The School Queens

“Poor father!” thought the girl. She felt a lump in her throat – a choking sensation, which seemed to make her mother’s present conduct all the more intolerable. How was she to live in the future with the knowledge that her father’s memory was, as she felt, profaned? But at least she had got his treasures.

She relocked the two tin boxes, and, stowing them carefully away in her own trunk, transferred the keys from her mother’s bunch to her own, and brought her mother’s keys back to Mrs. Howland.

“Have you looked at them? Are they worth anything, Maggie?”

“Memories mostly,” said Maggie evasively.

“Oh, then,” said Mrs. Howland, “I am glad you have them; for I hate memories.”

“Mother,” said Maggie, and she went on her knees to her parent, “you have really given them to me?”

“Well, of course, child. Didn’t I say so? I don’t want them. I haven’t looked at the things for years.”

“I wonder, mums, if you would write something on a piece of paper for me.”

“Oh dear! oh dear!” said Mrs. Howland. “Mr. Martin doesn’t approve of what he calls documents.”

“Darling mother, you’re not Mr. Martin’s wife yet. I want you to put on paper that you have given me father’s curios. He always meant them for me, didn’t he?”

“He did! he did!” said Mrs. Howland. “One of the very last things he said – in his letter, I mean, for you know he died in Africa – was: ‘The treasures I am sending home will be appreciated by my little girl.’”

“Oh mother! yes, and they are. Please, mother, write something on this bit of paper.”

“My head is so weak. I haven’t an idea what to say.”

“I’ll dictate it to you, if I may.”

“Very well, child; I suppose I can’t prevent you.”

Maggie brought paper, blotting-pad, and pen, and Mrs. Howland presently wrote: “I have given, on the eve of my marriage to Mr. Martin, her father’s treasures to my daughter, Margaret Howland.”

“Thank you, mother,” said Maggie.

The date was affixed. Mrs. Howland added the name she was so soon to resign, and Maggie almost skipped into the bedroom.

“It’s all right now,” she said to herself.

She unlocked her trunk, also unlocking one of the tin boxes. In the box which contained the twelve bracelets she put the piece of paper in her mother’s handwriting. She then relocked the box, relocked the trunk, and came back to her mother, restored to perfect good-humor.

Maggie was in her element when she was planning things. Yesterday was a day of despair, but to-day was a day of hope. She sat down by her mother’s desk and wrote a long letter to Molly Tristram, in which she told Molly that her mother was about to be married again to a very rich man. She mentioned the coming marriage in a few brief words, and then went on to speak of herself, and of how delightful it would be to welcome Molly and Isabel when they arrived at Aylmer House. Not by the faintest suggestion did she give her friend to understand the step down in the social scale which Mrs. Howland’s marriage with Mr. Martin meant.

Having finished her letter, she thought for a minute, then wrote a careful line to Merry Cardew. She did not tell Merry about her mother’s approaching marriage, but said that Molly would have news for her. In other respects her letter to Merry was very much more confidential than her letter to Molly. She assured Merry of her deep love, and begged of her friend to regard this letter as quite private. “If you feel you must show it to people, tear it up rather than do so,” said Maggie, “for I cannot bear that our great and sacred love each for the other should be commented on.”

When Merry received the letter she neither showed it to any one else nor tore it up. She could not forget Maggie’s face as she parted from her, and the fact that she had refused to accept the ten pounds which the little girl had wanted to give her in order to remove her from musty, fusty lodgings had raised Maggie considerably in her friend’s estimation.

Meanwhile Maggie Howland, having finished her letters, went out and posted them. She then changed her sovereign, and bought some excellent and appetizing fruit and cakes for her mother’s and Mr. Martin’s tea. She consulted with Tildy as to how these dainties were to be arranged, and Tildy entered into the spirit of the thing with effusion, and declared that they were perfect crowns of beauty, and that most assuredly they would melt in Mr. Martin’s mouth.

On hearing this Maggie hastened to change the conversation; but when she had impressed upon Tildy the all-importance of a snowy cloth being placed upon the ugly tray, and further begged of her to polish up the teapot and spoons, Tildy thought that Miss Maggie was more wonderful than ever.

“With them as is about to step into the life-matrimonial, pains should be took,” thought Tildy, and she mentioned her sentiments to Mrs. Ross, who shook her head sadly, and replied that one ought to do the best one could for the poor things.

At three o’clock Maggie put on her hat, drew her gloves on, and, taking up a parasol, went out.

“Good-bye, darling,” she said to her mother.

After all, she did not go to Richmond; it was too far off, and she was feeling a little tired. Besides, the thought of her father’s wonderful treasures filled her mind. She determined to go to South Kensington and look at similar jewels and ornaments which she believed she could find there. It occurred to her, too, that it might be possible some day to consult the manager of the jewel department with regard to the worth of the things which her dear father had sent home; but this she would not do to-day.

Her visit to the South Kensington Museum made her feel positively assured that she had articles of great value in the tin boxes.

Meanwhile Mrs. Howland waited impatiently for Mr. Martin. She was puzzled about Maggie, and yet relieved. She wondered much what Maggie could have said to Mr. Martin that day when she breakfasted with him. She was not really alarmed. But had she been able to look into Mr. Martin’s mind she would have felt a considerable amount of surprise. The worthy grocer, although an excellent man of business, knew little or nothing about law. Maggie’s words had made him distinctly uncomfortable. Suppose, after all, the girl could claim a right in her father’s beggarly hundred and fifty pounds a year? Perhaps the child of the man who had settled that little income on his wife must have some sort of right to it? It would be horrible to consult lawyers; they were so terribly expensive, too.

There was a man in the shop, however, of the name of Howard. He was the principal shopwalker, and Mr. Martin had a great respect for him. Without mentioning names, he put the case before him – as he himself expressed it – in a nutshell.

Howard thought for a few minutes, then said slowly that he had not the slightest doubt that a certain portion of the money should be spent on the child – in fact, that the child had a right to it.

Martin did not like this. A heavy frown came between his brows. The girl was a smart and clever girl, not a bit like Little-sing, and she could make herself very disagreeable. Her modest request for sixty pounds a year did not seem unreasonable. He thought and thought, and the more he thought the more inclined he felt to give Maggie her way.

When he arrived at Mrs. Ross’s house he did not look quite as cheerful as usual. He went upstairs, as Tildy expressed it, “heavy-like”; and although both she and Mrs. Ross watched for that delightful scene when he was “Bo-peep” to “Little-sing,” Martin entered the drawing-room without making any exhibition of himself. The room looked quite clean and inviting, for Maggie had dusted it with her own hands, and there was a very nice tea on the board, and Mrs. Howland was dressed very prettily indeed. Martin gave a long whistle.

“I say, Little-sing,” he remarked, “whoever has been and done it?”

“What do you mean, James?” said Mrs. Howland.

“Why, the place,” said Martin; “it looks sort of different.”

“Oh, it’s Maggie,” said Mrs. Howland. “She went out and bought all those cakes for you herself.”

“Bless me, now, did she?” said Martin. “She’s a smart girl – a ver-ry smart girl.”

“She’s a very clever girl, James.”

“Yes, that’s how I put it – very clever. She has a way about her.”

“She has, James. Every one thinks so.”

“Well, Little-sing, give me a good meal, and then we’ll talk.”

Mrs. Howland lifted the teapot and was preparing to pour out a cup of tea for Mr. Martin, when he looked at her, noticed her extreme elegance and grace, and made a spring toward her.

“You haven’t give Bo-peep one kiss yet, you naughty Little-sing.”

Mrs. Howland colored as she kissed him. Of course she liked him very much; but somehow Maggie had brought a new atmosphere into the house. Even Mrs. Howland felt it.

“Let’s eat, let’s eat,” said Martin. “I never deny myself the good things of life. That girl knows a thing or two. She’s a ver-ry clever girl.”

“She is, James; she is.”

“Now, what on earth do you call me James for? Ain’t I Bo-peep – ain’t I?”

“Yes, Bo-peep, of course you are.”

“And you are Little-sing. You’re a wonderfully elegant-looking woman for your years, Victoria.”

CHAPTER XIV.
IN THE PARK

Mrs. Howland did not like to have her years mentioned. Mr. Martin had been careful never to do so until Maggie appeared on the scene. On the contrary, he had dropped hints that his birdling, his Little-sing, his Victoria, was in the early bloom of youth. But now he said that she was a wonderful woman for her years.

Mrs. Howland bridled slightly. “I am not old, James,” she said.

“Come, come,” said the good-natured grocer; “no ‘Jamesing’ of me. I’m your Bo-peep. What does it matter whether you are old or young, Victoria, if you suit me and I suit you? This is a first-rate tea, and that girl’s clever – uncommon clever. By the way, how old may she happen to be?”

“Sixteen her last birthday,” said Mrs. Howland. “I was very, very young, a mere child, when I married, James.”

“There you are with your ‘James’ again! Strikes me, you’re a bit huffy to-day, Little-sing.”

“No, I am not; only I’ve been worried since Maggie came back. She was so rude to you yesterday. I felt it terribly.”

“Did you now? Well, that was very sensible of you. We’ll finish our tea before we begin our talk. Come, Little-sing, eat your cake and drink your tea, and make yourself agreeable to your Bo-peep.”

Mrs. Howland felt cheered. She did enjoy her meal; and, if she liked it, Mr. Martin liked it immensely also.

“What a useful girl that would be!” he said. “We could make her housekeeper at Laburnum Villa in no time. She has a head on her shoulders.”

Mrs. Howland was silent. She was dreading inexpressibly the little scene which she felt must be endured between her and her intended.

“We’ll ring the bell now,” said Martin, wiping a few crumbs from his mouth and dusting his trousers with his pocket-handkerchief. “We’ll get Tildy to remove all these things, and then what do you say to my taking you for a drive to the Park?”

“Oh, I should like that!” said Mrs. Howland in surprise,

“Thought so. Never say that Bo-peep isn’t thoughtful. – Ah, here you be, Tildy. You clear away – smart, my girl, and then whistle for a ’ansom. Do you hear me? A ’ansom, not a four-wheeler. Look as sharp as you can, my girl, and I’ll give you sixpence.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Tildy. She looked with admiring eyes at the pair who were so close to the matrimonial venture, and quickly removed all traces of the meal.

“Now then, Little-sing, go into your room and get dressed for your drive.”

Mrs. Howland did so. She put on an elegant sort of bonnet-hat which had been presented to her by Martin, a lace fichu over her shoulders, and a pair of long white gloves. She had also been presented with a white parasol by Martin. He thought that no one could look more beautiful than his ladylove when she reappeared in the drawing-room.

“The ’ansom’s at the door,” he said. “We’ll go now and start on our drive.”

Mrs. Howland rose, and Tildy agreed with Martin as to Mrs. Howland’s appearance when she stepped into that hansom. Tildy said she looked bride-like. Mrs. Ross remarked that as elegant women before now had become widows in no time. Tildy shuddered, and said that Mrs. Ross should not say things of that sort. Mrs. Ross replied that she invariably spoke the truth, and then returned to her dismal kitchen.

Meanwhile Martin and Mrs. Howland were driven swiftly in the direction of Hyde Park. London society people were fast going out of town, for it was very nearly the end of July; but still there were a few carriages about, and some fine horses, and some gaily dressed ladies and several smart-looking men. Martin provided a couple of chairs for himself and his future wife, and they sat for some little time enjoying the fresh air and looking on at the gay scene.

“It is wonderful,” said Martin, “what a sight of money is wasted in this sort of thing.”

“But they enjoy it, don’t they?” said Mrs. Howland.

“Yes, my pet,” he replied, “but not as you and me will enjoy Laburnum Villa. And now, Little-sing, can you attend to business?”

“I have a very weak head for business, Bo-peep,” was the reply.

“Don’t I know it, my pet; and I am the last person on earth to allow you to be worried; but I tell you what it is, Victory, if your head is weak as regards money matters, your girl has a topping good brain in that direction. Now, I have a notion in my head about her.”

“You can’t do anything with her,” said Mrs. Howland; “she is quite impossible. I never thought she would treat you as she did. I could weep when I think of it. I shouldn’t be surprised if, on account of her rudeness and ingratitude, we broke off the engagement. I shouldn’t really, James.”

“What do you take me for?” said James. “It isn’t the girl I want to marry! it’s you.”

“Oh dear!” said Mrs. Howland; “of course, I know.”

“She ain’t a patch on you, Little-sing – that is, I mean as regards looks. But now, don’t you fret. If you have been turning things over in your mind, so have I been turning things over in my mind, and the sum and substance of it all is that I believe that girl’s right after all.”

“Right after all! But dear, dear James, the child can’t live on nothing!”

“Who said she was to live on nothing?” said Martin. “Don’t tremble, Little-sing; it’s more than I can stand. I have been thinking that a sharp young miss like that wants a bit more training. She wants breaking in. Now, I’ve no mind to the job. I can manage my shop-people – not one of them can come round me, I can tell you – but a miss like your daughter, brought up altogether, I will say, above her station, is beyond me. What I have been turning over in my mind is this, that a year or two’s training longer will do her no sort of harm.”

“Oh!” said Mrs. Howland. She was trembling exceedingly.

“I think, too,” continued Martin, “that Laburnum Villa might not be agreeable to her at present; and if it ain’t agreeable to her she’ll put on the sulks, and that’s more than I can abide. Cheerfulness I must have. My joke I must be allowed to make. My fun in my own way I must enjoy. You and me – we’ll hit it off splendid, and let the girl go for the present.”

“But she must go somewhere,” said Mrs. Howland.

“Good gracious, my lady! do you suppose I’d allow the girl to be destitute? No; I’m ready to do the generous; and now, I’ll tell you something. You mustn’t blame her too much. She repented of her ill-natured manner last night, and came to me as pretty as you please this morning, and asked me to breakfast with her. I was taken aback, but she came round me, and we went to Harrison’s and had a topping meal. Then she spoke to me very sensible, and explained that she wanted more ‘parlez-vooing’ and more ‘pi-annofortying,’ and all the rest of the so-called ladies’ accomplishments. She consulted me very pretty and very proper indeed; and the long and the short of it is that I am willing to allow her forty pounds a year for her education at that blessed Aylmer House where all the swells go, and to keep her there for two years certain; and I am willing, further, to give her twenty pounds a year to spend on dress. Of course she takes her holidays with us. Then, if at the end of that time she turns out what I hope she will, I will make her an accountant in the shop; it will be a first-rate post for her, and I am sure, from the way she talks, she has a splendid head for business. Now, what do you say to that, Little-sing?”

“I say there never was your like, Bo-peep.”

Mr. Martin rubbed his hands. “Thought you’d be pleased,” he said. “The girl spoke very proper indeed this morning, and she is a good girl – plain and sensible, and I couldn’t but take notice of her words. Now then, s’pose we take a fresh ’ansom, and hurry home; and I’ll take you out and give you a right good bit of dinner, and afterwards we’ll go to the play.”

“Oh dear!” said Mrs. Howland, “you are good to me, Bo-peep.”

CHAPTER XV.
TWO SIDES

Mrs. Ward’s school reopened on the 20th of September. For two or three days beforehand the immaculate and beautiful house was being made, if possible, still more immaculate and still more lovely. The window-boxes were refilled with flowers; the dainty little bedrooms were supplied with fresh curtains to the windows and fresh drapery for the beds.

Mrs. Ward herself arrived at the school about a week before her pupils made their appearance. She had much to settle during this week. She had, in short, to prepare her plan of campaign for the ensuing term: to interview her different masters and mistresses, to consult with her resident English governess (a charming girl of the name of Talbot), to talk over matters with Fräulein Beck, and to reassure Mademoiselle Laplage, who was very lively, very conscientious, but at the same time very nervous with regard to her own powers. “Les jeunes filles Anglaises sont bien capables et bien distinguées mais – ma foi! comme elles me fatiguent les nerfs!” Mademoiselle Laplage would say; and, although she had been at Aylmer House for three terms, she always doubted her powers, and made the same speech over and over again at the beginning of each term. In addition to Miss Talbot, there was a very cheery, bright girl of the name of Johnson, who looked after the girls’ wardrobes and helped them, if necessary, with their work, saw that they were punctual at meals, and occasionally took an English class. She was a great favorite with all the girls at Mrs. Ward’s school. They called her Lucy, instead of Miss Johnson. She was quite young – not more than twenty years of age.

These four ladies resided at Aylmer House; but masters and mistresses for various accomplishments came daily to instruct the girls. Mrs. Ward loved her teachers almost as much as she loved her girls, and they each and all adored her.

Miss Talbot was an exceedingly clever woman, close on thirty years of age. She had taken very high honors at Cambridge, and was a person of great penetration of character, with a genius for imparting knowledge.

Unlike most head-mistresses, Mrs. Ward seldom changed her staff of teachers. She had the gift of selection to a marvellous degree, and never was known to make a mistake with regard to the choice of those women who helped her in her great work of education.

Summer was, of course, over when the girls assembled at Aylmer House. Nevertheless, there was a sort of afterglow of summer, which was further intensified by the beautiful flowers in the window-boxes and by the fresh, clean, fragrant atmosphere of the house itself.

The two Cardews and the two Tristrams came up to Aylmer House by an early train. Mr. Tristram brought them to school, Mr. and Mrs. Cardew at the last moment feeling unequal to the task of parting with their darlings in the presence of their companions. The real parting had taken place the previous night; and that pain which Merry had felt at intervals during the end of the summer vacation was sharp enough to cause her to cry when she lay down to sleep on the night before going to school. But Merry was brave, and so was Cicely; and, although Merry did hate beyond words the thought of not seeing her beloved father and her dear mother until Christmas, she thought also that very good times were before her, and she was resolved to make the best of them.

Molly and Isabel, who were quite accustomed to going to school, had no pangs of heart at all when they bade their mother good-bye. As to Peterkins and Jackdaw, as they were also going to school on the following day, they scarcely observed the departure of their sisters, only saying, when Belle hugged one and Molly the other, “What a fuss you girls do make! Now, if Spot-ear and Fanciful were to fret about us there’d be some reason in it. But mother’s going to look after them; and mother’s a brick, I can tell you.” The girls laughed very merrily, and asked what message her two adorers would like to send to Maggie.

The two adorers only vouchsafed the remark, “Don’t bother; we’re going to be with boys now, and boys are worth all the girls in creation put together.”

The journey to town was taken without any special adventure, and at about three o’clock in the afternoon an omnibus containing the four girls, accompanied by Mr. Tristram, with their luggage piled on the roof, stopped at Aylmer House.

Aneta had already arrived; and as the girls entered with a new feeling of timidity through the wide-open doors they caught a glimpse of Maggie in the distance. There were other girls, absolute strangers to them, who peeped for a minute over the balusters and then retired from view. But, whatever the four strangers might have felt with regard to these interesting occurrences, every other feeling was brought into subjection by the appearance of Mrs. Ward on the scene.

Mrs. Ward looked quite as stately as Mrs. Cardew, with her beautiful face still quite young; with her most kind, most gentle, most protective manner; with the glance of the eye and the pressure of the hand which spoke untold volumes of meaning. Merry felt her loving heart rise in sudden adoration. Cicely gave her a quick, adoring glance. As to Molly and Isabel, they were speechless with pleasure.

“You have come, dears,” said Mrs. Ward. “Welcome, all four! – These are your girls, Mr. Tristram” – she singled out Molly and Isabel without being introduced to them. “I know them,” she said with a smile, “from their likeness to you. And these are the Cardews. Now, which is Cicely and which Merry? Ah, I think I can tell. This is Merry, is she not?” and she laid her hand on the pretty girl’s shoulder.

“Yes, I am Merry,” replied Meredith Cardew in a voice which almost choked her.

“And you, of course, are Cicely,” said Mrs. Ward. “In this house all the girls speak to each other by their Christian names; and you will be Cicely and Merry to me, as Molly and Isabel Tristram will be Molly and Isabel to me. You know Aneta, of course. She is hovering near, anxious to take possession of you. Go with her, dears. I think all my girls have now come. – Is it not so, Miss Talbot?”

“Yes, Mrs. Ward,” replied Miss Talbot.

“Miss Talbot, may I introduce my four new pupils to you, Cicely and Merry Cardew, and Molly and Isabel Tristram? – You will have a good deal to do with Miss Talbot, girls, for she is our English teacher, and my very great friend.”

Miss Talbot blushed slightly from pleasure. She said a gentle word to each girl, and a minute afterwards they had, so to speak, crossed the Rubicon, and were in the heart of Aylmer House; for Aneta had seized Merry’s hand, and Cicely followed immediately afterwards, while Molly and Belle found themselves one at each side of Maggie Howland.

“Oh, this is delightful!” said Maggie. “We have all met at last. Isn’t the day glorious? Isn’t the place perfect? Aren’t you in love with Mrs. Ward?”

“She seems very nice,” said Molly in an almost timid voice.

“How nice Merry and Cicely look!” continued Maggie.

“You look nice, yourself, Maggie. Everything is wonderful,” said Molly; “not a bit like the school in Hanover.”

“Of course not. Who could compare it?” said Maggie.

Meanwhile Aneta, Cicely, and Merry had gone on in front. But as they were ascending the broad, low stairs, Merry turned and glanced at Maggie and smiled at her, and Maggie smiled back at Merry. Oh, that smile of Merry’s, how it caused her heart to leap! Aneta, try as she would, could not take Merry Cardew quite away from her.

Cicely and Merry had a bedroom together. Two little white beds stood side by side. The drugget on the floor was pale blue. The room was a study in pale blue and white. It was all exquisitely neat, fresh, airy, and the smell of the flowers in the window-boxes came in through the open windows.

“Why,” said Cicely with a gasp, “we might almost be in the country!”

“This is one of the nicest rooms in the whole house,” said Aneta. “But why should I say that,” she continued, “when every room is, so to speak, perfect? I never saw Mrs. Ward, however, more particular than she was about your bedroom, girls. I think she is very much pleased at your coming to Aylmer House.”

Cicely ran to the window and looked out.

“It is so nice to be in London,” she said; “but somehow, I thought it would be much more noisy.”

Aneta laughed.

“Aylmer House,” she said, “stands in the midst of a great square. We don’t have huge traffic in the squares; and, really, at night it is as quiet as the country itself.”

“But hark! hark!” said Merry, “there is a funny sound after all.”

“What do you take it for?” asked Aneta.

“I don’t know,” said Merry. “I could almost imagine that we were by the seaside, and that the sound was the roar of the breakers on the beach.”

“It is the roar of human breakers,” said Aneta. “One always hears that kind of sound even in the quietest parts of London. It is the great traffic in the thoroughfares not far away.”

“It is delightful! wonderful!” said Merry. “Oh, I long to know all the girls! You will introduce us, won’t you, Aneta?”

“Of course; and you must be very quick remembering names. Let me see. You two, and Molly and Isabel, and Maggie Howland, and I make six. There are twenty girls in the house altogether, so you have to make the acquaintance of fourteen others.”

“I never can possibly remember their names,” said Merry.

“You will have to try. That’s the first thing expected of a schoolgirl – to know the names of her schoolfellows.”

“Well, I will do my best.”

“You had better do your best; it will be a good occupation for you during this first evening. Now, are you ready? And shall we go down? We have tea in the refectory at four o’clock. Mademoiselle Laplage presides over the tea-table this week.”

“Oh, but does she talk English?”

“Of course not – French. How can you learn French if you don’t talk it?”

“I shall never understand,” said poor Merry.

“Well, I’ve no doubt she will let you off very easily during the first few days,” said Aneta. “But afterwards she is just as particular as woman can be.”

The girls went downstairs, where a group of other girls – most of them wearing pretty white dresses, for they were all still in full summer attire – met in the wide, pleasant hall. Aneta performed the ceremony of introduction.

“Henrietta and Mary Gibson, may I introduce my special friends and cousins, Cicely and Meredith – otherwise Merry – Cardew?”

Two tall, fair, lady-like girls responded to this introduction with a hearty shake of the hand and a hearty welcome to the new-comers.

“Here is Rosamond Dacre,” continued Aneta, as a very dark, somewhat plain girl appeared in view. – “Rosamond, my friends and cousins, Cicely and Merry Cardew.”

Rosamond shook hands, but stiffly and without any smile. The next minute a laughing, merry, handsome little girl, with dark-blue eyes, very dark curling eyelashes, and quantities of curling black hair, tumbled rather than walked into view.

“Ah Kathleen – Kitty, you’re just as incorrigible as ever!” cried Aneta: – “Girls, this is our Irish romp, as we always call her. Her name is Kathleen O’Donnell. – Now then, Kathleen, you must be good, you know, and not too terribly Irish. I have the honor to present to you, Kathleen, my cousins Cicely and Merry Cardew.”

Kathleen did more than smile. She laughed outright. “I am delighted you have come,” she said. “How are you? Isn’t school glorious? I do love it! I have come straight from Glengariff – the most beautiful part of the whole of Ireland. Do you know Ireland? Have you ever seen Bantry Bay? Oh, there is no country in all the world like it, and there is no scenery so magnificent.”

“Come, Kitty, not quite so much chatter,” said Aneta. – “Ah, there’s the tea-gong.”

The girls now followed Aneta into a pleasant room which looked out on to a small garden. The garden, compared to the great, sweeping lawns and lovely parterres of Meredith Manor, was insignificant. Nevertheless, with the French windows of the refectory wide open, and the beds full of hardy flowers – gay geraniums, late roses, innumerable asters, fuchsias, etc. – it appeared as a fresh surprise to the country girls.

“It isn’t like London,” thought Merry.

At tea she found herself, greatly to her relief, at Maggie’s side. There was also another piece of good fortune – at least so it seemed to the Cardews, whose conversational French was still almost nil– Mademoiselle Laplage was unexpectedly absent, the good lady being forced to remain in her room with a sudden, overpowering headache, and pleasant, good-natured Lucy – otherwise Miss Johnson – took her place.

“Perfect freedom to-day, girls,” said Miss Johnson.

“Ah, good Lucy! thank you, Lucy!” exclaimed Kathleen.

“That’s right, Lucy! Hurrah for Lucy!” cried several other voices.

“No discipline at all to-day,” continued Lucy. “School doesn’t begin until to-morrow.”

Cicely was seated near Aneta, with Kathleen O’Donnell at her other side. Just for a minute Aneta’s eyes traveled across the table and fixed themselves on Maggie’s face. Maggie found herself coloring, and a resentful feeling awoke in her heart. She could not dare to oppose Aneta; and yet – and yet – she was determined at any cost to keep the love of Merry Cardew for herself.