asked.