SALLY COCKSURE (continued 3)

"Sally has gone and jammed her foot again. She says it's nothing, but even leaning on my arm, I could hardly get her into the drawing room."

"I told you so," said Cecilia triumphantly, as Mrs. Brendan rose from her chair and hastened to the house.

"And you are jolly glad she has done it, aren't you?" said Roger, in an angry voice, as he turned to go. "You've changed into a nice sort of cad since you stuck your hair up, Cissy."

He flew off, leaving Cecilia with the tears smarting in her eyes—tears of self-pity at the way in which she was misunderstood.

"Mother has no idea how trying Sally can be," she told herself, and perhaps Mrs. Brendan had not. What she realised was that Sally had altered very considerably during the weeks she had been at school. She was distinctly less cocksure and talkative—restless, in a nervous, rather than an energetic sense—and with little of her old careless joy in the mere fact of being alive.

It was as if she were on the defensive the whole time against criticism she dreaded, whereas criticism before had made little or no lasting impression.

In those days, her frequent "I don't care!" had rung true, while now, it was obviously bravado.

"She is unhappy," said the mother to herself, but Sally was in no mood to make confidences. She felt it would be impossible to tell anyone, even Roger or Miss Castle, how Trina Morrison's silence had hurt her. Surely she could have sent a line—even a mere note—to say she was sorry about the sprained ankle, and that she was looking forward to next term?

"Rotten luck!" said Roger sympathetically, as he caught sight of his sister's expression. They were seated in the schoolroom, to whose couch Sally had been banished, to rest the ankle, swollen again after its new twist. For the moment, as their eyes met, she thought of confiding in him what was really paining her.

He knew a little about Peter's adventures, and had condescended to be quite thrilled over their daring; but when it came to the point, she could not bring herself to do it. Roger could understand a damaged foot, but the idea of a broken heart, as Sally conceived her own to be at the moment, would seem to him mere "girl's gush."

"Yes—it is rotten," she said. "But, of course, I shouldn't have played 'Bumble-Puppy.' I never meant to—only Cecilia went on at me so about our hopping race on the lawn before breakfast, and then I felt I must do something worse."

Roger nodded.

"Cissy is a grandmother, but you do rag her rather a lot, you know. If I cheeked Bob like that he'd black my eye."

"Oh, shut up about Cissy, can't you?"

Sally was furious in a minute at the implied reproof, and Roger, with a noble effort at keeping the peace, walked to the window with his hands in his pockets and stared out in silence.

"What shall we do this afternoon, Sal?" he said, at last. "Look here, I'll go to the village and get some grub, and we'll have a brew of toffee on my Tommy cooker."

Sally shook her head.

"It's the Cartwrights' tennis party, and Cissy is driving the motor over."

"Well, Bob and Fraser can go—I don't want to, a bit. There'll probably be tons of grown-ups and nothing for us to do."

(Fraser was a school friend of the elder brother, stopping with the Brendans for part of his holidays.)

Sally's heart warmed to Roger in a sudden glow of affection. He had just bought a new tennis racquet, and she knew he was secretly longing to use it.

Hadn't Fraser, who was nearly seventeen, and quite "hot stuff" in the tennis line, said he had improved a lot lately?

"Nonsense!" she said sharply. "Of course you'll go. Why, I have all the new library books—and writing of my own to do too. I am always so thankful I can amuse myself."

"Honest Injun—do you mean it?"

Roger's expression was very doubtful. Condemned to half-an-hour of his own society, he would have welcomed a little conversation, even with the vicar, on cuneiform writing. On the other hand, he did want to play tennis at the Cartwrights' very badly. They had three courts, and, apart from the tennis, their teas were good, while the people they collected were usually an amusing crowd. It was bad luck for Sally not being able to go, of course, but if she didn't really mind being left, he would enjoy it.

His eyes told his sister what was passing in his thoughts, and she laughed as she said:

"No—I don't really mind a bit—in fact, your staying here would only make my foot feel worse; so don't be an ass, but go, and when you come back I'll want to know all about everybody."

"Rather—and I'll bring you an ice in my pocket."

He grinned cheerfully, and hurried off to change into his flannels.

Sally tried her best not to mind, as, her lunch over, she watched the motor disappear down the drive, with Roger waving his racquet in farewell from the dicky.

"After all, as Cecilia says, it's my own fault," she muttered with a grimace, and read novels until she fell asleep, to dream that she was riding Autolycus on a merry-go-round, with a clown pulling at her foot to make her pay sixpence.

"But he's my own dog," she expostulated, and found it was tea-time, and her mother was lighting up the kettle.

"So after I'd been to the bank," said Mrs. Brendan, who had evidently been talking for some minutes, "I called on those new people—the Meyers—and as they were out, and the vicarage was so close, I dropped in there for a little chat."

"If I gave you sixpence for every time you went to the village without dropping in at the vicarage, you wouldn't be very rich."

Mrs. Brendan laughed deprecatingly.

"I know you don't like Mrs. Musgrave, my dear, but her old age suits mine, and we have always plenty to talk about. Who do you think is arriving to-night to stop with her, by the way?"

"A black missionary," said Sally crossly.

"No," said Mrs. Brendan, "I don't think they have ever had a really black man—there was one from Borneo who was very dark.... I remember once, but——"

"Well, who was it, then—a yellow one?"

Sally knew she was being rude, but with an aching foot and head she felt thoroughly bored, and out of sorts.

"No, of course not, dear, but that young cousin of hers—the girl at Seascape House—Violet Tremson. I said I couldn't remember your mentioning her name very much in your letters."

Sally laughed rather bitterly, and pushed her cup across the table.

"Violet Goody-goody," she said. "No thanks, she's not in my line. Quite as dull as any missionary. She ought to suit the Musgraves."

"Sally!"

Mrs. Brendan's tone was so indignant that her daughter was driven to say "Sorry." Then, with a shrug, she returned to her novel-reading, and the silence was scarcely broken till the tennis party appeared.

Roger was in high spirits. His racquet had played splendidly, and he and a girl called "Bouncer,"—he thought her right name was Barbara Something-or-other—had got five games in a set against Fraser and Miss Cartwright.

Sally listened wearily for a quarter of an hour to a detailed account of each stroke, and then said she was going to bed.

"I'll give you an arm to your room," said Roger affably. And then, "Oh, snakes! I nearly forgot. That girl—what's her name,—you told me of, was there."

"What girl what's-her-name?"

"Peter—you know—Morrison, wasn't she? The Bouncer kid she came with called her Trina, and it wasn't till we were nearly going I twigged who she must be."

"What, Peter Morrison at the party? And you mean to say you didn't speak to her?"

Sally's eyes were shining now with mingled anguish and excitement.

"Keep your hair on—that's just what I did. It took some nerve too, for she was playing mostly with the grown-ups. Fraser had one set with her, and was fearfully 'smit'; but he said she wasn't much use at the game—more with her eyes, you know."

"Then he's an ass—for she's awfully good when she chooses."

"Perhaps she didn't choose. Anyhow, I'm only quoting what Fraser said; but the point is that I nerved myself up, walked over to her, and said—'I say—-I think my sister's at school with you?' and she drawled, 'Was she?"

"Yes—she would—she often drawls—she doesn't mean anything by it."

Roger laughed.

"You bet she does, sometimes. Awfully cheeky ass she made me feel—then I said, 'Her name's Sally Brendan, and she's got red hair.'"

"You didn't? How could you, Roger? And what did she say?"

"Goodness! do let me get it out. She laughed, then looked quite friendly, and said—'Had red hair, you mean, or has it grown again already?' Then we both laughed, and..."

"And didn't you ask her to come and see me, you cuckoo?"

"Course I did, though she's stopping with the Bouncer kid, whose people we don't know—they live right over t'other side of Clinton. Anyhow, I said you were laid up, or you would have been at the party, and that you'd like it no end, if she'd turn up."

"And what did she say?"

"Oh, usual stuff about being ever so sorry for you, and, of course, she'd come if she could; but she had only a couple of nights more before she went home, and the Bouncer lot were being hideously active about planning dances and things."

"And didn't you pin her down for any day or time?"

"How could I, kid?—I jolly well did my best, but the Bouncer youth—he's at Sandhurst—would keep telling her the car was ready, and glancing at me as if I were a grasshopper he'd like to stamp on. And Cecilia was shrieking at me across the drive, to buck me up—In the end, your Peter friend said, 'Your sister's calling you, isn't she?' so I had to toddle."

Sally clasped her hands together to hide that they were trembling.

"Of course she'll turn up some time," she said. "To-morrow I expect."

"Yes," said Roger, stoutly, "of course—-bet your boots she will!" But his tone lacked any real conviction.

CHAPTER THE SIXTEENTH DISILLUSIONMENT

Sally waited indoors all the next day, her eyes almost glued to the schoolroom windows, from which she could watch the drive. Part of the time she pretended she was interested in the motor bike which Bob and Fraser had brought from the local shop, and were testing as a possible purchase. Roger and the mechanic stood on the grass at the edge of the gravel sweep, and gave their opinion at intervals; and when it seemed important enough, Roger would shout comments to his sister, using his hands as a megaphone.

"Some day we'll have one, Sally, and go touring," he said enthusiastically, when he appeared at last, to get ready for lunch, his hands black with oil.

"That thing down there is no earthly—not properly geared, and only a two-stroke—but I have my eye on just the right sort of fellow—brand new too, and quite cheap—just look here." And he produced a well-thumbed paper out of his pocket.

Sally read the advertisement and studied the diagrams languidly. At the minute she had no wish to ride a motor cycle and admitted as much, when Roger at last took her to task for not listening to him.

"A Rolls Royce, or an ambulance car would be more in my line," she said gloomily, to which her brother responded:

"Rotten luck, old girl, I know, but cheer up."

"Why should I?" demanded his sister, sulkily; and Roger, looking awkward, scratched his head with an oily hand.

"Oh, I don't know, but grousing doesn't help things," he blurted out at last, to the rage of Sally, who had believed herself rather heroic in concealing her depression.

"Do get out, and leave me in peace," she said, and Roger went.

After tea they were reconciled, and played card games until Sally decided that she was tired, and would have her supper in bed, as she had done the night before. This time she said nothing about Trina Morrison, when she wished her brother good-night, and he stood fidgeting awkwardly in the doorway, before he at last volunteered:

"She—Peter, you know—said there were races to-day in the Clinton direction. I expect she would have to go to them. Staying with people like that she would have to do what they did, wouldn't she?"

"Yes," answered Sally, in a hard voice. And then again, as an evident bar to further conversation, "Good-night."

"Most likely she'll come to-morrow. Anyhow, so long, kid," and Roger vanished.

To-morrow came, and sped on its way, and there was no sign of Trina Morrison. Sally's foot was better, but she looked so white and depressed that Mrs. Brendan became quite anxious.

"I know she has something on her mind. I do wish she would confide in me," she said to Cecilia, who sniffed rather indignantly.

"Well, Sally doesn't talk to me—only to Roger—and he is like a hedgehog these days—it's no use asking him anything. Anyhow, let us go for a family picnic this afternoon in the car, and insist on Sally coming. Bob and Fraser can carry her downstairs, though she could really manage quite well with her stick."

"I'll talk to her," said Mrs. Brendan, her face brightening; but Sally refused even to consider the idea.

"I'm much happier here. I won't be done good to by Cecilia—I do wish people would leave me alone."

"Much the best thing to do," growled Bob, who was not so sympathetic to Sally these holidays as usual. "If we took Miss Whine-and-Pine, she would probably turn the milk sour."

"Shut up," muttered Roger, and Mrs. Brendan told him not to be unkind; but the situation by this time was past mending. Sally, when pressed once more by her mother to go in order to please her, became not only angry, but defiant.

"I shan't stir from the house, and I wish you'd all clear out and leave me," she said. "It's simply sickening the way one can never get away from one's family."

"Sally!" Mrs. Brendan was really hurt, but could win no apology. Her daughter's shoulder remained turned to her, while there was sulky silence.

"Come away, Mother," said Bob. "There ought to be a limit to what even you'll stand from Sally," and he drew her out of the room after firing the parting shot at his sister, that "tons of people had their legs cut off in the War and never made the fuss she did over a twisted ankle."

"It isn't only her ankle, ass," said Roger—and would have remained behind to give some comfort but for Sally's expression. There were times when she was best left alone, and this was evidently one of them.

Getting on his bicycle, he rode to the village, and in the sweet-shop where he was buying chocolate almonds, Sally's favourite delicacy at the minute, he encountered Mrs. Musgrave.

"They aren't all for me," he muttered, scenting criticism in her glance at the large bag. "They're for Sally—she's laid up, you know."

"H'm ... invalid diet, I suppose?"

The twinkle in her eye contradicted her grim manner: for Mrs. Musgrave liked boys, and discovered a belated sense of humour when talking to them.

Roger got very red, as he answered gruffly, "It's nothing wrong with her inside—no disease, I mean. Just she has twisted her ankle again."

"Oh, poor Sally!" Mrs. Musgrave no longer bore her a grudge now that she had been sent to school on her advice: and then she called out, "Come here, Violet—this is Sally Brendan's brother Roger. I expect she has mentioned him to you."

"I don't think she has, but I'm glad to see him."

The introduction to Violet Tremson was made, and Roger, after the first blush, proffered his bag of almonds, and became quite confidential as they walked to the door munching. "Sally's off colour a lot, you know," he said unhappily. "I can't tell what's wrong—some school row—and she doesn't seem to have hit it off there—I mean—not to have many friends, exactly...."

"No, not very many."

The tone was non-committal, but the smile that accompanied it friendly and encouraging.

Mrs. Musgrave was deep in conversation with a parishioner about a choral practice, and Roger, after a quick glance at her over his shoulder, went on:

"Sally's a decent kid. She talks an awful lot—but any amount she doesn't mean—and underneath she's as sporting as anything."

"I know," said Violet Tremson.

Roger beamed. "I thought you would when I saw you. Perhaps you'll be looking in on her? We've got a family picnic this afternoon, and she can't come—at least, she doesn't want to. Her foot is giving her awful pain, and besides——"

He stopped, hesitating whether he should mention Trina Morrison, but decided not to do so. For one thing, he could only remember her as Peter, and felt it would be cheek for him to refer to anyone so grown up, by a nickname. Violet Tremson was also hesitating.

"You know, I don't think Sally would want to see me."

"Oh, what rot! It would cheer her up."

At this moment Mrs. Musgrave turned in their direction, and he said hastily, "Have another almond choc., do." As Violet Tremson helped herself, she murmured:

"Don't say anything to Sally about meeting me, will you?"

"Right oh!"

He looked rather surprised, and stared after her and Mrs. Musgrave as they went down the street. Girls were queer creatures and he didn't understand them—not even Sally. At any rate, he liked this one better than Peter-what-was-her-name, in spite of her fine clothes and scent, and if Peter didn't turn up—(he was ready to bet his boots she wouldn't)—this Violet might do instead.

After all, they both belonged to Seascape House, and could talk its "shop" to Sally—which was probably what she wanted.

His face grew smiling, as he pedalled slowly home on his bicycle, considering the matter, and priding himself on his tact.

Sally was astonished when the afternoon came, and he did not offer to stop with her. He was never very keen on family picnics, and she made certain that he would insist on keeping her company, if merely to annoy Cecilia. On the whole, she was relieved when she heard he was going, and Mrs. Brendan as well.

"Thank Heaven, I shall have the house to myself," she said, loud enough for Bob to hear, to which he responded amiably:

"The absent household won't miss you, my good kid."

She did not sit up on her couch to watch the motor disappear down the drive, but settled herself amongst her cushions instead, to write a poem, which bore a strong resemblance to one of Henley's that she had just been reading, about "an unconquerable soul." It was not even a good imitation, she was honest enough to admit when she read it through at tea-time, and tearing it in half she lay face downwards on her cushions and surrendered to self-pity.

Miss Castle had said friendship was what really counted at school, and here was a friendship wrecked—the only thing which had mattered to her life.

"Miss Sally—there's a young lady wants to speak to you—shall I show her up?"

Sally sat up with a start, threw the rug off her couch and tried to smooth down her shaggy hair.

"A young lady? What's her name? Where is she?"

"In the drawing-room, miss—and she didn't say who she was—only that she thought you'd know."

"Of course! Of course!—give me my crutch, Amy."

Amy tried to expostulate. "I'm sure you oughtn't to go downstairs with that bad ankle. What the Mistress will say—— But," as she added afterwards to the kitchen, "I might just as well have spoken to a whirlwind for all the notice she took."

Her crutch under her arm, Sally cleared the space to the door in a few quick jumps, and was soon fumbling her way down the stairs. On the last step she slipped, and had to lean her weight for a moment on her bad foot. The pain made her wince and catch her breath, but a few minutes later, as she entered the drawing-room, she was smiling.

"I knew you would come, Peter," she said, and then stopped dead, because it was not Peter, but Violet Tremson.

"You?" she said, her voice trembling.

"Yes, Sally—I saw your brother to-day, and he said you were laid up."

"He had no business to mention me to you. Why have you come? What do you want?"

Violet Tremson's quick colour came and went. "I haven't come to steal the silver," she said, laughing a little uneasily. Then abruptly, "Do sit down, Sally, you oughtn't to be standing—let me help you," and she went over.

"Don't touch me," said Sally fiercely. "I never asked you to come. Why do you pursue me in that horrible sort of way? Can't you take an answer when it's given you? I told you on the cricket pitch I never wanted to speak to you again."

Violet had gloves in her hand, and she measured them against the edge of her jumper before she spoke—very deliberately:

"I'm sorry. You were angry that day—and I knew Trina had put you against me—I hate keeping up a grudge, so I thought——"

"Even keeping up a grudge against Peter?" broke in Sally, with a sneer.

"Yes—even against Peter," said the other tranquilly, "I don't mind her now she's gone."

"Gone? What do you mean?"

Violet Tremson had been walking to the door: now she paused.

"Didn't you hear?" she said. "How odd—I—I thought you were together that night. She went to a dance, and stayed away, so she has been expelled."

For a minute she thought Sally was going to fall, but as she took a step towards her, the younger girl pulled herself together and caught at a bookcase for support.

"And you—you goody-goody, I suppose you went to Miss Cockran and told her what a lot of harm Peter was doing directly the row came out—like the sneak you are?"

"Sally, be careful what you're saying."

"Well, did you go to Miss Cockran after the row?"

"Yes—but only——"

"Shut up! That's enough—and get out. I don't want to hear any more. You are the most unspeakable cad, and if you have got any pride, you will leave me alone after this."

Violet Tremson was nearly as white as Sally, and, for a second, her usually smiling mouth was twisted with a very ugly expression.

"I think I have enough pride for that," she said quietly, and stooped to pick up one of the gloves she had dropped. Then she walked out of the room with her back held very straight, and Sally heard the front door close with a jerk behind her.

"I hate her! I hate her! How dared she come!" she said to herself, crouching down in one of the armchairs, but in her heart she was not sure if she did not hate Peter most.

So that explained things—Peter was expelled. She knew she would not see Sally at Seascape House any more, and therefore she had not bothered—even to write a postcard. She had just put their whole friendship out of her life as something that no longer counted. It had been the easiest thing to do, and Peter's comfort had, as always, dictated the line of least resistance.

"Confoundedly selfish," that was what her Uncle Tom had called her, and it was true after all.

"I won't think of her again—ever," said Sally passionately, and picking up her crutch, forced herself to go upstairs. She was very tired, and her foot was aching by the time she reached the schoolroom, but she went over to her desk and picked out the few mementoes she possessed of her friendship—a school snap-shot she had stolen from Mabel Gosson, a scrawled note, a caricature done of herself by Trina, in a schoolbook.

In the grate, she burnt them all, angry tears rolling down her cheeks.

When the picnic party returned, Sally was already in bed with her blinds drawn, and refused either to talk or to eat her supper.

CHAPTER THE SEVENTEENTH THE NEW TERM

Sally spent a couple of weeks in bed after her interview with Violet Tremson, the renewed swelling of her ankle after her journey downstairs being aggravated by a fever, for which the doctor could not account. As soon as she was better, she was sent off, at his suggestion, to stay with her Uncle Frank and Aunt Antoinette in Brittany for a complete change of air and scene.

"But I don't want to go, so what's the use of sending me? I just want to be left alone," Sally had protested sullenly; but somehow, when she saw her uncle's smiling face at Cherbourg and realised that he knew nothing of the cause of her unhappiness, she began to forget it too, and felt comforted.

"Been overworking, have you, Miss Pale-face? So they have cut off your curls to give your brain air—was that it?" he demanded cheerily: and Aunt Antoinette, who had first of all cast glances of horror at her niece's shaggy head, became sympathetic, and offered to see what her maid and the local hairdresser could do towards improving matters.

They did a good deal, and by the time Sally arrived home just on the eve of her second school term, she no longer looked the shorn little ragamuffin of Parchester Fair. She had grown also, and though very thin, had lost something of the irresponsible elfin wildness of which Mrs. Musgrave had so strongly disapproved.

"You will be happier this term, won't you, darling?" asked her mother, a little anxiously, as they stood looking down on the already packed trunk on the last night of the holidays.

"Oh, yes!" said Sally, "I expect so."

Her tone was careless, but she did not meet Mrs. Brendan's eyes, until, hearing a sigh, she looked up suddenly, put her arms round her mother, and hugged her.

"I'm going to make this term a success," she said, almost fiercely. "Don't say anything to Cissy, but just remember that I mean to—whatever happens. I was nearly expelled last term, but this time I shan't run any risks. It's not good enough."

She laughed bitterly, and Mrs. Brendan kissed her. "My poor Sally," she said, "you take things so hardly."

Sally shrugged. "I did—but I shan't in future—I'll just go on in my own way. You know the Miller—'For I care for nobody—no not I—and nobody cares for me.'"

Again she laughed, and Mrs. Brendan looked a little more distressed.

"My dear, but one can't live to oneself only in this world," she began, when Sally cut her short:

"I can," she said impatiently, "and I mean to do it. As long as my work is up to the mark, and I keep the rules, as I intend, there's nothing you need worry about, is there? I won't disgrace you—or even Cecilia."

Once more she was Sally Cocksure—cool and defiant. But Mrs. Brendan, as she kissed her in silence, felt there was a subtle difference between her old attitude and her new. Before, she had been sure of the citadel of her own independence; now, she had learned that she would have to fight for its defence.

Lying in the dark, with her hands behind her head, Sally sang softly to herself that night, the lines she had taken as her motto:

Thinking of it made her eyes shine and her heart beat fast. It was splendid. It meant getting things done as one wanted, as Napoleon did, without being worried by qualms about other people's opinions. Napoleon was Sally's hero at this time, in contrast to Charles the Martyr, who, during the last term, had been the idol of her Form. She remembered with satisfaction how she had outraged public opinion by referring to him in an essay as "the man of straw."

"Strength is the only thing that really counts," she told herself, and the phrase pleased her so much that she repeated it next morning while dressing, and came down to breakfast whistling cheerfully. Fortified by her own courage, she said good-bye with great calmness to her mother at Clinton Station. She had utterly refused to allow Cecilia to go with her, and now she begged Mrs. Brendan to leave her as soon as she had taken her ticket and seen that her box was properly labelled.

"I loathe hanging about for last words, Mummy," she said. "You'll probably want to cry, and that will make me feel softy too—so do let us get it over here. There are crowds of Seascapers on the platform, so I shan't be stranded by myself, or anything."

"I thought I saw that girl—Mrs. Musgrave's niece, you know—I liked her when I met her that time you were in bed ill," and Mrs. Brendan looked round hopefully, but rather vaguely. She did not care for the idea of Sally travelling by herself.

"I daresay you did see her, and perhaps I shall run into her, but I'm not going to be left in her charge, or anyone's—so there!" Sally bumped her suit-case impatiently against a seat, but at that minute she saw Miss Castle in the distance, and hastily leaving her mother, made off.

"One of the mistresses—I'll be all right—so long!" she called out, and disappeared.

The porter, standing close by with her box, grinned.

"Don't you worry, ma'am, she'll be all right—I'll see she don't miss the train."

Mrs. Brendan, presenting him with a shilling, turned back slowly into the town; she remembered that she had some shopping to do for Cecilia. As she went, she sighed. Sally, in the meantime, had indeed run very hard into Violet Tremson, with her suit-case, because she was wondering where Miss Castle had gone, and looking over her shoulder to try to find her.

"Sorry," she said with a scowl, and encountered a cold stare that was so unlike her remembrance of Violet's tranquil friendliness that it made her feel uncomfortable. She could never recall exactly what she had said that evening in the drawing-room, for all she had thought about was her longing to find Peter; and then, when she was disappointed, a desire almost as strong had taken possession of her to hurt the immediate cause of her disappointment and make her suffer a little of her own pain.

"I don't care if I was beastly—do her good—interfering missionary!" she muttered, mindful of Trina's sneers, and came upon Miss Castle as she was seeing a couple of new girls into one of the carriages.

"Keep a corner seat there for me with a book," Sally heard her say, and running up to her, asked:

"Please, Miss Castle, may I get in with you too?"

"Why, Sally,—of course you can—climb in—how's the foot?"

"Better—but I mayn't play hockey this term. Isn't it a shame?"

She got in happily, and as she stood in the doorway, saw two scowling faces watching her. One belonged to Olive Parker, her old enemy of the Shrimps, and the other to a friend, Susy Cranstone, of the Upper Fourth, who had been one of the group that had ducked her in the sea. Susy, for the time being at any rate, "adored Miss Castle"—as she announced on every possible occasion. She had obviously wished to travel in the same carriage as her idol, but had not dared to ask the adored one's leave; and now there was no room for her, as besides Sally and the new girls, there were several quite small juniors giggling together at the far end.

"Silly ass!—why didn't she bag the seat, if she wanted it so much?" said Sally to herself, with great contempt, in her best Napoleonic manner—and settled herself ostentatiously opposite Miss Castle, by shifting a new girl—then fell to reading her magazines till the train started.

To her annoyance, when she arrived at Seascape House and went to take up her old quarters in room No. 9, she found she had been moved. Her cubicle was now in a bigger dormitory, A, on the top floor, at the end of a passage—and her next-door neighbour was no other than Susy Cranstone. Beyond Susy was Frisky Harrison, quite recovered from her last term's measles, and ready to live up to her nickname, to judge by the noise going on behind her curtains—where she was supposed to be unpacking.

"Can't you kids be quiet?" said a voice suddenly, and Poppy Bristow flounced into the room.

"What are you doing—standing about there?" she demanded of Sally, who answered coolly:

"Looking at you. I've only just turned up, and I'm not making a row."

This remark led to further noise and giggles behind the curtains, and Frisky Harrison pushed her head out between them.

"Ah, Poppy, darlint, have pity on me. Sure, isn't it the first day of term?"

(Frisky was not Irish, but she cultivated a brogue for humorous purposes.)

Poppy scowled. She did not seem to have come back in a good temper, and was certainly not amused on this occasion.

"Be quiet," she said. "I want everyone who sleeps in this room to come out here a minute."

There was something so truculent in her manner that complete silence fell, and in a minute Frisky Harrison and Susy Cranstone were standing beside Sally. They were joined by Violet Tremson, from the fourth cubicle in the corner.

"What is it?" said Violet.

Poppy's face cleared slightly. "Oh, I didn't know you were going to be here, Violet—it's these three kids I meant. Now listen, you three. I have got a 'single' at the end of the passage, and Miss Cockran has put me in charge of this room. She says she won't have any of the insub-sub-subordination there was last term, and if I have any trouble I am to report it at once—and I j-jolly well mean to—see?"

As she grew excited she began to stammer, but no one laughed—there was too much grim earnestness in her tone. "All right, Poppy—I didn't mean anything," muttered Frisky at last, in a weak voice; and she and Susy went back soberly behind their curtains. Violet Tremson had already disappeared. Sally was turning into her cubicle with a shrug when Poppy caught her by the shoulder.

"See here, kid—your precious friend has left, and I'll stand no cheek. You've not got a good name at headquarters, so you'd better be careful."

Sally met her glance without flinching. It was with a great effort of will that she prevented herself from smiling contemptuously as she would have liked to do.

"I haven't cheeked you yet, have I?" she asked quietly, and it was Poppy's eyes that fell before hers, as the prefect turned away.

"All the same, it will be difficult not to get into a row with her as monitress," Sally told herself, as she reflected complacently on the triumph of will that had kept her from giving Poppy a handle to abuse her.

How difficult it was going to be she had not yet realised.

CHAPTER THE EIGHTEENTH THE BLOTTED ESSAY

Half the autumn term had gone, and Sally, though she did not mention it in her letters home, found that she disliked her life at Seascape House a great deal more than even when she had been a new girl. It was true that she had achieved her move into the Lower Fifth, where she sat, like an infant prodigy, among her elders; but the change was not to the throne of triumph which she had pictured in imagination.

Violet Tremson was head of the form, and kept her place by a narrow margin, above her friend, Doreen Priestly. It was only on occasions that Sally came third, more often she was fifth or sixth; and though at her age she should have been contented with this position, it did not satisfy her ambition to take the lead and dominate those around her.

What worried her most was that she could not understand her failure to achieve anything for which she worked. To her mother, she wrote that her new Form-mistress, "Old Cheeserings," disliked her; and though this was probably true—for Sally's manners were not endearing towards those whom she herself disliked—she knew in her heart that mutual lack of affection would make no difference in her marks.

The only other explanation was that Sally was still too young to achieve, with her usual ease and quickness of grasp, the standard of work in the Lower Fifth, and this she was not prepared to admit.

"Of course, it is difficult to play a lone hand," she wrote Roger, in a moment of expansion, when she longed for sympathy—even in her brother's almost illegible scrawl—and she added, "Still, you bet I hold some trumps, and will make the most tricks in the end."

She also put "Napoleon did," but crossed this out, for Napoleon had been beaten at Waterloo. He had trusted his friends—people like Bernadotte—and they had betrayed him.

Sally never meant to trust anyone at school again; but though she made no effort to win friends, she would have been glad of a group of admirers—however humble.

In the end, one admirer presented herself—a putty-faced girl, called Catherine Dowl, who had been in the Lower Fifth for years, and was almost as much disliked there as Sally herself—though no one quite knew why.

She had very curly hair, and queer, slanting eyes, that seemed to disappear when she talked, beneath her lazy eyelids; and when she laughed it was noiselessly, so that the only sign was the show of teeth and upper gums.

"The Cat," she was nicknamed, or "Puss Puss," but it was not an attractive member of that much-maligned race that she resembled. There was no Persian pride, or grace, in her, but rather the self-defensive cunning of a persecuted slum tabby.

Frisky Harrison, who had also been moved into the Lower Fifth at the same time as Sally, declared that "Puss Puss" cheated in arithmetic, at which she was very bad, and other members of the Form ostentatiously drew their books away, when she sat near them. She did not seem to resent this, nor was she put off at first when Sally refused to have anything to say to her.

"Your essay was much better than Violet's this week—Miss Cheeseman favours her," she said one day, in the middle of the morning interval. To which Sally, who had been thinking so herself only a minute before, responded:

"Rot!"

She knew suddenly, that it wasn't true.

"You ought to be head of the Form, for you are much more original," went on the girl, in her soft voice. "That's why they don't like you."

"I shall be head very soon," said Sally, flattered, in spite of herself, by a tribute to her powers that quite met her own views on the subject.

"I know—you are the horse for my money, and I have put all I possess on your winning—so mind you do."

The girl laughed noiselessly, and as she spoke seated herself quite close to Sally.

"Tell me what you think of Wordsworth," she said confidentially. "I was watching you yesterday and could see that you didn't agree with Cheeserings."

"It's no use disagreeing with her, is it?"

"No, I should think not—sheer waste of time."

The "Cat" bared her teeth and threw back her head, as though her companion had said something extraordinarily funny.

"But you didn't change your opinion, did you? I expect it is very rarely you change when you have made up your mind."

"Hardly ever," said Sally carelessly, and forgot that she was changing it at the minute. She no longer definitely disliked Catherine Dowl. That day she talked to her in class, between the lessons, and walked up and down the passages with her, indifferent to the contemptuous curiosity of the Juniors.

"They haven't any brains, of course," said the "Cat" tranquilly, when Olive Parker miawed and crowed at them from behind a pillar, and the other shrugged and agreed.

"I don't care a hang, if it amuses their small minds," she said.

"You wouldn't. Have you ever noticed how often really great people have been disliked at school?"

Sally had not, and was glad to have it pointed out. She would remember Shelley.

In the meantime, she was quite prepared to neglect the names of all those who had been both popular and illustrious.

"Anyhow, it doesn't matter, does it?" she said grandly, "I mean being unpopular. Success so often is envied just because it is the thing that counts most."

The next week Violet Tremson was only third, and Sally second, in Form marks. Violet remembered giving in her arithmetic paper, but it had not reached Miss Skalding, the mathematical mistress, while her essay was so covered in blots as to be perfectly unintelligible.

"I can't understand it," said Miss Cheeseman. "It is not like you to be so untidy."

"I ... I didn't make those blots," said Violet slowly. Her eyes were astonished. "I ... I'm sure I didn't," she added.

"Who else could have made them without your seeing them?" asked Miss Cheeseman in an annoyed tone. She had an unfortunately querulous manner; and everyone looked round at everyone else, except Violet, who was turning the pages of her essay with rather a high colour in her cheeks.

Sally wondered if it could be Frisky Harrison; she was often careless with ink, and had a leaky fountain pen which her neighbours dreaded; but her expression was one of obvious innocence. Then the girl looked beyond her, and caught for a moment a rather peculiar gleam in Catherine Dowl's slanting eyes. It was triumph—there was no doubt of it.

So the Cat had done it—Sally knew in a flash—and also that it had not been done for love of her, but in hatred of Violet Tremson.

Putting her evidence rapidly together she could find none direct, but everything pointed to this decision. Peter had once told her, as an illustration of Violet's missionary spirit, that Violet had caught "Puss Puss" cheating and had forgiven her, on promise of amendment.

"Much use to forgive a slimy beast like that," Peter had said. "She should have reported her to a prefect, and got her expelled. She is such a second-rate cad."

In her revulsion of feeling against Trina Morrison, Sally had pushed this judgment into the back of her mind, when accepting the Cat's homage.

"Cheating is silly," she had told herself, and argued that it was therefore impossible; but now, remembering the cunning in Catherine Dowl's eyes, she realised that it was not impossible. What was unlikely, was that the Cat would ever forgive those who found her out.

With a feeling of rising discomfort, she stood in front of the notice-board on Monday morning, and saw her name second, with Violet Tremson's third.

"Congratulations," whispered Catherine Dowl, appearing as usual at her elbow. "Now there is only one more rung for you to climb in this Form."

"Shut up," said Sally fiercely, forgetting wisdom in her indignation. "Violet ought to be first or second, and you know that quite well."

"Ought she?" The Cat raised her eyebrows. "I didn't know. Well, she isn't there, is she?" And she laughed noiselessly.

"I wish she was," said Sally. "I loathe winning anything by underhand means."

"Ah!" said the Cat quickly, and she suddenly raised her usually soft voice.

"Then did you make the blots on the essay?"

"No, I didn't—but you know who did, quite well."

"On the contrary—I quite believed it was Violet who must have done it, as Miss Cheeseman said, until you accused yourself."

Sally glared; but the Cat's slanting eyes merely blinked, without any expression at all in them, as they met hers.

By this time a large part of the Form had gathered round and were sniggering happily at the quarrel.

"Quite amusing when thieves fall out," said Doreen Priestly. "Do come here, Violet. I have never heard anything like it before. The Cocky-doodle says she threw ink on your essay to get above you on the Form List."

"I didn't," said Sally furiously, "I said I hated being above her, just because someone had played a dirty trick."

"Well, who was the someone if it wasn't you?"

Sally looked round the ring of hostile faces; she saw that the Cat had slipped away, and was already seated at her desk, with her head bent over a book.

"I didn't do it," she said sullenly.

"Then who did?" demanded Doreen. "You know something about it—you and your precious friend—or why did you bring up the subject at all?"

The hostile glances shifted for a moment to Catherine Dowl, who looked up tranquilly and then laughed.

"Does Sally accuse me?" she asked. "Then I suppose she has a proof—or else she is in one of her tempers. I am too old to do anything so childishly spiteful—besides, why should I? I'm sure I don't care who is head of the Form, for I know it will never be me."

At this there was a slight titter. Catherine, however much she may have cheated, remained steadily at the bottom of the Lower Fifth. The hostile glances left her, and focused themselves once more on Sally.

"Why don't you own up, kid?" said Doreen contemptuously.

"Because I didn't do it, you fool."

Sally's face was white with passion, and her anger seemed to communicate itself to the rest of the Form. There were shouts of—"You did," "You must have," "Sneak!" "Own up!" when suddenly Violet Tremson, who had been seated unconcernedly at her desk, leaped to her feet and pushing her way through the group called out sharply:

"Shut up, everyone, and listen—it's my essay you are talking about, isn't it? Well, I spilt the ink myself."

There was prolonged silence, till Frisky Harrison said, in an injured voice:

"You told Cheeserings you didn't."

"It's possible to make mistakes, isn't it—even over an essay?"

At this rejoinder there was a roar of laughter—Frisky's mistakes were many, especially in English composition—and most of the girls returned to their desks satisfied, or at least indifferent; but Doreen Priestly remained by the notice-board, looking doubtfully from Violet to Sally.

"A funny sort of mistake, isn't it?" she said quietly. "I believe you are shielding the kid, after all."

"I didn't do it, I tell you," said Sally fiercely. "You may think me a cad, but I'm not that sort."

"Sally didn't do it—I'm not shielding her," said Violet. "Do drop the whole thing—can't you? It's my essay."

Miss Cheeseman came in at this minute, and the subject was dropped; but the scene that had just taken place had two results. First, that to Sally's burden of unpopularity was added a vague accusation of underhand dealing, and, secondly, that an end came to all friendship between herself and the Cat.

This was not Catherine Dowl's fault, as she was careful to point out that afternoon, when she tracked down Sally at last in a deserted corner of the playing fields.

"So it was Violet Tremson's own sin that found her out," she began gaily, as though there had been no words between them.

Sally clenched her hands. "Shut up—and leave me alone, can't you?"

"But why?—I'm sorry if I annoyed you this morning—but really, I have more cause to be annoyed with you, only I know you lost your temper."

"Shut up," said Sally again; and then, as the other raised her eyebrows, "Oh, you know quite well that I don't want ever to see you any more—do go."

"Why, may I ask?"

The Cat's eyes were more slanting than usual, and there was a gleam in their corners that reminded Sally of a vicious ferret, belonging to her brother Bob.

"Because ... because I may be unpopular, and hard up for friends, but I'm not in such want as to be forced to be friends with you."

"Oh—so that's it, is it?"

Catherine Dowl's lip was drawn up till her gum was partly bare.

"You precious little fool," she said, and her smile became a snarl. "You mean you accuse me of blotting that essay and destroying the arithmetic paper?"

"I know you did," said Sally. "I saw the way you looked in class and every minute I've thought it over since I've become more and more certain. Trina Morrison told me you cheated, and Frisky says you do, and I believe them both now, though I wouldn't before when I was trying to like you."

"Perhaps you'd care to report me for cheating then, and bring your proofs with you to the prefects' meeting—they are holding one this afternoon, in the Sixth."

The smooth voice had a snaky ring, and for the minute Sally was frightened. She had spoken impetuously, from the heat of her indignation, and had not thought of proofs—where were they? Just the gleam in the Cat's eyes, as Miss Cheeseman had spoken. It was a very vicious gleam now, and the snarl had changed back into a smile of triumph and malice.

"You'll do it ... of course ... and bring the proofs, eh?"

Sally suddenly forgot her fear. "Very well," she said contemptuously. "Come! I will go to the prefects, and ask them if we can have a trial by ordeal—like in history. I'll say you are a cheat before the whole school, and put my hand in the fire without shrieking to prove it. Will that satisfy you?"

Catherine Dowl's jaw had dropped. "What do you mean? ... I don't understand ... it's childish and silly—what you suggest."

"I prophesy you won't find it silly," said Sally grimly. "Just tell me this—If I accuse you of cheating before the whole school, and you deny it, and I put my hand in the fire, to show I believe what I say—do you think they'll believe you or me?"

The Cat was silent. There was no doubt, with her reputation, which the school would believe. When she spoke again, her voice had its usual flat note of indifference and the snarling smile had disappeared.

"I suppose you are joking—of course, you must be—and so was I. It would be stupid to drag in prefects about our private rows, and I am sure, if you don't want to be friends, I don't. I thought you looked lonely before—that was why I tried to chum up."

"Well, I like being lonely, thanks—so ... good afternoon."

Sally turned on her heel. "Ugh!" she said to herself, and again—"Ugh!" as she thought over her short friendship with the Cat, and ended with a fervent, "Thank Heaven, I never let her kiss me."

CHAPTER THE NINETEENTH MISCHIEF

Sally had now no friends, and had lost her only admirer. She found her work in Form a struggle, and life in the dormitory a severe test of her self-control, for it seemed that Poppy Bristow was ever on the watch to catch her out in some misdeed and punish her.

One night the trouble arose because of beetles in her slippers. Anyone might have been forgiven for shrieking aloud at the discovery made with bare feet; but Sally got 300 lines, as well as having to endure a mocking chant from the next cubicle, as soon as the prefect's back was turned:

and then a faint crow.

There was no doubt who was the real culprit.

A few evenings later Poppy burst into the dormitory, purple with fury.

"My bed!" she said. "An apple-pie! ... Which of you has dared?"

There was a faint giggle from the irresponsible Frisky, and then complete silence.

"Which of you?" demanded Poppy again: and then, "Violet, I know it wasn't you?"

"No."

"Susy?"

"No, of course not."

They each answered "No" in turn, and Frisky whispered, "Perhaps you'll have to go round the school to find out," when the prefect said, in a nasty voice:

"Oh, no, I shan't, for the someone who is afraid to own up has left her gym. belt on my floor, and it has got a tape name. Sally Brendan, is this belt yours?"

"Yes—if it has my name on it."

"How d-dared you come into my room?"

"I didn't."

"You little l-liar!—Why, I have the proof here—complete evidence. You must have done it."

A storm of abuse followed, endured in silence, while Sally considered who the real offender could be, and at last wearily gave up the matter. Perhaps Olive Parker, at the instigation of Susy Cranstone, or it might be the Cat's way of getting even with her—one of her many enemies, at any rate.

"I didn't do it," she repeated, when she could get in a word. "But if you like to think I did—well, I can't help it."

"I know you did it, little brute! Why, I have the proof in my hands—this belt with your name on it. You can just go straight to bed, after supper, for the next fortnight."

This was not a punishment that Sally minded. With any luck, she could read in bed, and at any rate she would escape the loneliness of the evening play hour that she had grown to dread.

"All right," she said, and for the next eight days went upstairs quietly, straight from the dining-room, being apparently asleep when the rest of the dormitory appeared at their usual hour.

One night, however, the spirit of mischief entered into her.

As she came in at the door, she saw, on a chair beside it, Poppy's hockey stick, sweater and cap, as she had carelessly flung them down and forgotten them, in the course of a dispute with Frisky Harrison on the state of her cubicle. Sally was by no means the only person to get into trouble with the prefect.

No one was about: not even Matron, or one of the maids, as Sally tip-toed over, and peered into Frisky's cubicle. It was extraordinarily tidy for once, but when Sally had finished working her will in it, very little of this was left. The bed-clothes, for instance, were in the chest of drawers, whose proper contents lay in little heaps on the floor: the shoes stood in a row on the pillow: the washing-stand was upside down on the bed, and on it Sally piled the hockey stick, jumper, and cap that she had found by the door.

With a subdued giggle of joy at her handiwork she retired into her own cubicle and hurried into bed. Frisky was late coming up: she often barely avoided detection and this night slid into the dormitory like a shadow. The next instant came her shout of surprise and indignation.

"I say, who has done this? Sally Brendan, is it you?"

"Done what? Do go to bed, Frisky, and be quiet." This from Violet Tremson, in a sleepy voice.

"But I can't, you ass. There's every sort of thing on my bed, including my washstand."

"What?"

Susy was soon peering over her partition, and Violet standing in the doorway, staring. They talked so much and so loud that they were speedily joined by Poppy; and last of all came Sally, already repentant of her rashness, but determined to see the thing she had engineered through to its end, even if it meant expulsion.

"You little beast!—you were up here early, so, of course, it's your handiwork," said Poppy, turning and gripping her by the wrist.

"Why me? I've been asleep," said Sally, yawning. "Do let me go back to bed. I thought it was something interesting."

"Very interesting—for me," retorted the indignant Frisky. "When I've got to clear up the mess. It's like your cheek."

"Sally shall clear it, of course," said Poppy. "And to-morrow I report her to Miss Cockran."

"But what proof have you got that Sally did it?" said Violet Tremson, in a cool judicial voice.

"Well, she was up here early, wasn't she? She must have done it."

"Anyhow those aren't my things left behind in the cubicle, and I don't think they are Frisky's," said Sally, pointing to the cap, jumper, and hockey-stick, that lay on the upturned washstand. It was the opportunity for which she had been waiting, and the note of injury in her voice was full of meaning.

"No, of course they aren't mine," said Frisky, examining them, "They are sizes too big. Why, Poppy, they are yours—however did they get here?"

There were a few seconds' silence before the joke that had been played dawned. Then Violet Tremson's mouth began to twitch.

"I'm afraid," she said, "they walked in here of themselves, like Sally's belt into Poppy's room, the other night, or else——"

She stopped suggestively, and Susy, from her seat on the wooden partition, gave a convulsive cackle of joy.

"Or else what? Say what you mean—do," demanded Poppy, whose brain was working, as usual, at a snail's pace; she was obviously uneasy.

"I mean that in another case (of course, you didn't do it, Poppy, we all know that) the clothes would be proof—evidence that whoever they belonged to must have done it."

"Like the belt, the other night," murmured Frisky, her eyes on the floor, to hide their laughter; but Poppy could read it in her attitude, as in Violet Tremson's voice, and Susy's sudden noisy scramble down behind her partition. She had been badly scored, and they were glad, because, though Sally was unpopular, the average schoolgirl likes fair play, and they knew that of late she had not had it.

The prefect's face went a dull purple as she glared from one to the other (Sally had wisely slipped back into her cubicle), then she picked up her things, and said in a strained voice:

"If there's another hoax of this kind, I'll report the whole d-dormitory."

The door slammed behind her, and no one said a word, though Violet and Susy assisted Frisky to put her things straight. That night Sally was happy until she fell asleep, and so, apparently, were the other inmates of her dormitory, for every now and then she could hear them stifle their merriment in their pillows.

The next day she could feel a change in the atmosphere of her Form.

"Ripping score, that of yours last night!"

Sally was so surprised at being addressed in a pleasant tone by anyone, that she looked up speechless at Frisky Harrison, who stood by her desk, grinning. Frisky went on confidentially:

"Bet you that we won't have any more trouble with the 'Poppet' down our way, this term."

"No," said Sally cautiously. The instinct to boast, "Oh, just a little brain-wave on my part," had died away, almost as it was born, and she did not yet know what kind of amiable remark to make instead.

Rather awkwardly, she picked up a book from the floor, and her companion left her; but the incident was significant of the new attitude of her classmates. Friendly they could hardly be called, but she no longer felt a pariah like the Cat, and found herself lending and borrowing books, pencils and indiarubber without any of the cold-shouldering to which she had grown accustomed.

Violet Tremson alone continued to ignore her presence, never addressing her except when compelled, and then with eyes that looked beyond her, as though she were non-existent. Last term Sally would not have minded; now, she wished she had not been so rude and contemptuous in thrusting aside the other's advances.

True, Violet had not the same exciting personality as her once beloved Peter, but, on the other hand, living in Form with her, the younger girl realised that she was neither "dull as ditch water," nor "goody-goody." It may have been that with Trina's influence removed she was able to enter more into the kingdom of good-natured chaff and schoolgirl politics; but at any rate, there was no doubt that Violet had grown immensely in popularity.

This was partly due to her success in games during the autumn term.

Her cricket had been a very medium performance, but swift running and steady nerves put her amongst the best of the hockey players, and from the second eleven she was very quickly promoted to be a forward in the first.

By this time the school as a whole, and not merely her own Form, had begun to take an interest in Violet Tremson. The Upper Fifth and Sixth showed a readiness to draw her into their select circles and ask her opinion, while school weathercocks, such as Mabel Gosson, hastened to worship the rising sun.

It was no surprise to anyone then, save perhaps to Violet herself, when her name appeared on the list of prefects posted up on the school notice-board towards the end of the term.

"That means we are done with 'the Poppet' for good in Dormitory A," said Frisky. "Oh, Violet, I am glad!" Susy clapped her hands, and declared Old Cocaine had more sense than she had given her credit for. Sally alone said nothing aloud. She was not going to "toady to the great," she told herself, in scorn of Mabel Gosson and her kind, but she was secretly thankful for the change.

It would be easy, she guessed, to live with Violet Tremson, who, whatever her private likes and dislikes, was even-tempered and scrupulously fair.

By this time Sally was looking forward eagerly to the holidays, when Uncle Frank had declared he and Aunt Antoinette might be in London and give her a week of theatres and other festivities. The hockey fever that reigned at Seascape House did not touch her, for the doctor still forbade her to play, and she did not care enough for anyone—not even for her Form—to be thrilled over the results of various matches. Her chief pleasure was taking Autolycus for walks, since Miss Cockran, in consideration of her not being able to share in games, and on a solemn promise that she would conduct herself so as not to disgrace the school, allowed her to go out alone with the dog, mainly on one of the back roads leading to a certain Tadiscombe Farm.

"It would be better if there were someone with you," she had said, but did not press the point when Sally, terrified that Catherine Dowl's name might be mentioned as a possible companion, since she also was not strong enough for games, hastily declared everyone was busy, she knew.

"I can trust you to be sensible, can I? And not get up to mischief?" said Miss Cockran, frowning slightly. "It's a very great concession from ordinary rules that you are asking me to make."

"I promise I'll be as good as if you or Miss Castle were with me, and I would just love it, please, if I may? I used to roam the country at home."

"Yes," said the Headmistress, rather grimly, "So I have been told. It is just that kind of roaming—playing practical jokes and breaking through hedges, trampling down corn, etc., that would bring disgrace on the school."

Sally flushed. "Well, I won't do anything of that kind—indeed I won't—I'll just mind Tolly."

Miss Cockran smiled, and her face cleared. "Very well," she said. "And if you try to teach him to 'mind' you, I believe you will have your work cut out. He pays no attention to anyone when he's after rabbits."

"He's a great sportsman," said the girl proudly; "I only wish I had my brother's ferrets here."

"I'm very glad you haven't, or the pair of you would be shortly on trial for poaching. Don't let him chase rabbits more than you can help. Remember, I have lost one dog that way, and this cliff here is a labyrinth of holes."

"Very well, Miss Cockran, and thank you so much."

Sally went off cheerfully, whistling to Tolly, whom she found in the garden. Once the school gates were passed, she was her old self, confident and care-free—and yet, at heart, she knew that she did not hate Seascape House as she pretended.

"If only it was just a little different," she told herself, and added with the natural candour and insight which had prevented her from becoming a hopeless prig, "I expect Roger would say it's I who ought to be different."

CHAPTER THE TWENTIETH GAMES AND TOFFEE

One Saturday morning towards the end of November, Sally woke to a dripping world, on which the rain not merely descended in sheets, but was driven at intervals, in howling gusts, against the windows. Outside, the garden was already a series of ponds, and the sea heaved sullenly on the horizon, its grey monotony of waters only broken by the foam that seethed here and there amongst the rocks.

"Just our luck! No match, of course!" the hockey eleven was grumbling at breakfast, forgetful of all the holidays which had managed to be fine; and Sally, though she did not share their reasons for mourning, was none the less sad.

She had been planning a walk with Autolycus, and instead, she would have to spend the afternoon in a corner of the Fifth Form play-room, watching the rest of the class enjoy themselves. They had lately fixed up a ping-pong table, and were practising for a tournament; but no one had asked Sally or the Cat to join in the games.

When she entered her Form that morning, however, Sally's prospects changed, for she found on her desk an envelope addressed to herself, and inside, a card:

It was obvious that Miss Castle had done as she suggested in the sanatorium last term, and was giving a toffee party. It was just the day for it, and Sally, looking round, wondered who else would be there, and whether they would spoil the fun by being nasty to her if occasion arose.

"I'd much rather have been alone," she muttered, and then felt slightly more cheerful as she heard Frisky shout, "Oh, hurrah! How decent of her," and realised that she was also to be one of the guests. There had been little malice about Frisky of late; instead, a toleration that was on the borders of friendliness; a very pleasant change from the beginning of the term, when she had seemed to share in Susy's enmity, and abet her efforts at causing annoyance.

"I wonder if Violet Tremson will be there as well," was in Sally's thoughts; but Miss Cheeseman came into the room and there was no opportunity of finding out till the afternoon.

Sally arrived rather late (she felt strangely shy), and found the toffee-making already begun; but Miss Castle gave her the saucepan to stir, so she was soon seated on the hearth, comparatively happy, with something to do.

Frisky was acting taster—giving little screams as her fingers dived for sample pieces of boiling toffee which had just been dropped into a glass of cold water.

"Scrumptious!" she said. "It's just like glue." And when this description was received with laughter, she went on to try to say, "Sister Susie's sewing shirts for soldiers," with her mouth still half-full.

Sally looked round her and saw Violet Tremson on the sofa, with Doreen Priestly, and the fat good-natured girl—Decima Pillditch—who had been head of her dormitory during her first term, and was now a prefect, in the Sixth. There was no one there below the Lower Fifth, and Sally could not help thinking how furiously jealous Susy Cranstone would be when she heard of the party afterwards from Frisky.

Susy was in the Remove now—Miss Castle's own Form—but even with this advantage she had not, according to her own version, made much headway in capturing her divinity's affections.

"She hates me—I know she does—and I just do everything I can to please her and make her notice me," Susy had moaned the other evening, flinging herself on her bed. "I think I shall just go out and drown myself."

Frisky, to whom this confidence had been made, but loud enough for either Violet or Sally to overhear, had hardly been conciliatory.

"Don't expect she exactly hates you—just bored stiff with you," she suggested. "Why don't you be a little more cheerful with her?"

"I can't! I just tremble all over when she comes near. I really will drown myself soon, if she's so cold to me."

"In which case, she'd only forget you thankfully, wouldn't she?" Violet Tremson had said. And then, "Why are you such a sentimental ninny, Susy?"

Susy had been deeply offended, and after saying, "I wasn't talking to you, Violet," had relapsed into tears. Sally supposed there would be more tears that evening, for Frisky was not likely to keep silence about the toffee-party, especially if she had enjoyed herself.

The toffee cooked and put to cool, she and Sally, as the two youngest, washed up; and then the party, all formality and ice broken by the sweet-making, settled down to games. At first they were of the intellectual order, "Geography game," "Telegrams," and finally a strenuous "Alphabet List," in which, taking a certain letter, everyone present had to fill in examples that began with it opposite such items as, "a king," "a novel," "a character in Shakespeare," "a vegetable," "the first line of a song," etc.

One of the letters chosen was "A," and Frisky at once distinguished herself by putting down "'aricot" as a vegetable, while Sally made a great score with "Autolycus" as "a character in Shakespeare."

It was just the kind of game in which Sally's memory and instinct for amassing information scored, and, after Miss Castle, she came in a good second.

"Well done, Sally!" said her hostess with a smile, and there was a murmur of quite friendly agreement that made the object of their approbation blush.

Pleased at her triumph, she was also self-conscious, with a horrible feeling that her companions were secretly calling her prig.

"I've played it a good lot at home," she murmured, while Frisky, turning on her stool before the fire, said:

"Of course it's a great game, and all that, but isn't it jolly like a general knowledge paper?"

"Much too like—for near the end of term—I quite agree," said Miss Castle, with a twinkle in her eye. "For the rest of the evening we'll be frivolous. What shall we play?"

They played every kind of silly card game; and after tea, when they had finished the muffins, toasted before the fire, and cream buns from Parchester, they turned out the light, and collecting round the hearth, started on ghost stories. Miss Castle began with several, in order, as she said, to create the right atmosphere, and then Decima Pillditch woke out of her sleepy silence, to describe an old man in eighteenth-century dress, whom her father had once seen, walking across a road, opposite their house, in the moonlight. Violet Tremson followed with one about a Scotch castle, and at last only Sally had made no contribution to the general store.

"It's your turn, kid," said Frisky, whose own tale had been very short, but so involved that she was quite cross for the minute at the number of explanations needed to make it even intelligible. "Perhaps they'll believe you."

"I'm not sure that I know a real one," said Sally, hesitatingly.

"Then make it up," said Miss Castle, looking at her with some curiosity in her eyes. "It will be quite different from ours, that are all second-hand."

"Buck up," said Frisky; and Sally, spreading her hands to the fire, began.

It was a tale of Parchester and Seascape Strand some twenty years back, about a boy, undoubtedly the chimney sweep in Kingsley's "Water Babies," who was wanted by the police for stealing bread. As the author warmed to her task, the boy, in his hunger and loneliness, became quite a pathetic figure, and it was evident his creator could see him, dodging across the heath amongst the gorse-bushes, and finally, as he learned that dogs as well as men were on his track, making for the beach, in the hope of sighting a boat.

"He descended to the shore at Borley Chine and because there was no boat, he went up into the caves and felt his way along the labyrinth of passages, hunting for a refuge."

"Where did he land up?" demanded Frisky. "In old—I mean Miss Cockran's study?" And she giggled.

"Shut up," said someone; and then—"Get on, Sally!"

"He didn't come up," said the girl, with a quick change in her tone. "Have you read 'Marmion,' where the nun and her lover were walled up? Well, it was like that—a lot of stones gave way, and the passage behind him got choked—the police and their dogs couldn't get at him—of course they didn't care to very much, for they'd have had to pay for his feed in prison and the workhouse."

"You mean he died there?" said Miss Castle.

"Yes—he's still there, along with the ghost of Miss Cockran's dog, that was lost down a rabbit burrow. And some nights (All Hallows E'en, and Christmas, for instance) you can see the light of his tallow candle that he had in a bottle, shining out through the Portholes, across the sea. He hadn't the courage to chuck himself down."

There was silence.

"How beastly!" said Frisky at last, in a subdued voice. "He may be prancing under this room now."

"But he was never real," said Miss Castle, smiling. "So we can all sleep happily in our beds without any terror. All the same, it was a good story. Sally, you should work it up for the Magazine."

"Shall I put on the light again?" asked Violet Tremson; and the whole party returned to playing cards until it was time to dress for supper.

Sally had enjoyed herself thoroughly. She was excited by her story-telling, and the general friendliness, so that she believed the wall of ice separating her from her companions was beginning to thaw. At seven o'clock the party broke up abruptly, for Miss Rogers appeared to tell Miss Castle that Miss Cockran had just had bad news—her mother was ill, and she had to go home at once.

"Just think of Miss Cockran having a mother," murmured Frisky to Sally. "Why, she must be nearly one hundred and one herself."

"Silly ass! She's not a bit old, really," said Doreen Priestly. "And look here, Decima, hadn't we all better say 'thanks,' and clear out quickly?"

They did so—except Sally—whom Miss Castle kept for a few minutes, to ask her something about her work. When she left, all the others had disappeared, save for a single figure whom she found studying the notice-board, in the long passage. Sally came up with her, saw it was Violet Tremson, and on impulse, as she recognised her, made up her mind to apologise for her past rudeness.

"Violet, can I speak to you a minute?" she said hesitatingly.

"Yes—what is it?"

The voice chilled her, and it was with an effort she went on.

"I ... I want to say I'm sorry for all the times I've been hateful to you."

There was a pause, but the elder girl's face did not soften. "What has made you want to say it now—or rather, who? Miss Castle?" she asked, still coldly.

"No—of course not—it's just, it suddenly came to me, and I felt I must. I know I was an awful beast."

She would have gone on to excuse herself on the score of her disappointment the evening Peter did not appear, but Violet had already begun to move off.

"Don't bother to explain," she said, looking back. "I'm not worrying over anything you said. The fact is, I'm really quite indifferent to anything about you, because now I've got a good many friends here, and they are enough for me."

Sally stopped quite still. Violet's voice was cold and even, but it was not the snub she disliked so much as the sneer she felt concealed. Violet had not put it in so many words, but what she meant was surely:

"Why do you toady to me now? Just because I am popular, I suppose?"

Before she had walked the length of the passage very slowly, the younger girl was sure of this, and her cheeks flamed. Fear of it had been the only reason that prevented her from apologising during the last three weeks, and now that she had nerved herself to do so, she had been, not only scorned, but shamed.

She did not know that she exactly condemned Violet after the way she herself had behaved in the past. Perhaps her apology, at the moment, looked like toadying; but the bitterness of being suspected of it was almost endurable.

In silence she went up to her room, and found that Frisky, in pure friendliness of spirit, had arranged a booby-trap, of a wet sponge, over her doorway.

As it descended, it shot a stream of water right down her neck, but Sally scarcely noticed. Silently she picked it up, pulled her curtain across the entrance, and sat down on her bed.

"No offence meant," called out Frisky, in a disappointed tone; she had evidently expected a rise to her bait.

"All right—I don't mind—I wanted washing," responded Sally, making a gallant effort to be amused; but her voice was so flat that Frisky quickly turned her attention to Susy in the hope of better sport.

"My word! Toffee and cream buns and toast. Such a spread!" she said tantalisingly, "and if my hair is untidy at supper, and I get lines for it, I shall say it was all Miss Castle's fault."

"Why, she hasn't been stroking it, has she? I couldn't ever forgive you."

"No! you sentimental ninny, as Violet calls you; but we've been telling ghost stories, so now my back hair is going to stand permanently on end."

"Oh! Did Miss Castle tell one?"

"Rather! Several. I say, Susy, did you know there was a ghost of a little boy who was walled up and starved to death, inside Borley Caves, haunting the cellar under this house?"

Susy gave a little shriek of affected alarm. "Oh, I shan't sleep at night. How lovely and horrible! Did she tell you that?"

"No—it was Sally's yarn."

"Then I don't want to listen," said Susy, in a high-pitched voice, evidently meant to carry. "It's sure to be rot, and Miss Castle would never have asked the little beast—only she's such a toady."

Frisky laughed derisively.

"You wouldn't have gone if you'd got the chance, would you, my darling? Oh no!"

At this point a quarrel threatened, and was only averted by Violet Tremson's peremptory order that both parties to it should stop talking at once.

Sally, who was still seated on the bed, remained there, with her hands clenched, repeating to herself what Susy had said.

"Toady!"—there it was again—only, while she didn't mind it from Susy, it was hateful from Violet.

She had almost persuaded herself by this time that Violet had really used the word in criticising her.

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIRST AUTOLYCUS GIVES TROUBLE

Very few at Seascape House, certainly amongst the girls, had been aware of how much personality and influence Miss Cockran possessed, until her ruling hand was removed. While Peter's tongue had dictated her views to the general school public, it had been the fashion to ridicule the Headmistress as a funny old maid, out of date in her educational methods, and only to be obeyed because parents, having paid her their fees, would expect their daughters to try to be patient—at any rate, up to a point.

Not all the elder girls and prefects, by any means, had subscribed to this view, and since Trina Morrison had departed they had more openly maintained that, far from being a back number, the Headmistress of Seascape House was a credit to her profession, and one of the school's chief assets.

"Wonder when she will get back—it is rot her being away now," Sally overheard a voice saying in the hall as she descended the stairs on the fourth day of Miss Cockran's absence. The voice was querulous, and to her surprise Sally saw that it was the usually good-tempered Decima Pillditch who was thus ruffled.

"Perhaps her mother'll die soon," said someone else hopefully, and then, at a shocked remonstrance from the group: "Well, of course, I only meant Miss Cockran would be able to get back quicker."

"Cheeserings is the limit," went on Decima. "There's that shopping party in Parchester, promised on Friday—approved by Miss Cockran and everything—and now her Royal Highness tries to pretend it shouldn't be done."

"Hush!" said another voice. "Here's one of the kids listening—take care."

Sally hurried on her way, trying to pretend she had not been eavesdropping, but really she had been held fascinated by the sudden realisation that prefects are not always in sympathy with those in authority. Decima Pillditch evidently disliked Miss Cheeseman, and the younger girl, who cordially shared this feeling, was pleased. When she arrived in Form, she told Frisky, in an undertone, what she had overheard, and Frisky nodded.

"Too much of the Cheesemonger, and we'd have a revolution," she said, with gloomy joy, and went away to whisper her views to someone else.

No revolution occurred, but it must be confessed that the atmosphere at Seascape House had suddenly become strained. Everywhere, from the Sixth to the Juniors, there was an undercurrent of insubordination, and though the prefects did their best to hold it back, they were obviously half-hearted in their task—like an army employed by the State that is secretly in sympathy with the rebels. Miss Cheeseman, whatever her intention, was not a success as Deputy Head: she had too little sense of humour, and too much conscience in small matters. Insubordination, whether in the form of open defiance or some quite insignificant piece of mischief, she treated with the same rigorous repression, making martyrs of its perpetrators and grumblers of those who listened to their wrongs.

When Frisky Harrison had been sent to bed in the silence dormitory known as "Coventry" for jumping out from behind the gymnasium door to boo at one of her friends, and Cathy Manners of the Upper Fifth deprived of her privileges for eating sweets between classes, there was a general feeling that no one was safe.

"Why doesn't she send the whole school to bed at once, on bread and water?" said Decima, who was still ruffled, loud enough for some of the Juniors to hear. And though Violet Tremson stopped her with a quick: "Best take care, Pilladex," the warning was plainly given in sympathy with the prefect, and not with Miss Cheeseman.

Sally, with a great effort at self-control, avoided any conflict—accepting her Form Mistress's criticisms of her essay without the usual argument in favour of her own views—though on this occasion she would undoubtedly have found popular backing had she done so. It was her terror that if she annoyed Miss Cheeseman the latter would stop her usual walk with Autolycus, and with a beating heart she slipped out of the house that afternoon and went round to fetch him from the stables, where he usually had his dinner.

Fate was against her, for having found Autolycus and started towards the drive, she met Miss Cheeseman walking towards her, with Jakes, the gardener. Since it was impossible to vanish into space, Sally smiled ingratiatingly, and tried to pass unnoticed; but with a movement of her hand the Deputy Principal stopped her.

"Where are you going, child?"

"I'm just exercising Autolycus—Miss Cockran always lets me."

Miss Cheeseman frowned. She had been told a great deal lately of what Miss Cockran did or did not approve, and even to her calm temperament it was somewhat galling.

"Indeed," she said coldly, "and where are you going?"

"Along the road, and then up the lane towards Tadiscombe Farm."

Jakes, who had been listening, and never liked to be shut long out of any conversation, now spat on his hands by way of introducing his remarks, and said:

"It's wildish country up there."

"What do you mean?"

"There do be a lot of poaching along them gravel-pits that b'long to Squire Pearson, and gypsy fellows, they say, about."

"I've never seen a gypsy, and I don't go in the gravel-pits," broke in Sally indignantly, and made an effort to pass.

"Stop, Sally," said Miss Cheeseman, firmly; "I daresay there are no gypsies, but I think it most undesirable that a child of your age should wander about the lanes alone."

"But I shan't be alone, I've got Tolly—he'd bite anyone who attacked me."

"Yes, Miss, and perhaps, it may be, anyone who didn't; skinned my fingers, he did, the last time I was washing him—the little mongrel!"

"It must have been your fault then," said Sally rudely. She disliked the gardener, who seemed to regard all school-girls as his natural enemies.

"Be quiet, Sally, and don't speak in that tone. Understand, I will not have you going out alone. Who is there that doesn't play games? Let me see——"

"I don't know." Sally looked very sullen. Really, she remembered the Cat quite well, and, to her annoyance, so did Miss Cheeseman. A passing Junior was ordered to find Catherine Dowl at once. In the meantime she began to talk about vegetables to the gardener, and Sally, after she had vainly tried to protest against the suggested companionship, was told to be silent and keep the whining Autolycus from walking on the beds.

Presently Catherine appeared, and Miss Cheeseman told her briskly that she and Sally Brendan might go for a walk as far as Tadiscombe Farm, but that they were not on any account to enter the gravel-pit, or wander from the road.

The Cat looked no more pleased with the suggestion than Sally had done.

"Must I go? Quantities of prep.," she mumbled, and was told that the right time for preparation was after tea. Next, it appeared, she had a cold coming, and had meant to stay indoors.

"It would be much better to take a brisk walk, than sit over the playroom fire," said the Deputy Principal firmly; she disliked the Cat as much as any of her companions, but had a secret theory that a little more regular exercise would make her healthier in mind as well as body.

"Now, no more excuses," she said at last. "If you have a cold, Catherine, you can go to Matron as soon as you get in, and I will tell her to give you a dose of cinnamon and another to-night."

Sally could almost have laughed at the Cat's expression, only she was so cross herself.

"Come on—it's no use arguing," she said in an undertone, and presently they set out.

"You'd better be back by 3.30," called Miss Cheeseman after them, but they pretended not to hear, and went on sulkily down the drive. When they reached the road Sally said:

"Look here, I didn't ask you to come, so it's not my fault—and you didn't want to thrust in, so it's not your fault; and I don't see that we need walk together. I'll go in front with Tolly, and you do what you like."

The Cat nodded. She had been muttering all sorts of angry epithets about Miss Cheeseman ever since they moved out of earshot.

"I wish you had set the dog on her," she said. "Then we'd be quit of her for a bit. He looks as if he'd got sharp teeth," and she edged away. She did not like animals.

"You wouldn't mind if he was shot for doing it, I suppose?" returned Tolly's indignant mistress. (In her heart she had never quite parted with the ownership.) "Besides, she's so tough, I expect he'd die in the attempt."

Whistling to him, she set oft at a brisk pace, soon leaving her companion far behind—and for a time thoroughly enjoyed herself—but when they reached Tadiscombe Farm her troubles began. Autolycus, it seemed, had not remained uninfluenced by the spirit of insubordination at Seascape House. Pulled out by sheer force from his favourite rabbit burrow, he barked indignantly at his mistress as soon as he was released, and made straight for the pond where a family of geese were disporting themselves.

There is safety in numbers, and the geese cackled so loudly, and made such a flapping with their wings, that Autolycus, to avoid them, hastily plunged through a hedge—but only to get into further mischief. To judge from the sounds that now ensued, there was a farmyard beyond the hedge, and by the time Sally, jumping a gate and crossing a field, had arrived there, all was in confusion. Pigs ran grunting, this way and that, hens flew cackling to the shelter of the barn, the farmer's wife, trying to head off the intruder, had stumbled and fallen, and now sat on some very dirty cobbles, clasping an empty basin.

"I'm very sorry—very, very sorry," said Sally. "You see he's only a puppy."

"He's a dratted nuisance," said the woman, "that's what he is. Made me spill all these scraps I was taking to the hens, and I wouldn't be surprised if he'd killed one of them. You call him off at once, or I'll summons you."

Sally did not enjoy the next quarter of an hour—for it took her most of that time to secure Autolycus, now thoroughly ashamed and frightened—and the rest to pacify the farmer's wife, who, hunting among the hen-coops, appeared with a dead fowl, and claimed it as a victim of the raid.

"It looks more as if it hadn't had enough to eat," said Sally, who noticed it was very thin. "Perhaps it really died of sickness," but even her courage quailed before the storm this suggestion aroused. Her remark had certainly been unfortunate, and it was not till she produced 5s. 6d. from her pocket and presented it that she was allowed to go, and then only with numerous threats of what would happen if her dog was seen again within the farm precincts.

"Come on, Tolly, you brute, but I'm sure you never touched that fowl," Sally said as she went, dragging him by her handkerchief through his collar, and coming to the gate of the field, she saw Catherine Dowl leaning against it watching.

There was a malicious smile in the corners of her eyes that roused the younger girl's anger to white heat.

"Move, and let me pass, can't you?" she said roughly, and the Cat did so, laughing in her silent way, with her lip drawn back to show her gums.

They walked home as they had come, Sally stalking in front with the now subdued Autolycus, and her companion plodding behind, with sunk shoulders and face turned to the ground.

At the gates Sally paused. "Come on," she said. "We'd better arrive together, or we may be tied hand and foot to one another for the rest of the evening, by way of punishment."

The Cat sniggered. "Don't let that beast of yours bite the gardener," she said. "He'd be sure to be shot then."

"What do you mean? He isn't going to be shot—he's quite a good dog, only he's a puppy—and sometimes excitable."

Again the Cat sniggered, and Sally, stopping in the drive, said fiercely, "What do you mean? Speak out."

"Oh, I meant nothing—just I've never seen him before, except in the grounds, of course, until this afternoon ... he hasn't been exactly good, has he—to-day?"

"I don't believe he ever killed the chicken, if you mean that?"

"You paid some money for it, didn't you?"

Sally was silent for a minute, then she shrugged. "Of course, you'd believe the worst of him you could—but at any rate it's none of your business, so go and drink your cinnamon."

The Cat did not appear to notice the gibe; only when they were parting at the front door she said, with a glance out of the corner of her slanting eyes, "You'd better be careful. If a dog takes to killing chickens, or sheep, I've always heard he can't be cured."

Sally did not trouble to reply. She had noticed the school clock said 3.25, and was determined to take Autolycus for a further run in the grounds before she went in to tidy for tea. It was a strenuous occupation, for Tolly was so thrilled over the numberless rabbit burrows along the cliff that he ran from one to the other, yapping wildly, and covering himself with the sandy mud he kicked up in clouds behind him. His mistress was quite thankful when she had restored him to the stables, and after bestowing an affectionate kiss on his black muzzle, she hastened into the house—her temper largely recovered.

"Sally Brendan, Miss Cheeseman wants you." One of the prefects caught her with this information as she was walking into her class-room for preparation at 5.30.

With a muttered exclamation of annoyance, the younger girl went to the Deputy Principal's study, and knocked.

"You wanted me?" she said briefly.

"Yes. Don't stand by the door as if you were waiting to run away, but come here. I wanted to ask you what exactly happened at Tadiscombe Farm, this afternoon."

"What happened?" said Sally, in apparent amazement—trying to collect her wits. And then bitterly, "I suppose the Cat has been telling."

"If you mean Catherine Dowl, when she went to Matron for her cinnamon, she said enough about the walk to make Matron think it desirable that I should be informed."

"Cad!" said Sally, half under her breath, but sufficiently loud for Miss Cheeseman to grasp its significance.

"Hush, Sally—and remember Catherine Dowl has not blamed you, nor do I—for anything I have heard so far. I consider that dog far too undisciplined to be allowed out alone with anyone so young as you."

"Miss Cockran doesn't think so."

"Miss Cockran is not here."

The Deputy Principal's voice, up to this time, had remained fairly sympathetic; but now it became cold and detached. Bit by bit, she gained the story of the afternoon's adventure, and finally gave her verdict.

"Miss Cockran will, of course, decide as she wishes when she returns, but in the meantime, I do not consider it safe for the dog to leave the grounds at all, nor for you to take him for walks."

"But, Miss Cheeseman, he needs exercise—or——"

"That will do, Sally. Let there be no more argument. It is one of your chief failings."

Sally went out and slammed the door. She was called back, and shut it quietly; then stood making her most hideous grimace at it, only to find Miss Castle's hand on her shoulder.

"Oh, Sally, what an infant you are in some ways!" she said, and passed swiftly down the passage.

It was a galling comment—or would have been from anyone else—but the girl suspected underlying sympathy with her mood, and the heat of her anger cooled. After all, it was more the Cat than Miss Cheeseman who had played a dirty game.