"Thanks for the sermon!" said Daisy sarcastically.

"I don't care if you do call it preaching!" retorted Dilys. "When first Leonora came, some of you made such a ridiculous fuss over her, I was quite disgusted. A girl ought to be judged on her own merits, not by what her father's got. If she shows herself ready to take a fair part in everything, and be of some service to the school, then I'll approve of her, and not till then."

"Hear, hear!" cried Hetty Hancock.



CHAPTER XI

Gipsy turns Champion

EACH Form at Briarcroft had its own teacher, but in addition there were a certain number of visiting masters and mistresses who came out from Greyfield to give lessons at the school. A few were popular, some were tolerated, and one or two were cordially disliked. Among those who had the ill fortune to encounter strong opposition was Fraeulein Hochmeyer, the singing mistress. She was a most conscientious teacher and a clever musician, but so intensely German in both accent and methods that she offended the British susceptibilities of her pupils, and inspired more ridicule than respect. Poor Fraeulein meant so well, it was really very hard that her efforts did not meet with better results. She treated her classes exactly as she would have dealt with similar ones in Germany; but what might have pleased apple-cheeked, pig-tailed Gretchens did not at all suit the taste of the Briarcroft-ites, particularly the members of the Lower School. They refused even to smile at her heavy Teutonic jokes, mocked her accent, rebelled at the numerous German songs they were expected to learn, whispered, giggled, and talked during the lesson, and generally made it extremely difficult for her to keep order. In vain she alternately pleaded, conciliated, flustered, fumed, and even threatened. The girls would not behave seriously, and though they did not deign to laugh at her attempts at humour, they treated her as a joke. As she was decidedly stout and rosy they nicknamed her "German Sausage", and made fun of her almost to her face.

A part of Fraeulein Hochmeyer's system of voice production which her pupils much detested was learning the proper position of the mouth. It was of course a most important and necessary part of the lesson, but owing to the way it was enforced the silly girls turned it all into ridicule. Fraeulein would stand upon the platform giving a practical demonstration to show how the lips must be well drawn back, revealing the teeth parted about the third of an inch, so as to offer no obstruction to the free passage of the voice; and she would require her pupils to stand at attention with their mouths thus fixed before beginning the preliminary exercises.

"We look like a set of grinning imbeciles!" complained Lennie Chapman, "with Sausage for the arch-lunatic of us all. I wish to goodness we had a decent English teacher! I don't like these foreign ways."

"You'd like it still less if you were turned into a pattern pupil like me!" grumbled Gipsy. "I hate making an exhibition of myself."

Gipsy, being an apt copyist, was able to set her mouth at exactly the right angle, and in consequence her approving teacher would frequently beckon her on to the platform with the invitation:

"Dear friendt, com here and show ze ozers how you do open ze mouz."

The letters "th" were an impossibility to Fraeulein's German tongue, and the girls giggled continually at the "z's" that replaced them. Gipsy was not at all proud of being forced to set an example to the class, and would ascend the platform with an ill grace, and look the reverse of flattered at the encouraging pats that were bestowed upon her shoulders. Really Fraeulein had the kindest heart in the world, and tried, in her heavy fashion, to be on excellent terms with her pupils, but she did not in the least comprehend the mind of the British schoolgirl.

"She treats us exactly as if we were kindergarten babies!" sneered Hetty Hancock. "I don't know how German girls of our age would enjoy her silly jokes, but I think she's a rotter!"

"And she's so sentimental!" hinnied Daisy Scatcherd. "I nearly had a fit when she began to troll out that love song, with her hand laid touchingly on her heart."

"That sort of rubbish may go down in the Fatherland, but it doesn't here."

The girls had waxed restive at many of the Lieder which they were obliged to learn, but when Fraeulein turned up one morning with a volume of songs of her own composition, their discontent verged towards mutiny.

"Ze original vords are, of course, in German," explained Fraeulein, "but I have had a translation made for you by a friendt of mine, and it is sehr gut. Ze first it is a cradle song. Now, I ask has any girl in ze class got at home a leetle, leetle brozer or sister?"

"I have," volunteered Mary Parsons bluntly. "A brother."

"And how old?"

"Six months."

"Ach! Zat is beautiful! You shall sing zis song to ze leetle baby in ze cradle, vile you rock him gently, gently, till he sleep!" and Fraeulein gazed ecstatically at Mary, as if calling up a mental picture of her sisterly attention.

"He'd soon squall if I did!" grunted Mary to her neighbour, who exploded audibly.

"You, who are not so all-fortunate as to have a baby in ze home, must sing it to ze child of a neighbour," went on Fraeulein, evidently determined that the value of the lullaby should receive a practical trial.

"And what are we boarders to do?" enquired Lennie Chapman ironically.

"Sing it to the cat!" whispered Hetty, whereat the bystanders tittered.

"You've stumped her there!" murmured Fiona.

Fraeulein certainly for a moment looked a little at a loss, but she soon recovered her presence of mind.

"Vait till ze holidays, zen you sall see!" she returned with an engaging smile. "I shall now sing von or two of ze lieder to you, to show you vat zey are like."

The music of the songs was beautiful, that was allowed by even the most unappreciative of the girls. There was a joyous lilt and a true melody about them that put them high in the rank of composition, and the accompaniments played with Fraeulein's delicate touch were harmonious and suitable. The words, unfortunately, were childish in the extreme, and more fit for youngsters of five than girls of eleven to fourteen. Even the members of the Lower Third turned up supercilious noses. They were further marred by Fraeulein's accent, and when she unctuously rendered

"Hush, my baby, sweetest, best, Little mousie's gone to rest",

as

"Hosh, my baby, sveetest, best, Leetle moozie's gone to rest",

a ripple of mirth passed round the class.

Having gone through one or two as specimens, Fraeulein selected the lullaby and set the girls to work at it. I am afraid that, instead of doing their best, they only sang in mockery. Fiona Campbell made a pretence cradle of her arm, and rocked it for Mary Parsons' benefit; and Gipsy put an amount of sham sentiment into her execution calculated to convulse the others. At the end of the lesson the class trooped away in a state of frank rebellion.

"Really, this is too much!" protested Dilys Fenton. "We can't be expected to sing her silly songs."

"It's just baby nonsense!" exclaimed Norah Bell.

"The music's pretty," said Joyce Adamson.

"Oh, yes, the music—but look at the words!" scoffed Gipsy, turning over the pages of the new copies. "Did you ever see anything so absolutely idiotic in all your life as this?

"'Old hare's little son Is up to good fun, And skipping and prancing He's bent upon dancing. Just see how he spins On his dear little pins!'"

"It's an affront to ask us to learn such rubbish!" declared the outraged girls. "We shall really have to speak to Poppie about it."

"Yes, a good idea! Let's complain to Poppie."

"If she'll listen."

"She's not generally so ready to hear our grievances."

"Well, something will have to be done, for we can't go on week after week with this baby stuff. It's like turning back to one's ABC. I declare we'd more sensible songs when I was in the Kindergarten."

"I'll take my book home, and perhaps I can get my mother to write a letter to Poppie about it," suggested Mary Parsons.

"You! Why, you're the one who's to sit serenading over your infant brother's cradle!"

"Perhaps Sausage will bring a doll to school next week and make us practise with it in turns! She'd be quite capable of it," sniggered Maude Helm.

Nobody plucked up sufficient courage to interview Miss Poppleton on the subject. It is one thing for schoolgirls to growl, and quite another to venture to remonstrate with the Principal about the lessons. Miss Poppleton was not an approachable person, and except in extreme cases her pupils did not venture to get up deputations. Gipsy voiced the opinions of the class, however, in airing their grievances to Miss Edith, and gave her an animated account of their special bug-bear, the new song book.

"Oh, dear me, Gipsy! I'm very sorry!" said Miss Edith, puckering up her forehead anxiously. "I'm afraid you girls behave very badly in the singing class. You ought to have more respect for Fraeulein Hochmeyer. I hope Mary Parsons' mother won't write about it. It puts Miss Poppleton in a most awkward position when parents make complaints. We don't want to change our singing mistress, Fraeulein's system of voice production is so very good. She was a pupil of Randegger, I believe. There's no other first-class teacher in Greyfield either except Mr. Johnson, and he doesn't take half the trouble with his pupils that Fraeulein does. I wish you girls would try to appreciate her more."

Gipsy screwed up her mouth and looked humorous in reply.

"But she's a beautiful character, if you only knew!" urged Miss Edith. "She's so simple and kind-hearted; and she works so hard! She has an invalid father to keep. He's quite dependent on her, I believe. They live in lodgings in Greyfield. I'm sure I'm often sorry for her, going about to her pupils in all weathers. It's too bad of you girls to make such fun of her! She's a stranger in a strange land, poor thing, with no friends here, and her living to make. Girls are a thoughtless set, as I've found out long ago. You might try to have a little more consideration for her, Gipsy. Just imagine yourself in her place, and fancy you were teaching a class of German girls! Yes, as I said before, I'm sorry for Fraeulein Hochmeyer. She has a hard time of it."

Gipsy said nothing, but she retired with ample food for thought. It had never struck her before to take the view of Fraeulein that Miss Edith had just presented. The little foreign peculiarities and eccentricities had excited her mirth, but she had quite missed the sterling good qualities that lay underneath them. "'A stranger in a strange land, with no friends here'—I know what that means!" muttered Gipsy to herself. "It's brave of her to work to keep her father! Don't I just wish I—" but here she sighed, for the unuttered wish seemed so entirely hopeless and futile.

After revolving the matter carefully, Gipsy made up her mind that Fraeulein Hochmeyer deserved to be helped instead of hindered.

"Though how I'm to do it when she insists on forcing those absurd baby songs upon us, I can't tell. Stop! I've an idea. Oh, I don't know whether I can, but I mean to have a jolly good try! No time like the present. I've half an hour before tea." And furnishing herself with pencil and paper, she ran up to her attic, and was soon puckering her brows in the agonies of composition. As the result of that and several other half-hours of work, she covered two pages of foolscap; then, seeking out Miss Edith, she unfolded her scheme and begged for help.

"I'm afraid you'll think it fearful cheek of me," she began, "but you see the trouble at present in the singing class is that we all abominate those silly little songs. They really sound foolish for girls of our age. Of course Fraeulein's composed them herself, and the tunes are very nice. Do you think she'd mind changing the words? It wouldn't matter to her what we were singing so long as the music was the same, would it? But it would make all the difference to us. I made up a few verses that go with the tunes just as well. They're here, if you don't mind looking at them," and Gipsy modestly unfolded her manuscript. "This one's instead of

"'Old hare's little son Is up to good fun.'

I've called it 'The End of the Term'

"'Now classes are done And vacation's begun, Of fun and of leisure We'll have our full measure. For it's hip, hip, hooray For a long holiday!

"'So to lessons goodbye, While to pleasure we fly. No rules now need bind us, All care's cast behind us. For it's hip, hip, hooray For a long holiday!'"

Then there's one instead of that dreadful

"'Little Freddie had run to his nurse, Because his poor headache was worse,'"

continued Gipsy. "I've called it 'Briarcroft'.

"'There's a school near the edge of the fell, That all of us girls know full well, For at Briarcroft Hall There's a place for us all, And the tale of its fame we would tell.

Chorus

"'So hurrah! for the dear old School! We'll make it a general rule That we Briarcroft-ites Shall stand up for its rights, And be true to the dear old School!

"'There are teachers we love and revere, And customs and ways we hold dear. Give a clap for each one, And a cheer when you've done, For all who have worked with us here.

Chorus

"'So hurrah! for the dear old School! We'll make it a general rule That we Briarcroft-ites Shall stand up for its rights, And be true to the dear old School!'"

"Very creditable, Gipsy. Really not at all bad," commented Miss Edith.

"I know they're not up to much," said Gipsy apologetically, "but oh! Miss Edith, I believe the girls would much rather sing them than the other words. They're about the school, you see. I daren't ask Fraeulein myself; do you think you could?" and Gipsy turned quite red at the boldness of her own suggestion.

"It might be a good idea. Give me the paper, and I'll see what I can do."

"Oh, thanks so much! I hope Fraeulein won't be offended."

Miss Edith's gentle tact could often accomplish things where other measures might have failed. Nobody ever heard how she explained the situation and persuaded Fraeulein Hochmeyer to adopt the alterations, but before the next singing lesson all the obnoxious song books were collected and Gipsy's versions, neatly printed by hand on slips of paper, were pasted over the old words of the two songs in question.

"I hear you not like to sing about hares and babies?" commented Fraeulein. "So! It must be all about school? Yes. You have among you von who can write in verse" (nodding cheerily to the abashed Gipsy). "My friendt, you shall make for us some more verses to suit ze ozer songs!"

Having determined to act as Fraeulein's champion, Gipsy tried her utmost to sway popular opinion in favour of the luckless singing mistress. It was a far harder task, though, than she had anticipated, and put her powers of leadership to a severe test. It had been easy enough to induce the Juniors to stand up for their own rights, but it was considerably more difficult to make them realize anybody else's claims to consideration.

"Do let's be nice to her!" pleaded Gipsy. "She's really a very decent sort on the whole. She can't help being a foreigner and talking with a queer accent."

"Why, you were the first to make fun of her last week," objected some of the girls.

"I know, but it was rather horrid. Her story's quite romantic, don't you think?"

"Can't see much romance about our homely German Sausage!" giggled Daisy Scatcherd.

"Put a bunch of forget-me-nots in her hair, and she'll look a heroine!" tittered Norah Bell.

"Yankee Doodle, when you ride a hobby you ride it to death! What's induced you to take such a sudden and violent affection for the Sausage?"

"You'll be standing perennially on the platform now, holding your teeth like a dentist's advertisement, to show us how to 'open ze mouz'!"

"I wish you'd revise the schoolbooks and cut out the difficult parts!"

"Go on! Rag me as much as you like. I don't care!" retorted Gipsy sturdily.

"I've brought this picture of a sausage," piped one of the smaller girls. "I'm going to pin it on to the piano. She knows we call her 'Sausage'! She'll be in such a rage!"

"You little horror!" said Gipsy, seizing the picture and tearing it into shreds before the eyes of its enraged owner.

On the whole, though her championship was treated as a joke, Gipsy's influence had a beneficial effect, and the general behaviour in the singing class began steadily to improve. Her Briarcroft songs were appreciated, and the girls sang them lustily and trolled out the chorus with vigour. The tunes were very catchy and bright, and everybody seemed constantly to be humming them, in season or out of season.

"Your 'Hurrah! for the dear old School!' has got in my brain, Yankee Doodle," said Mary Parsons. "It haunts me all day long, and I can't get rid of it."

"We'll sing it in the lecture hall on the last day of the term. Poppie'd be quite flattered," said Hetty Hancock.

"With a special cheer for Fraeulein Hochmeyer, then!" added Gipsy.



CHAPTER XII

A Spartan Maiden

THE Spring Term was passing rapidly, and Gipsy had now been nearly six months at Briarcroft. It felt a very, very long time to her since the first evening when she had introduced herself in so sprightly a fashion to her fellow boarders, and had given them a graphic account of the shipwreck. The old Gipsy of last October and the new Gipsy of the present March seemed like two different people, with a whole world of experience to divide them. The well-conducted regime of Briarcroft had had its due effect, and had considerably toned down her unconventional Colonial ways; while the trouble through which she was passing, like all seasons of adversity, had made her older and more thoughtful than before. There was still no news of any kind from her father, and no answer had yet been received from the cousins in New Zealand. Miss Poppleton's manner towards Gipsy hardened a little more each week that mail day arrived and brought no solution of the problem where her school fees were to come from. At present her attitude was that of grim acceptance of a most unwelcome burden. She was not actively unkind, and no doubt thought she was behaving very generously in keeping Gipsy at Briarcroft at all, but in a variety of small ways she made the girl feel the humiliation of her position.

To poor Gipsy the difficulties appeared to accumulate more and more. The clothes which her father had bought for her in Liverpool were fast wearing out, and there seemed not the slightest prospect of renewing any of them. In a school where the girls were always well, if simply dressed, it was not pleasant to be the only one in worn skirts, washed-out blouses, patched boots, mended gloves, and faded hair ribbons. Gipsy had never before been stinted in either clothing or pocket-money, and it hurt her pride sorely. But in spite of her shabby attire she looked a distinguished little figure, with her straight, upright habit of carriage, and quick alertness of manner. The sadness in her dark eyes gave her a new dignity, and though a few girls might pass ill-natured remarks about her clothes, her general prestige in the school remained the same. There was an individuality about Gipsy which marked her out, and raised her above the ordinary level. She was full of original ideas, and had a persuasive way of stating her views that invariably won her a following. The girls were becoming accustomed to consult her on any important topic, and tacitly if not openly regarded her as the Captain of the Lower School. With some the fact that she was "down on her luck" invested her with a flavour of romance, more especially as she was very reserved on the subject.

"I never dare ask Gipsy a word about her father," said Hetty Hancock. "She shuts up like an oyster if one throws out the faintest hint."

"Do you think she still believes in him?" queried Mary Parsons.

"Rather! And I admire her for it. She's shown splendid spirit all this time, and never once given in. She's a real Spartan."

"Yes, Gipsy's as game as can be," commented Dilys. "She never looks beaten, however hard Poppie snubs her, and Poppie's just abominable sometimes."

"I'm often dying to help Gipsy," said Hetty. "But one can't help her. She'd be desperately offended if one offered to lend her pocket-money, or anything."

"You'd better not try! No, I believe Gipsy's pride wouldn't let her borrow so much as a yard of hair ribbon, however badly she needed it."

"Rather different from Leonora, who borrows everything she can persuade people to lend her."

"Don't speak to me of Leonora! I rue the day she came into our dormitory. She snores at night till I have to get up and shake her. We call her 'Snorer' now, instead of 'Leonora'. I wish Poppie'd put her in the attic, instead of Gipsy."

"Trust Poppie not to banish the millionairess! She's ever so proud of having her at the school."

"H'm! Her company's a doubtful privilege, in my opinion."

"Yet Poppie had the cheek to suggest that we ought to make her a Guild officer."

"No! Did she?" exclaimed the girls. "It's not Poppie's business to interfere in our affairs. We'll manage them for ourselves, thank you! We've got rid of the Seniors, and we're not going to let her dictate what we must do."

Under Gipsy's fostering care the various branches of the United Guild had prospered exceedingly. She was a most zealous and enterprising secretary, sparing no trouble to make things a success, and capable of organizing all kinds of new departures. She had got up a photographic exhibition, and collected quite a nice little show of snapshots, neatly mounted on brown paper, and pinned round the play-room. She persuaded Miss White to allow the Form to start a museum in an empty desk that stood in a corner, and spurred on the day girls to bring specimens for it of birds' eggs, stones, pressed flowers, and any curiosities with which they would consent to part. She made a neat catalogue of the exhibits, with the names of the donors, and then broached a scheme for a series of museum lectures; but at that even her stanchest adherents turned tail.

"Got too many irons in the fire already to find time to write learned papers on Natural History, Yankee Doodle," objected Lennie. "One would have to cram it all up out of the encyclopaedia, and that's too hard work for this child!"

"Wait till we have a museum anniversary, then we'll appoint you curator, and you shall spout for the occasion," suggested Hetty.

A sketching club among the artistically disposed members of the Lower School met with some response, especially as it developed into a monthly competition. Gipsy boldly begged some attractive prints from the drawing mistress to serve as prizes, and, having chosen a subject to be illustrated, pinned up the various attempts, signed with pseudonyms, and took the voting of the whole of the Juniors to decide the awards—an exciting occasion which everybody considered worthy of repetition. Gipsy's restless, energetic temperament was her salvation at this particular crisis of her career. If she had allowed herself to brood over her troubles, she would have been wretched indeed; but by throwing herself heartily into schemes for the general good of the community she succeeded in being, if not exactly happy, at any rate a useful and cheerful addition to the school.

The Sale of Work took place in March, and though she had not a single penny to spend on it, she contributed excellent service in other ways. She was indefatigable in assisting to arrange stalls, write programmes, or do any of the necessary drudgery that a bazaar always entails. Even the Seniors acknowledged her helpfulness, and Helen Roper admitted that "if one wanted a thing done quickly, Gipsy Latimer was worth a dozen of those other kids". In the matter of the Sale of Work the hatchet had been buried between the Upper and the Lower Schools, and both co-operated to make the affair a success. Now that the rights of the Juniors were fully established, and their claims to consideration recognized, Gipsy was only too pleased to help the older girls, and ran about holding step-ladders, handing tacks, fetching articles wanted, and generally doing odd jobs. Encouraged by the conciliatory attitude of the Seniors, she ventured to propose a scheme suggested by her foreign experience.

"Why shouldn't we turn the tea-room into a cafe chantant?" she said. "We should get far more money in that way than if people only went in for refreshments. Charge them an admission, and then tea extra. They'll stay far longer, and take more things, if music and singing are going on all the time. It's really better than a separate concert, too, because you can't always get people to go to the concerts, but hardly anyone can resist tea at four o'clock."

After talking it over, the Seniors were graciously pleased to adopt Gipsy's idea, and began to draw up a programme for the cafe chantant. Their struggle of the past had taught them a lesson in fair play, and they therefore proposed to admit a certain number of Juniors as performers, instead of, as formerly, keeping the whole thing in their own hands.

"I've put you down for two solos, Gipsy Latimer," said Helen Roper magnanimously. "What would you like to sing?"

Gipsy thought for a moment before she replied:

"I wonder if it would be possible to borrow a banjo? I used to play one out in America, and I know some very pretty Creole songs, and one or two Spanish ones."

"My brother has a banjo that he'd lend, I'm sure," said Lena Morris.

"Good! We'll rig you out as a Spanish gipsy," agreed Helen. "There are lots of things in our dramatic property box that would come in. You'd look the part no end!"

"I'll send the banjo this evening, so that you can practise it," volunteered Lena.

Naturally the afternoon of the bazaar was a great event at Briarcroft. Stalls had been put up in the lecture hall, and were prettily draped with muslin, while the walls of the room were decorated with flags, festoons of laurel leaves, and Chinese lanterns hung from wires stretched across the platform. The flower stall was a particular success, with its great bunches of daffodils, narcissus, violets, and other spring blossoms, and pots of tulips, lily of the valley, and hyacinths. Leonora had for once risen to the occasion. She had written home to her mother for contributions, and Mrs. Parker had responded generously, sending a quantity of beautiful flowers and pot plants to be sold, and lending some of the finest palms in her conservatory to help to deck the room.

By three o'clock everything was in order for patrons, and really the arrangements reflected great credit upon the Committee. All the stalls were well laden with articles. Some of the Seniors had been busy making beautiful things. Doreen Tristram, who was taking lessons in china painting, brought some charming little teacups and saucers, painted with sprays of flowers. Helen Roper sent some excellent woodcarving, and there was every description of needlecraft—traycloths in fine drawn threadwork, doilys, cushions, tea cosies, nightdress cases, table centres, and other dainty bits of embroidery. By the appointed hour, groups of parents and friends began to arrive, and the hall was soon full. The Lady Mayoress of Greyfield had consented to open the sale, and made an excellent speech, explaining the object for which the money was being raised, and urging the claims of the home for waifs and strays. She herself set a good example by purchasing a number of articles at various stalls, and the visitors followed suit liberally.

The girls hovered about, picking and choosing what they should buy, according to the state of their purses or their individual tastes. A novel feature, much patronized by the Juniors, was a Surprise Packet table. All kinds of tempting little articles were wrapped up in gay tissue paper, and purchased somewhat on the system of "buying a pig in a poke", an arrangement that at any rate afforded great amusement when the parcels were untied. The stalls soon began to exhibit a welcome bareness, and the stall-holders felt the fullness of their bags with satisfaction. Towards four o'clock everybody showed a tendency to migrate in the direction of the cafe chantant. This had been arranged in the largest of the classrooms. Tea was served at small tables while a concert proceeded, the guests being expected to retire after about ten minutes, so as to make room for others.

Helen Roper had got together quite a good programme. Irma Dalton, a Second Form day girl, a dainty, fairy-like child, gave a graceful performance of step dancing, Doreen Tristram played the violin, and there were piano solos and songs from other members. Everyone acknowledged, however, that Gipsy was the star of the occasion. She was dressed specially for her part in a kind of half-Spanish costume, with a red skirt, a black velvet bodice over white sleeves, and a muslin fichu trimmed with lace. Her rich dark hair was allowed to hang loose, and a gold-embroidered gauze scarf was twisted lightly round the top of her head, the long ends falling below her waist. She wore sequin ornaments and a quantity of Oriental bangles, which enhanced the fantastic effect, and gave her the appearance of a true Romany. She was not at all afflicted with shyness, and performed her share of the entertainment with a zest that charmed her audience. Her southern songs, with their crooning refrains, seemed to bring visions of moonlit lagoons and the luscious scent of tropical flowers. She accompanied herself quite prettily on the banjo, and had a stock of encores ready to meet the demands for a further exhibition of her skill. She was such a success that her fame spread over the bazaar. People came into the cafe chantant specially to hear her, and everyone was asking who that bonny, gipsy-looking girl was that sang the charming Creole melodies.

"We've taken exactly three times the money by the refreshment room that we did last year," said Helen Roper, counting up the gains afterwards.

"It was a ripping idea of Gipsy's to add the music!" said Hetty Hancock, always anxious to put in a good word for her friend.

"Yes, I'll give Gipsy the credit that's due to her," allowed Helen. "She's worked hard over this affair, and behaved more decently than I expected. I think she's improved. She's not nearly so perky and cheeky as when she first came. She may turn out quite a nice girl yet."

"Wonders will never cease! Praise for Gipsy from Helen Roper!" gasped Hetty to Lennie Chapman.

Gipsy, in her editorial capacity, wrote a most vivid report of the bazaar for the Juniors' Journal, putting in a variety of grand words and flowery turns of speech calculated to impress her readers. She had taken special pains with this number of the Magazine. The chapter of her serial story was longer and more exciting than ever; under the heading of "Our Library Shelf" she had reviewed several books; she had written a leading article on the tennis and cricket prospects for the forthcoming season; and by ceaseless urging had kept her contributors, who were apt to slack off, up to the mark in respect of literary matter. Fiona Campbell had been persuaded to illustrate Norah Bell's storyette; Blanche Russell had sent an account of a winter holiday ski-ing in Norway; the Exchange and Mart had been fuller than ever of offers of silkworms, garden plants, and miscellaneous possessions; and Gipsy had appended a catalogue of the Museum, with an appeal for more donations of specimens.

"Our journal now seems a going concern, and a well-established feature of the Lower School; it is earnestly to be hoped that everyone will make a supreme effort to ensure its success, and that more members will take their share in swelling its pages. Criticisms and suggestions are freely invited, and will be discussed at the General Meeting to be held next Friday, 21 March, at 4 p.m., in the dressing-room."

So wrote Gipsy, and thought no more about the matter. This portion of her editorial address, however, was seized upon by several of the girls, and led to results which she had certainly not expected.

"Wants criticisms, does she?" said Maude Helm. "Well, I'll guarantee she'll get them for once."

"And suggestions too!" giggled Gladys Merriman. "She's had it her own way too long. The fuss people made about her at the bazaar was absurd."

"You weren't even asked to sing at the cafe chantant, Gladys!" commented Alice O'Connor.

"There's been far too much of this favouritism lately. It's time somebody took the thing up, and others had their fair turn. I was speaking to Leonora about it, and she quite agreed with me."

"Yes; Poppie gave a strong hint she'd like Leonora pushed to the front rather than Gipsy."

"Poppie barely tolerates Gipsy."

"I agree with you there. She'd rejoice to see her shelved."

"Well, look here, we've no time to stand gossiping. If anything's to be done, we'd best go and canvass among the kids."

It was exactly at this crisis that Meg Gordon returned to school. She had been absent since the week before Christmas, when her brother had developed measles. She herself had caught the infection, and one after another various brothers and sisters had sickened with it, so that for about three months the whole family had been in quarantine. In her case the old adage "absence makes the heart grow fonder" was undoubtedly true. She came back more devoted to Gipsy than ever, ready to hang upon her words, and yield her somewhat the same fealty as a squire of the Middle Ages rendered to the knight to whom, by the laws of chivalry, he was bound. It was well for Gipsy to have so firm an adherent, for her present position in the school caused her to be greatly in need of stanch friends.



CHAPTER XIII

A Leader of the Opposition

GIPSY had called the General Meeting of the Magazine department of the Guild because she honestly wished her journal to be a representative organ for the whole of the Lower School. A member of each Form was on the Committee, but she thought suggestions would probably be offered by others, and could then be discussed and settled by popular vote. At four o'clock on the Friday afternoon all the Juniors flocked to the dressing-room, for there was a whisper abroad that changes were in the wind, and that it behoved everybody who had an interest in the subject to be present and take sides. Dilys Fenton, as President of the Guild, opened the proceedings with a few introductory remarks; then Gipsy, as editress, read her report on the Magazine.

"Members are invited to suggest any fresh features that they consider would be advantageous for the forthcoming summer term, and to offer any criticisms on the past number." So she concluded.

"I think we may all declare ourselves perfectly satisfied with this report," commented Dilys. "Our editress has worked hard, and the Journal is a unique success, which speaks for itself. Personally I can suggest no improvements, but members are of course invited to give their opinions."

There was a moment's pause, then Maude Helm stood up.

"Our lady chairman and fellow members!" she began airily, "I am glad to have this opportunity of raising a protest against an abuse which I consider is beginning to creep into our Guild, and which, unchecked, may be liable to lead to very serious results. You will remember that this Guild was founded in consequence of the very unjust and unfair treatment of the Lower School by the Seniors. This tyrannical attitude of the monitresses had been long resented by the Juniors, and though one new girl happened to seize upon the matter and voice the discontent, it was felt in many quarters that her action had been given undue prominence, and that the real credit belonged to those who had slowly and surely influenced the general opinion. These members, though they stood aside and waived their claims to gratitude, anxious only for the welfare of the Lower School, feel strongly that the whole conduct of the Magazine should be now revised and placed upon a more representative basis. I am not wishful to disparage the work of one who has no doubt done her best for the Journal, but I should like to suggest that there are others among us equally capable of undertaking office, and, if they had the chance, of running the affair with possibly even greater success. It seems to me undesirable for one person to take everything upon her shoulders, and as a question of fair play I beg to propose that the editorship should be changed for each issue of the Magazine, with a standing provision that nobody be elected more than once in twelve months."

If a bombshell had suddenly exploded, some of the girls could not have been more surprised. Dilys Fenton stared at Maude as if marvelling at her amazing impudence, Hetty Hancock flushed pink with annoyance, and Meg Gordon's eyes sought the face of her idol. A few of Maude's following clapped vigorously, notably Leonora, and there was an echo of support among some of the younger ones. Gipsy, though she had been quite unprepared for such a mutiny in camp, bore the attack with admirable coolness and self-possession.

"I may perhaps be allowed to state," she remarked calmly, "that any office which I hold at present was not self-sought, but was given me as the result of the general vote. To the members themselves, therefore, I appeal, if they consider they've anything against me."

"Maude's perfectly right!" interposed Gladys Merriman, rising hastily. "This Magazine business has been a 'one man show' all along. Nobody else has had even a look-in. It's been 'Gipsy Latimer' from beginning to end."

"Oh! Oh! Who's had a story in every number?" cried a voice from the back.

"The editress oughtn't to be allowed to monopolize the chief parts!" called out Alice O'Connor.

"She didn't!"

"How can you say so!"

"Go it, Alice! Pitch it strong! I'm with you!"

"Order! Order!" commanded Dilys. "This question must be discussed from both sides. We'll take one at a time, please."

"Maude! Let Maude speak, then!" shouted a band of sympathizers from the opposition.

Maude, who had waxed warm, was only too ready to speak, and seized upon the opportunity.

"I want to know," she demanded aggressively, "why one girl expects to take the top seat in this school, and dictate what's to be done all round? Newcomers used to be kept in the background, but it seems all that's changed now. However, if new girls are the fashion, Leonora Parker's newer still, and why shouldn't she be editress?"

"Because she couldn't!" piped somebody.

"Who's that says she couldn't?" shouted Gladys.

"Give her a chance to try!" called out Alice O'Connor.

"Likely!"

"You want to try yourself, I suppose!"

"Look here, we don't want everything turned topsy-turvy to suit a few like you."

"Order! Order!" cried Dilys again—a very necessary command, for the members were growing excited, and instead of stating their proposals in the orthodox, conventional language which they prided themselves upon always using at meetings, were descending to personalities.

"Oh, do let me speak! I'll give it them hot!" begged Hetty. But Meg Gordon had already caught the President's eye, and began:

"If this is to be a representative meeting, it's time some reply was made to Maude Helm's insinuations. The main object of Maude's remarks seems to be to cast a slur upon Gipsy Latimer, and to imply that she's taken an unfair advantage in coming to the fore. Every girl in this room knows that Gipsy Latimer refused the Presidency of the Guild, and only accepted the editorship because it was forced upon her. Did any one of those who are so ready to run the Magazine now it's started think of originating it? Of course they didn't! It was Gipsy, and Gipsy alone, who suggested the idea, drew up the plan, asked for contributions, and made the thing the success it is. There isn't another girl at Briarcroft who could have done it, or if there is, why didn't she? Where's your gratitude? Gipsy got us our own Guild, and the Journal's the organ of the Guild. She's the only one who's really qualified to be editress. I ask you, do you think anyone else could do it equally well? No, you know very well they couldn't, and wouldn't take the trouble either!"

"Hear, hear!" shouted a number of voices, as Meg stopped from sheer lack of breath.

"I thought this meeting was to be conducted in strict order!" sneered Maude. "I made a proposal a while ago, and instead of its being allowed to be seconded and put to the vote, everybody began to talk separately. I beg to propose again that the editorship of the Magazine be changed each time, and nobody be eligible for office again within twelve months."

"And I beg to second the proposal," cried Gladys.

"Those in favour, kindly signify!" said the President.

"Put it to the ballot!" suggested Alice O'Connor eagerly.

"No, we'll have a show of hands," returned Hetty grimly. "We want to know which among you are answerable for this business. In all common sense, how do you suppose a magazine can be run properly with a different editress each time? But it's evidently a question of Gipsy Latimer versus Maude Helm as leader of the Lower School. Which will you choose, girls?"

Several hands that were on the point of going up wavered at that, and went down again. Maude was not a general favourite, and though she had contrived to raise a spirit of envy against Gipsy, nobody was anxious to claim her as a leader.

"I suggested Leonora as editress," corrected Maude, rising angrily. "Miss Poppleton herself proposed it!"

But at that there was a scornful laugh. Maude had made a fatal mistake. Miss Poppleton's championship, far from being a recommendation, was exactly the reverse. The girls resented her interference in their private concerns, and did not intend to allow her the least voice in their councils.

"We don't want Poppie's pet, thanks!"

"She's not going to manage our Guild for us!"

"We can make our own choice!"

So few hands went up in favour of Maude's proposal that its rejection was obvious at once. Meg Gordon started up immediately with a counter motion.

"I beg to propose that Gipsy Latimer continue to be editress until the end of the summer term."

"And I beg to second that motion," agreed Lennie Chapman heartily.

This time the hands went up in earnest, and there was no doubt about the majority.

"Hurrah! Hurrah!" shouted Gipsy's supporters, turning in much triumph upon the opposition as the meeting broke up. Maude and her friends, finding the point carried, had no more to say, and were obliged to drop the subject. Leonora affected a sublime indifference.

"I'm sure I didn't want to be editress. I can't think why they suggested it," she said, in her stolid, bored fashion.

"To carry favour with Poppie, and spite Gipsy!" declared Lennie Chapman. "I don't blame you: they made you a cat's-paw, that's all."

"It's a victory for Gipsy, but I'm sorry it's happened at all," fretted Hetty. "It's annoyed her dreadfully, and I believe she's ready to throw the whole thing up and resign office."

"That she can't and shan't and mustn't do! We won't allow her!"

The struggle made a great sensation in the Upper Fourth. Some of the girls openly twitted Maude with her defeat, an unwise and ungenerous proceeding which bore ill fruit. Maude was not a girl to let bygones be bygones; she turned sulky, brooded over her grievances, and bore Gipsy a deeper grudge than ever. She was determined that she would not let the latter go entirely unscathed, and looked about for some further opportunity of flinging a dart.

"I'll pay her out somehow—see if I don't!" she grumbled to her chum Gladys. "Wish I could think of some really good way!"

"I know!" cackled Gladys suddenly. "It's only struck me this second. Oh! It's an inspiration! No, I daren't tell you here, with all those kids about eavesdropping. Come outside into the playground, and I'll explain. Have you any used South African stamps in your collection? Good! Then it's as simple as ABC."

"What are the Triumvirate up to?" asked Lennie Chapman a few days later. "I'm absolutely certain they've some mischief brewing."

"Do you mean Maude, Gladys, and Alice? I call them Korah, Dathan, and Abiram," said Dilys. "They're always hatching plots of some kind. I suppose they've a fresh grievance against the Guild."

"I believe they'd like to start a rival magazine of their own."

"Let them, then! There's no reason why they shouldn't. We should have a chance to prove who's the best editress. But I don't believe they'd take the trouble when it came to the point. They only make a fuss because they enjoy growling."

"I can stand growls, but Maude's apt to stick in pins as well. I should like to find out what she's evolving just at present."

Maude kept her secret well, however, and even Lennie's watchful eyes could discover nothing beyond the ordinary schoolgirl nonsense that generally went on among the three chums. She decided that she must have been mistaken after all.

March, with its boisterous winds, was passing fast away, and an early spring was bringing on green buds, and opening out venturous blossom on pear and plum trees. It was the first time Gipsy had seen an English spring, and she enjoyed the experience. The thrushes and blackbirds which carolled all day in the Briarcroft garden especially appealed to her.

"They're little plain birds to look at, but they just sing their hearts out," she said. "I learnt Browning's piece about the thrush when I was at school in Australia, and I always wanted to hear a real English one. I don't wonder he was enthusiastic about it."

March had arrived like the traditional lion, but went out like the orthodox lamb, and the 1st of April was ushered in by most appropriate showers. The time-honoured festival was kept up in rather a languid fashion at Briarcroft. The Upper School discountenanced it as childish and foolish, but a few of the Juniors indulged in jokes at one another's expense. These were mostly confined to the First and Second Forms, and the Upper Fourth as a rule scorned them equally with the Seniors.

On this particular morning the girls had just taken their places in their classroom, and were waiting for Miss White, when Maude handed Gipsy a letter, with the casual enquiry: "I say, Yankee Doodle, is this meant for you?" It was a thin foreign envelope, and bore a South African stamp, and it was addressed to "Miss Latimer, Briarcroft Hall, Greyfield, England". Gipsy glanced at it at first idly, then seized upon it as a starving man clutches at food. Her heart was beating and throbbing wildly, and her shaking, trembling fingers could scarcely tear it open. Was it at last the news for which she had been yearning, craving, sickening for so many weary, weary months? It was not her father's writing, but it might possibly contain tidings of him. She could scarcely control her violent excitement; her cheeks were white, her lips were quivering, and she drew her breath with little, short, painful jerks. In frantic anticipation she dragged the letter from its envelope, and unfolded it. It was only a single sheet of foreign paper, and it bore but one sentence:

"First of April; nicely sold!"

For a moment Gipsy gazed at the words without really comprehending their meaning. Then it dawned upon her that she was the victim of a most cruel hoax. The revulsion of feeling was so great, and the disappointment so intense, that she gave a little, sharp, bitter cry, and, leaning forward over her desk, buried her head in her arms, and sobbed audibly.

"What is it, Gipsy? What's the matter?" enquired her neighbours.

"Read it! Oh, how could anybody?" choked Gipsy.

Hetty Hancock seized upon the sheet, which had fallen to the floor, and after one brief glance at its contents turned upon Maude with blazing eyes.

"I never thought much of you, Maude Helm, but I didn't believe even you could have invented such a detestably mean, dastardly trick as this. You deserve to be boycotted by every decent girl in the school."

"It was only a joke," blustered Maude. "Everyone expects to be taken in to-day."

"It's a wicked, heartless joke—the cruellest thing you could have thought of—and you knew it, and did it on purpose!"

"How could you, Maude? It's hateful!" came in a chorus from the other girls. "We'll tell Miss White!"

"Well, I'm sure it's not so dreadful, and it was Gladys who thought of it, too!" protested Maude, finding popular opinion against her.

"Don't try and put it off on Gladys, though one of you is as bad as the other. Girls, I'm not going to speak to Maude Helm or Gladys Merriman for a week, and I hope nobody else will either!" thundered Hetty.

Lennie Chapman and Meg Gordon were trying to comfort Gipsy, and make her take heart of grace again, but she had suffered a severe shock, and controlled herself with difficulty. She sat up, however, as Miss White came into the room.

"Don't tell her!" she whispered huskily. "What's the use? It would only make a fuss, and I hate fusses. The thing's over now, and I'd rather try and forget it. Maude needn't be proud of such a poor joke!"

"What a stoic you are!" returned Meg admiringly.



CHAPTER XIV

Mountaineering

EASTER was drawing very near, and the school was to break up for more than three weeks. Gipsy, to her intense delight, had been asked to spend the holidays with the Gordons, and Miss Poppleton had graciously allowed her to accept the invitation.

"We had meant to ask you for Christmas," said Meg, "and Mother had even got as far as writing a letter to Poppie; then Billy broke out in spots, and the doctor said we might all have taken the infection, and we must stop in quarantine. It was a horrible nuisance. I felt so savage! But we couldn't invite you to come and share measles! We're all looking forward most tremendously to your visit. I'm so excited I can hardly wait till the end of the term!"

After six months spent entirely at Briarcroft, Gipsy felt that the idea of a change was most welcome and exhilarating. She liked Meg, and wanted to see her home surroundings. The two younger sisters, Eppie and Molly, she knew already, as they were in the Lower Third and Second Forms, and she had always set them down, in school parlance, as "jolly kids". The rest of the family she hoped would prove equally interesting.

Poor Gipsy heaved many a sigh as she packed her box. Her outfit seemed such a very shabby one with which to go a-visiting, and she hoped Mrs. Gordon would not feel ashamed of her guest. At the last moment Miss Edith, looking rather guilty and self-conscious, popped hastily into the bedroom and thrust a small parcel into her hand.

"It's a little present, Gipsy dear," she said nervously, "just some new hair ribbons and a pair of gloves and a tie. You've no need to tell Miss Poppleton or anybody that I gave them to you. Don't thank me—I'd rather you didn't! I do hope you'll enjoy yourself, you poor child!"

"Oh, Miss Edie! If a letter should happen to come for me from South Africa while I'm away, you'd send it on, wouldn't you?" asked Gipsy wistfully.

"I'd bring it myself, at once," returned Miss Edith, as she scuttled out of the room in a desperate hurry.

Mrs. Gordon sent a cab to Briarcroft on breaking-up day, and when Gipsy's box had been placed on the top, Meg, Eppie, and Molly bore away their guest with great rejoicing. The Gordons lived at an old-fashioned house about a mile from the school. It seemed quite in the country, with fields all round, and had an orchard and large garden, a pond, an asphalted tennis court for wet weather, as well as a grass one, and a croquet lawn.

Mrs. Gordon welcomed Gipsy most kindly, and at once made her feel at home, and the remainder of the family were introduced by degrees. Mr. Gordon, a jovial, genial man, greeted her with a humorous twinkle in his eye.

"So this is Meg's idol! Glad to see you, my dear!" he remarked. "If you can cure Meg of standing on one leg and puckering up her mouth when she talks, I'll be grateful. She seems disposed to listen to you in preference to anyone here, so please act mentor."

"Oh, Dad! Don't be naughty!" shrieked Meg. "What will Gipsy think of you?"

"A favourable opinion, I trust," laughed Mr. Gordon, as he vanished into his own particular sanctum.

Donald, Meg's elder brother, seemed disposed to be friendly; but Billy, the twelve-year-old offender who had started the family with measles, was afflicted with shyness, and preferred to inspect the visitor from afar until he grew accustomed to her presence. Rob, the youngest, a roguish laddie of six, fell openly in love with Gipsy at first sight, and prepared to monopolize her company to an extent that Meg would by no means allow.

"She's my friend, and hasn't come here to play with little boys. Run away to the nursery, and leave us alone!" she commanded, enforcing her words by a process of summary ejection, regardless of all wails.

Gipsy had further to form an acquaintance with two dogs, three cats, a dormouse, and a tame starling, before she was considered intimate with the whole household, but after that she felt thoroughly at home.

The Gordons were a particularly jolly, merry, happy-go-lucky set of young people, and they made their guest so entirely welcome that at the end of a few days she might have known them all for years. Even the bashful Billy soon ceased turning crimson whenever he spoke to her, while Eppie and Molly disputed fiercely over the honour of sitting next to her at tea. It happened to be a fine Easter, so outdoor occupations were in full swing. Gipsy was an ardent tennis player, and revelled in golf also. She and Meg and Donald made many cycling excursions, for the neighbourhood was pretty and the roads were good. With packets of sandwiches tied to their handlebars they would start off for a whole day's ride, to explore some ruined abbey or ancient castle, or to get a picturesque view of the fells. Donald, who was keen on collecting birds' eggs, would often stop the party, to hunt for nests in the hedges or banks; while Meg, whose hobby at present was wild flowers, kept a watchful eye for any fresh specimens that she might find growing by the roadside.

Mr. Gordon was an enthusiastic member of an Alpine Club, and he would sometimes take the elder and more reliable members of his family on to the fells for mountaineering practice. Many of the rocks afforded excellent training for Switzerland, without involving any special danger. These climbs were something quite new for Gipsy, and an immense delight. She was very fearless, and had a steady head, so she proved an apt pupil. Mr. Gordon would show her exactly how she must place her feet and hold herself so as to take advantage of the tiniest and narrowest ledges of rock, and she much enjoyed the excitement of accomplishing, under his guidance, what would have appeared to her impossible performances without his skilled advice. Meg and Donald had already received some training, and when Gipsy was sufficiently advanced to be able to keep up with them, Mr. Gordon allowed them all three to venture with him on a more difficult ascent, linked together with one of his Alpine ropes. Gipsy was proud indeed as she stood at the top of a jagged crag and waved her hand to Billy, who was taking a snapshot of the party from below.

Poor Billy was liable to fits of dizziness since his attack of measles, and was not allowed any real climbing, so he consoled himself by following the others about with a Brownie camera, and photographing them in the most dangerous-looking positions that he could catch.

"Billy must do some extra prints, and you could put them in the Magazine," suggested Meg to Gipsy. "You could write an article on 'Mountaineering in Cumberland'. It would be grand, and would make Maude Helm gnash her teeth with envy."

"Perhaps she's been doing something even more exciting to astonish us with," laughed Gipsy. "I wish we could have climbed a real mountain, like Skiddaw."

"Yes, there'd be some credit in that," commented Donald thoughtfully. He said no more at the moment, but a few days afterwards, when the three young people had set out on another cycling expedition, he had an enterprising plan to unfold.

"I vote we ride as far as Ribblethwaite, leave our machines there, and then climb Hawes Fell," he announced. "We've started so early we'd have heaps and loads of time. It would be a thing worth doing! I didn't broach the idea at home because I knew the Mater'd be in such a state of mind, and think we were going to break our necks. It will be time enough to tell about it when we come back. Are you two game to go?"

"Rather!" exclaimed both the girls rapturously.

Gipsy, with her Colonial bringing up and independent American ideas, did not realize any necessity to ask permission for such an expedition. She had been in far wilder places, and considered the Cumberland fells civilized ground compared with portions of the Rockies and certain mountainous tracts of New Zealand with which she was familiar.

If Meg had any qualms of conscience she contrived to quiet them with the comforting assurance: "Dad would have taken us if he hadn't been busy at his office, and we can manage so well ourselves now, we can get on all right without him."

Ribblethwaite was a pretty little village about six miles away, a typical north-country hamlet with its stone cottages, with mullioned windows and flagged stone roofs, its grey turreted church tower, and its quick-flowing, brawling river. It was well wooded, but it stood high, and at this early season of the year the trees were still bare, and only a few green buds showed here and there on the hedges. The gardens were full of golden daffodils and clumps of opening polyanthus; but primroses—which had long been in blossom in the sheltered garden at Briarcroft—were here only venturing into bud. As the inn looked clean and attractive, the three decided to leave their bicycles there, and to have a lunch of ham and eggs and coffee before setting out on their climb.

"Then we can take our sandwiches with us. We're sure to want them up there," said Donald.

"Yes; best to fortify ourselves thoroughly before we start," agreed Meg.

"Billy'll be fearfully sick when he hears where we've been," said Gipsy.

"Poor old Billy-ho! Yes, he'd have liked to follow us with his camera; but he's not quite up to tackling Hawes Fell just at present," agreed Meg.

The inn was a delightfully quaint, old-fashioned, primitive little place, such as is not often found in these days of modern improvements. Gipsy, who had had no opportunity before of seeing English country life, was enchanted with its sanded floor, its oak dresser with rows of willow-pattern plates, its pewter mugs and dishes, and the great brass preserving-pan that was set in the ingle-nook. She admired the oak beams of the ceiling, the rows of plant pots in the long mullioned window, the settle drawn up by the big fireplace, and the glass cases of stuffed pike and game birds that adorned the walls.

The lunch was a great success—a smoking dish of fried ham and eggs, home-made bread and farmhouse butter, thin oatcakes and moorland honey, and coffee, with thick yellow cream to pour into it.

"Beats school, doesn't it?" said Donald, with a chuckle of enjoyment, as he helped himself to a third serving of honey. "I say, though, we shan't have to stop too long feasting here if we mean to get to the top of Hawes Fell. It's a jolly good step, I can tell you."

"We're ready!" returned Meg smartly. "We were only waiting for you to finish gormandizing."

"Thanks for the compliment! One doesn't get the chance of heather honey every day, and I've a remarkably sweet tooth. Anything in the way of jam or preserves left near me invariably vanishes."

The way up the fell lay first over the old stone bridge that spanned the river, then across fields, and by a narrow footpath leading up a steep and thickly-wooded hillside. Though the trees were still in their winter garb they were none the less lovely for that; the lack of foliage revealed the delicate tracery of their boughs and the beauty of their straight stems, which, in one or two terraced glades, were like the columns and shafts of some great cathedral. The sun shining down the glen gave a soft purplish tint to the bare twigs, and brought out in bolder contrast the deep dark green of the innumerable masses of ivy that had utterly taken possession of and choked some of the trees supporting them.

"Isn't it glorious? I always say our fells need a great deal of beating," said Meg, who was an enthusiast over her native county. "I don't believe there's a wood equal to this anywhere!" and she began to sing the old north-country ditty:

"A north-countree maid Up to London had strayed, Although with her nature it did not agree. She wept and she sighed, And she bitterly cried: 'I wish once again in the north I could be! Oh! the oak and the ash and the bonny ivy tree, They all grow so green in the north countree!'"

"Don't know whether you'll get Gipsy to agree with you; she ought to be a dab critic of scenery by now," grunted Donald.

"Oh, it's lovely!" said Gipsy, who was enjoying herself immensely. "Of course it's quite, quite different from America, or Australia, or South Africa. It's smaller, but it's prettier in its own way. It looks much more cultivated."

"Ah! wait till you get right out on the moor at the top. You won't insult that by calling it cultivated."

The woods were soon left behind, and the pathway led ever upwards, first through a tangle of heather and bilberry and gorse; then, higher still, over short, fine, slippery tracts of grass. They were reaching the upper region of the fell, where the hard rock cropped out into great splintered crags, weathered by countless winter storms, and where no bushes or softer herbage could face the struggle for existence. So far the walk had been comparatively easy, but now the footpath had disappeared, and they were obliged to trust to their knowledge of mountaineering. The top still towered above them a very long way off, and they calculated it would need a two hours' climb before they could reach the particular crag that marked the extreme summit.

Donald assumed the leadership of the party, and, scanning the mountainside with what he called an Alpine eye, decided which would be their best course to pursue. There were several steep precipices and awkward places that must be avoided, for though they were all quite ready to try their skill at scaling rocks, it seemed no use to waste unnecessary time over performing difficult feats.

"I expect that last crag will give us enough practice in that," remarked Donald. "I've brought a rope with me in case we want it—got it wound round and round my waist under my coat."

"Oh, that explains why you look so stout to-day!" laughed Meg. "I should think it's pretty uncomfortable."

"Not a bit of it! It keeps me warm. I call it jolly cold up here."

"I believe we've reached the Arctic zone!" agreed Gipsy.

The air had undoubtedly grown colder with every hundred feet of their ascent. The sunshine had disappeared, grey clouds had gathered, and feathery flakes of snow began to fall lightly. The grass was soon covered with a thin white coating which gave a delightfully Alpine aspect to the scene. The prospect was glorious—the sharp, splintered, snow-crested crags stood out in bold relief against the neutral-tinted sky, and the long stretches of moor below them looked soft and blurred masses of whiteness.

"We can find our way home by our footsteps in the snow!" said Gipsy, drawing long breaths of the pure, exhilarating air.

"I wonder if we ought to turn back," said Meg, rather doubtfully.

"Turn back!" exclaimed Donald. "You don't mean to say you want to turn tail now, Meg? Why, we're just getting to the exciting part!"

"I was only thinking of the snow."

"Why, that makes it all the more like Switzerland! You don't suppose Dad turns back at the snowline when he's doing a climb? We're in luck to have the chance of a little snow. I wish there'd been a keen frost, and we could have tried an ice axe somewhere. Pluck up your courage, Meg! You'll never do the Matterhorn if you shirk Hawes Fell!"

Thus encouraged Meg said no more, though she had her private doubts about the wisdom of proceeding farther. It is an unpleasant task to be a drag on other people's amusement, and both Donald and Gipsy were very keen on making the ascent. So they scrambled onward and upward, slipping often on the rapidly freezing rocks, helping each other over difficult places, sighing for nailed boots and alpenstocks, but laughing and enjoying the fun of the adventure.

To climb to the summit certainly taxed all their strength. The mountain seemed to heave before them in a succession of huge boulders, and as each one was scaled another appeared beyond it. At length they reached a piled confusion of rocks, where a little cairn had been built of small stones and loose pieces of shale.

"There we are! The very place!" shouted Donald. "I knew we'd find it if we pegged along. Now, can you girls tackle this last bit? Wouldn't you like to use the rope?"

The final piece of crag was slippery enough to justify Donald's offer, and as he seemed particularly anxious not to have brought his rope in vain, the others consented to give it a trial. With its aid the difficult bit was accomplished fairly easily, and the three were soon standing in triumph by the cairn, hurrahing and waving their handkerchiefs with much excitement.

"I'm going to eat my sandwiches here; I'm fagged out," declared Gipsy, sitting down on a stone and suddenly realizing that she was tired and hungry.

The others followed suit, very ready for a rest and a picnic. It was a long time since their lunch at the inn, and the frosty air had given them keen appetites. It was too cold to sit still, however, for more than five or ten minutes; a bitter wind had sprung up, and the snow, which had only fallen very lightly before, began to come down in thicker and heavier flakes.

"We'd better be going, or we shan't be able to find our way," worried Meg anxiously.

"Right-o! only we must each add a stone to the cairn first," replied Donald. "I've a pencil here, and we'll write our names on them as proof conclusive that we've been, in case anybody doubts our word afterwards."

So "Gipsy Latimer", "Margaret Gordon", and "Donald Alexander Gordon" were duly inscribed on smooth pieces of shale and placed as evidence on the top of the pile, after which ceremony the three began their descent with something of the feeling of Arctic explorers who had reached the Pole.

It was indeed high time to return. Clouds were blowing up fast, and with the thickening snow began rapidly to obscure the view. The trio went very cautiously, trying to remember various landmarks which they had noticed on the way up. Gipsy's idea of retracing their footsteps in the snow soon proved futile, for already all tracks were obliterated. It was impossible to see far in front of them, and but for the compass that hung on Donald's watch-chain they would have had no notion of where they were going.

"We must keep due west, and look out sharp for precipices. Don't let us get separated on any account. Hadn't we better use the rope again?"

"I don't believe we're anywhere near the way we came up. I don't recognize these rocks in the least," said Meg.

"Never mind, if we get down somewhere to civilization," returned Gipsy.

"Yes, but we don't want to be five miles away from our bicycles!"

"We're all right!" exclaimed Donald jubilantly. "Here's the piece of white quartz we were sitting on, I'm sure. Yes!" (grubbing about under the snow) "I'm right, for here's a scrap of the silver paper from the chocolate we were eating. Hurrah! I'm going to set up for an Alpine guide!"

The snow was clearing considerably as they got farther down the mountainside, and after a while they were able to recognize various points of the landscape, and realized that Donald's compass and instinct for locality had led them correctly.

"It was a narrow squeak, though," confessed Meg. "I don't mind telling you now that I thought we should have to stay up there all night! It's getting fearfully late—we must sprint back when we reach our machines."

"We'll have some hot tea at the inn first," declared Donald. "You girls will never sprint six miles without!"

Very tired, but exceedingly proud of themselves, the mountaineers reached home at half-past eight, to find Mr. and Mrs. Gordon looking out anxiously for their return.

"You young scamps! I'd no idea you were going climbing on your own!" said Mr. Gordon. "I'd have forbidden it if I'd known. Hawes Fell is a nasty little bit at the finish."

"But we did it, Dad!" cried Meg excitedly. "We put our feet on all the right ledges, just as you taught us. Oh! Don't you think I'm old enough to go to Switzerland with you next summer, and try some real ice work? You promised you'd take me when I was fifteen!"



CHAPTER XV

A School Mystery

AFTER the delightful three weeks spent with the Gordons, Gipsy felt that so pleasant an experience of English home life made it doubly difficult to return to Briarcroft. No news of her father had arrived during her absence, and she was received with black looks by Miss Poppleton. She had begun to dread, with a shrinking, nervous horror, those futile interviews with the Principal—interviews in which she could only state again how little she knew, and listen to fresh reproaches. She tried to brace herself for the ordeal when ordered to the study, but her heart failed her as she tapped at the door, and she entered with something of the apprehension of a victim of the Inquisition facing the torture chamber. She advanced hesitatingly towards the Principal's desk, and stood without speaking, a forlorn enough little figure to have excited compassion in the most mercenary heart. Miss Poppleton glanced at her furtively, and looked away again. She had made up her mind not to allow herself to be worked upon by her feelings, and meant to speak plainly.



"It's no use mincing matters, Gipsy!" she began, blustering a little to hide her own sense of uneasiness. "Here we are at the beginning of another term, and things are exactly the same as they were at Christmas. Not a word from your father, or from your New Zealand relations either. It's plain enough they mean to abandon you! Now, I want you to understand that I can't be responsible for you. You must think again. Are there absolutely no relations or friends to whom you can apply?"

Gipsy sighed as she gave the same old answer. Had she been possessed of any information, how gladly would she have supplied it!

"I can't keep a school for philanthropy," frowned Miss Poppleton. "I'm afraid your father is an adventurer pure and simple. He's left you on my hands, and gone off, who knows where? I'll let you have one more term here, just on the chance of his turning up; but if we've heard nothing by the summer holidays, then I shall be obliged to apply to the Emigration Society, and send you out to New Zealand. Your relatives there would be forced, at least, to support you, though I suppose I shall have to write down your fees here as bad debts. In the meantime you must make yourself as useful as you can, out of school hours. You might help Miss Edith with the mending, and look after No. 1 dormitory. I can't afford to keep you here on the same footing as an ordinary pupil. It's an unpleasant business from beginning to end."

Very unpleasant, thought poor Gipsy, as she availed herself of permission to go. Her proud spirit could not bear her position of sufferance in the school, and she would almost have preferred to be handed over to the Emigration Society, and deported to New Zealand. That her father should be called an adventurer seemed the cruellest cut of all. The reason for his long silence she could not fathom, but she was positive he would never abandon her, and her faith in him did not waver. Some day, if he were still alive, she knew he would come to claim her; and in the meantime, though life was dark, for the sake of her own self-respect she must show a brave front. Gipsy certainly needed all the courage and fortitude of which she was possessed.

If last term had been hard, the present term was harder still. Miss Poppleton's hint about making her useful was no idle remark, as she soon found to her cost. Instead of joining the other girls at tennis and croquet in her play hours, she was expected to sit in the linen room, darning stockings and hemming dusters, or mending damaged garments. She was made into a kind of attendant for the little ones who slept in No. 1 dormitory, and was responsible for brushing their hair, seeing that they had their baths, putting away their clothes, and keeping their room in order. It was a recognized thing that she was to be at the beck and call of all the mistresses, to run errands, take messages, fetch articles wanted, and do innumerable little "odd jobs" about the house.

She was willing enough thus to help to earn her salt, but the unfortunate part was that the extra work made serious inroads upon her time. Her new dormitory duties took a large slice out of each evening, and no allowances were made in class for the fact that her hours of preparation were curtailed She resented the injustice of being reproached for badly learnt lessons, when she had been busy the night before washing the hair of her little charges, copying some notes for Miss Lindsay, sorting music, filling inkpots, and stitching fresh braid on Miss Poppleton's skirt. The mistresses did not really mean to impose upon Gipsy, but having been told to make the girl of use, it was so easy to hand over all the tiresome extra things for her to do, and completely to forget that an accumulation of trifles may make a large sum. It never struck anybody that Gipsy's legs could grow weary with constantly running up and down stairs, or that she preferred tennis to darning and croquet to brushing children's coats; all were supremely busy with their own concerns; and though Miss Edith sometimes noticed that she looked tired, loyalty to Miss Poppleton forbade the least interference. So Gipsy plodded away, with a grim determination to do her best, and not to give in under any circumstances whatsoever. She was much too proud to make complaints to her friends, even if they could have helped her, and met their compassion for her non-appearance at the tennis courts with an assumption of indifference.

"I can't get at Gipsy nowadays!" said Hetty Hancock to Dilys Fenton. "She seems quite changed this term, since Poppie's made her into a kind of pupil teacher. It's as if there were a barrier suddenly set up between us."

"So there is—a barrier of her own making," sighed Dilys. "I've tried to get across it myself, and I can't. The fact is, Gipsy's about the proudest girl in the school, and she's eating her heart out at finding herself in this queer position. She's neither exactly a pupil, nor a teacher, nor a monitress, nor anything: indeed, Poppie treats her more as a servant; sometimes she absolutely wipes her boots on her! Gipsy's like a princess sold into slavery! She's taking it hardly, but she won't let it crush her spirit. I think she feels so sore, she can't even bear our sympathy."

"I wish we could do something," groaned Hetty.

"Nothing would be of any use, unless you could find her father. I'm afraid, myself, he must be dead."

"She's fighting a battle against fearful odds," said Hetty, shaking her head. "She's keeping her self-respect when most girls would have given way utterly. I suppose there's nothing to be done but just look on and admire her pluck. I should like to speak my mind to Poppie sometimes!"

"You'd do Gipsy no good, I'm afraid."

"I wonder Miss Edith doesn't stand up more for her."

"Miss Edith! She's a jellyfish—a crushed worm—a mere serf and vassal! She's frightened to death of her sister, in my opinion, and hardly dare call her soul her own. She'd be nice enough to Gipsy if Poppie'd let her."

"Look here! I hope Gipsy's going to the Fourth Form picnic next week."

"Gracious! So do I. I hadn't thought of it. She never does go to anything now that needs paying for. Oh, but she must! We can't have her left out of it. Let's beard Poppie boldly in her den, offer to pay Gipsy's share in private, and beg for her to come."

"I'm game if you are, and ready to go halves."

The Upper and Lower Fourth Forms always joined in an excursion, which was invariably held on the first Saturday in June. They went, under the care of Miss White, to visit some place of interest in the neighbourhood, and the journey was made either by train or in hired wagonettes. Tea was provided at a farmhouse or hotel, and counting the price of admission to ruins and tips to guides, the little jaunt generally worked out at about three or four shillings per head. All the other Forms in the school had similar picnics: the Fifth and Sixth invariably combined, as did the First and Second; and the Third, which like the Fourth consisted of Upper and Lower divisions, was large enough to have its own outing. To miss the annual excursion would be felt by any girl as a terrible omission, almost as bad as missing the prize-giving or the Christmas soiree.

Hetty and Dilys hastened therefore to Miss Poppleton's study, to make quite sure that on such an important occasion Gipsy should not be left behind. They stated their case with considerable eagerness and enthusiasm.

"We'd pay all Gipsy's share between us, only, please, we'd rather she didn't know anything about that part of it," ended Dilys, who did the most of the talking.

Miss Poppleton received the suggestion with a coldness that was particularly damping.

"I can't decide anything at present," she said briefly. "I doubt if Gipsy can be spared. Her new duties keep her occupied in looking after the little ones, and Saturday is a busy day. No, Dilys, I can't promise. Gipsy must remember it is impossible for her to have everything the same as other girls, and she must not expect it."

"Oh, she didn't ask us to ask you! She doesn't know anything about it. It was our idea entirely," put in Hetty hastily.

"I'm glad to hear it," returned Miss Poppleton dryly, and dismissed the girls without further ceremony.

"I don't believe she means to let her go," declared Dilys indignantly, as they walked down the passage. "Poppie's taken an absolute spite against Gipsy lately. But I'll be even with her! I've got an idea. Let's make the picnic a Guild affair, and persuade all the Lower School to join together and do the same excursion on the same day. Then Gipsy'd be bound to go, to help to look after those kids! Besides, she's the Secretary."

"Stunning! I believe we shall compass it. Only don't say what's our object, or Maude Helm or somebody will be putting a spoke in our wheel perhaps. We'll call a meeting of the Guild and propose it. You bring it up, and I'll second it."

Dilys's and Hetty's suggestion was very well received by the Guild. The idea of a big united picnic sounded attractive, so the motion was carried unanimously. It was of course necessary to refer the matter to Miss Poppleton and the mistresses, but they were not likely to offer objections to a scheme favoured by the whole of the Lower School. It would indeed be easier for the mistresses to co-operate than for each to take charge of a separate Form. It was decided to ask permission for the excursion to be regarded as the annual treat of the Guild, and particularly to request that all officers should be present and wear their badges.

"Done Poppie for once, I believe!" triumphed Dilys. "She can't have the cheek to keep our Secretary at home. The Guild would mutiny."

"She's made such a fuss of the Guild, she's bound to allow us some latitude," agreed Hetty.

"Then on Saturday week Gipsy shall get one treat, if she doesn't get another all this term."

But before Saturday week something happened.

Among the various rules of Briarcroft, one of the strictest was that which forbade any boarders to go outside the grounds without first obtaining special permission from Miss Poppleton. The day girls at the school wore the regulation sailor hat with a plain band of navy-blue ribbon, but the boarders, to distinguish them from the others, had a navy band with a white stripe in it. They were extremely proud of these stripes, which they regarded as a badge of superiority, similar to the gold tassels which, many years ago, were worn by the sons of the nobility on their college caps at Oxford. The hats were of course very well known in the neighbourhood, and nobody who lived anywhere near the school could possibly mistake the Briarcroft "sailor".

Now it came to Miss Poppleton's ears, through the medium of one of those malicious little birds who have a reputation for carrying inconvenient pieces of information, that on several evenings, just at dusk, a girl who wore a boarder's hat had been seen to leave the garden and hurry up the road, returning about five minutes later to dodge with great caution inside the gate. Such a proceeding was manifestly irregular and highly improper. Miss Poppleton, at first indignant at the very idea that one of her pupils could be guilty of so great an indiscretion, nevertheless felt it her solemn duty to investigate the matter thoroughly, and either expose the offender or deny the imputation. She was the more particularly annoyed because the hint came from a quarter which, if not absolutely hostile, was inclined to regard her establishment as old-fashioned, and to air the notion that there was room for another high-class ladies' school in Greyfield. In the face of such reports, the scandal must be instantly suppressed. She arranged, therefore, that a careful watch should be kept on the school, and if anyone were seen going out or returning in a surreptitious and unorthodox fashion, the occurrence must be immediately reported, so that she could act promptly and catch the delinquent. She said nothing about the affair to the girls, as she did not wish to put them on their guard, but Miss Edith and the mistresses were instructed to use extreme vigilance.

One of the manifold duties that had lately been heaped upon Gipsy's shoulders was the task of sorting the stockings that came from the wash, and putting in a pile those that required darning. She had been very busy one evening with this rather uncongenial occupation, and had barely finished the necessary counting and arranging, when the bell rang for preparation. During the last few days Miss Lindsay had insisted upon Gipsy joining the others and learning her lessons as usual, and had scolded her if she were absent, even on an errand for another mistress. It was most unreasonable to reproach her for what was seldom her own fault; but knowing that Miss Lindsay would expect her to be in her place, she hastily put the stockings away, and fled to fetch her books.

Preparation was being held in the Juniors' room, and the girls were sitting on forms round the long table. Gipsy, scuttling in just in time to avoid the mistress's censure, took a seat between Hetty Hancock and Lennie Chapman, and, opening her French grammar, began to write an exercise. All the Junior boarders were at work with the exception of Dilys Fenton, Leonora Parker, and Barbara Kendrick, who were practising, for the girls had to take turns to use the pianos, according to a carefully arranged monthly music list. Gipsy plodded on with her exercise, and had arrived at sentence No. 9 when suddenly a horrible thought struck her. It had been rather dark in the linen room, and in order to examine the stockings better, she had switched on the electric light. She was almost certain that in her hurry she had forgotten to turn it off again. Leaving on the electric light unnecessarily was one of Gipsy's worst crimes, a negligence for which Miss Poppleton had often rebuked her severely. If the Principal were to walk past the linen room she would certainly enquire who had been there last, and would administer a scolding, at the prospect of which Gipsy shivered.

She wondered if she dared ask Miss Lindsay to allow her to go and ascertain. It was a mild, wet evening, much darker than usual, and the mistress sat reading close by the window, so as to catch the advantage of the fading light. Her profile, rather stern in its outline, did not look particularly encouraging, and Gipsy sighed, knowing that her request would probably be met by a prompt refusal. What was she to do? It was a question of braving either Miss Lindsay's or Miss Poppleton's wrath—perhaps both. 'Twixt two fires she hesitated, then an idea occurred to her. If she could get out of the room and return to her place without the governess discovering her absence, all would be well. Miss Lindsay seemed absorbed in her book, and as long as her pupils kept quietly at work she took no particular notice of them. As before stated, she was seated close to the window, while the girls were placed round a long table, the end of which, nearest to the open door, was unoccupied. Gipsy hastily scribbled on a scrap of paper: "I'm going to do a bolt—don't give me away!" and, with her finger on her lips for silence, showed it to her two neighbours, Lennie and Hetty. Then very quietly and cautiously she dropped from the form, and began to creep underneath the table in the direction of the open door. Lennie and Hetty, after a glance at the paper, comprehended her scheme, and moved nearer together, lest her absence should be betrayed by a telltale gap. Some of the other girls of course noticed the occurrence, but, being loyal to Gipsy, they held their tongues and made no sign. As gently as a mouse she crept under the whole length of the table, chuckling inwardly at the fun of the adventure.

I do not believe anyone in the school except Gipsy would have thought of such a rash and risky experiment; but she had not yet entirely forgotten her old Colonial habits, and every now and then, despite Miss Poppleton's discipline, her wild spirits would crop up and assert themselves in very questionable ways. Miss Lindsay read calmly on, quite oblivious of the fact that one of her pupils was crawling through the doorway on all-fours, and that the greater proportion of the rest were consciously aiding and abetting such a scandalous proceeding. Once she had gained the passage in safety, Gipsy sprang to her feet and ran with all speed to the linen room. As she expected, the light was still on, so she switched it off with supreme satisfaction, congratulating herself heartily that Miss Poppleton had not been before her. It was only the work of a minute, and she hoped she could regain her place at the table in the same way as she had left it, without being missed by Miss Lindsay. She was hurrying back along the passage when Leonora, coming from practising, entered from the opposite direction, and without seeing Gipsy or noticing her frantic signs, went into the Juniors' room and closed the door behind her.

The Peri shut out of Paradise was as nothing to the disconcerted girl who stood blankly in the corridor. Poor Gipsy was indeed in a dilemma. It was utterly impossible to open the door and walk in, but in the meantime every minute increased the probability of her absence being detected. There seemed nothing for it but to hang about on the chance that Dilys or Barbara might also return from practising, and that she could persuade one of them to leave the door open, so as to give her the opportunity of entering. But the corridor was not a safe place to wait in. Mistresses or Seniors might very possibly be passing, and would ask awkward questions. It seemed more discreet to retire downstairs, where she might catch Dilys as she came from the library. There was a large cupboard in the hall where the boarders kept some of their outdoor clothes, and here Gipsy took refuge, listening to the five difficult bars of a sonata with which Dilys was wrestling, and wishing her friend's half-hour at the piano might soon expire. As she stood among the coats and waterproofs, peeping out through a small chink of the door, she noticed Miss Poppleton come from the drawing-room, and cross the hall in the direction of the library. Gipsy was in a panic of fright. What account should she give of herself if her retreat were to be discovered? Alarm made her draw her breath sharply, and the action, combined perhaps with some dust or a slight cold—alack! alack!—brought on a terrific and utterly uncontrollable fit of sneezing.