Chapter II: Part 2

"Now, Amethyst, dear, before we go, just sing a nice hymn for Mrs. Robbins," said Mrs. Drury, to her little daughter, who had been a silent spectator so far.

"What might little missy's name be, ma'am?" enquired the old woman, with some curiosity.

"Amethyst," replied Mrs. Drury, with a smile. "An unusual one, isn't it? but her father and I chose it for a special reason."

"'Tis one of the precious stones in the Bible, surely," said Mrs. Robbins; "one of all they long-named things as is going to be in the walls of the golden city."

"Yes, it is a Bible name, and has a special meaning, signifying an abhorrence of the drink which is such a curse to our land. We want our little daughter to grow up to be a true Amethyst. Now, dearie, sing your hymn."

"Shall it be 'There is a city bright,' mumsie? Would Mrs. Robbins like that?"

"Yes, dear, I am sure she would. Come and stand close by me, and sing very clearly, girlie," and Mrs. Drury took one of the white-gloved hands in her own, and held it lovingly while her little daughter's clear, childish treble filled the bare room.

"There is a city bright
Closed are its gates to sin,
Naught that defileth,
Naught that defileth,
Can ever enter in.

"Saviour, I come to Thee!
Oh, Lamb of God, I pray,--
Cleanse me and save me,
Cleanse me and save me,
Wash all my sins away.

"Lord, make me, from this hour,
Thy loving child to be,
Kept by Thy power,
Kept by Thy power,
From all that grieveth Thee.

"Till in the snowy dress
Of Thy redeemed I stand;
Faultless and stainless,
Faultless and stainless,
Safe in that happy land."

"Thank you, my dearie, thank you," said the old woman gratefully, as the last word died away. "And thank you kindly, ma'am, for coming to cheer an old body up."

"I will come again when I can, Mrs. Robbins; meanwhile here is a comfortable loose gown for you to use, either when you sit up again, or in bed, just as you like, and a trifle to buy a few little extras with."

The poor old cripple's dim eyes filled with tears as she saw the nice grey woollen wrapper, and felt the half-crown pressed into her wrinkled palm.

"God bless you, dear lady! God Almighty bless and reward you!" was all she could say.

And, quite understanding, Mrs. Drury gently bade Amethyst open the door, and in a moment more their footsteps resounded along the uneven pavement.

*CHAPTER IV.*

*"I WISH YOU'D BE FRIENDS WITH ME."*

Mrs. Drury and Amethyst walked along silently for a few minutes, each apparently busy with her own thoughts. The former was thinking how best she could aid the poor old cripple she had just left, while her little daughter was pondering over the history of her name. They had reached a more open thoroughfare when Amethyst broke the silence.

"Amethyst is _rather_ a funny name for a girl, don't you think, mumsie?"

Suddenly recalled from a mental calculation in which blankets and beef-tea played a prominent part, Mrs. Drury smiled down at her little daughter. "Do you think so, girlie?" was all she said.

"Well, yes, I do," confessed Amethyst, slowly. "Although the girls at the High School have nicknamed me 'Thistle,' they tease me about my proper name sometimes, and say I might as well have been called Sapphire or Topaz, or one of those long names which begin with a 'C.' I can't pronounce them properly, but you know the ones I mean, mumsie."

"Yes, dear, I know. You mean chrysolite and chalcedony and chrysoprasus," said her mother, with a smile; "but they are very different. Your father and I chose your name because of its meaning, for a special reason, as we have often told you, Amethyst. When we used to live in the East-end of London, where you were born, there was so much sin and sorrow all round us everywhere, caused by strong drink, that we resolved to call you Amethyst, so that you might always be a reminder to us of our promise not to have anything to do with it. And there was another reason, girlie," Mrs. Drury dropped her voice, and spoke softly. "Your father and I have always hoped and prayed, from your very babyhood, that when you were grown up you might become a worker in the noble army of men and women who are fighting, in God's strength, against this dreadful enemy of our beloved England."

"How could I, mother?" Amethyst asked wonderingly; she had never been told so much as this before.

"There are many ways, dear," replied her mother, "in which people can influence those around them in the cause of total abstinence. Some are wanted who can write books and articles; others who can speak in favour of it. But it is early days for us to plan your future, girlie; when you have left school far behind and are quite grown up, it will be easier to see how you can best live up to your name."

"I think I should like to be a speaker," said Amethyst meditatively.

"You are one now, I think, girlie," said Mrs. Drury, with a little laugh. "You know father says you are a regular chatterbox. Now, let us go into Wilson's and get some of those nice scones for tea, and then we must hurry home."

They had just emerged from the confectioner's, and were crossing the road, when Amethyst espied the two Franklyn girls coming towards them.

"There are Olive and Elsa," she said, delightedly; and then she added, persuasively, "Oh! mumsie, do you think they might come to tea with us to-day?"

"Not to-day, darling, I think, because you have all your lessons to do, and there is scarcely time for them to go home and get permission, now. But they might come on Saturday," she added, as Amethyst looked very doleful. "Let us speak to them."

"How do you do, dears?" was Mrs. Drury's bright greeting, as she shook hands with the twins. "How is your mother to-day?"

"Father thinks she is a little better, thank you, Mrs. Drury." It was Elsa who spoke; Olive always deputed her sister to give the latest bulletins of her mother's health.

"I am glad to hear that," said Mrs. Drury warmly; "will you give her my love, and tell her I hope to come and see her very soon? Meanwhile, Amethyst and I are wondering whether she would allow you both to come to tea next Saturday."

"Oh! thank you very much, Mrs. Drury, we shall be delighted to come," said Olive, a ring of pleasure in her tones; they always enjoyed themselves at St. Paul's Vicarage.

"I think we had better just ask first," ventured Elsa, "although I feel sure mother will be very pleased."

"Quite right, dear," said Mrs. Drury, looking approvingly at Elsa, so that she did not see Olive shrug her shoulders disdainfully. "Come early in the afternoon, if you may, so that you and Amethyst can have some fun together in the garden. I hear you have all been moved up," she added, as they began to separate.

"Yes, an awful nuisance, I call it," said Olive; "we shall have no end of home-work to do now. That algebra we did this morning is stupid stuff, isn't it, Thistle? All silly little letters and numbers that don't seem to mean anything. I couldn't make head or tail of it."

"I rather liked it," said Amethyst.

"So did I," admitted Elsa.

"Well, you all ought to grow up very clever women," said Mrs. Drury, with a smile. "I hope you will all do something great some day."

"No fear of that for me," was Olive's nonchalant reply, as Amethyst and her mother hurried on.

"I hope mother will let us go on Saturday," said Elsa, as the twins walked in the direction of home.

"Why, of course she will, you stupid; how often does she refuse us?" cried her sister, snappishly. She had an uncomfortable sense of having lowered herself somehow in Mrs. Drury's estimation, and was not best pleased with Elsa for appearing to correct her before that lady.

"No, she is always so pleased for us to go to the vicarage," said Elsa, wisely refraining from adding fuel to the fire by saying what she might have said; namely, that she had seen Mrs. Drury's look of astonishment when Olive calmly accepted the invitation without any reference to their mother. "We must be quick, now, Olive, or we shall be late for tea; it is just upon five by the post-office clock."

The three girls met again next morning in the Fourth Form cloakroom, where the pupils took off their outdoor garments, and changed their shoes. They had the narrow, partitioned-off room, with its rows of clothes-hooks and pigeon-holes for boots, to themselves, for a moment. But as they were rather late, Elsa, whose division was nearest to Amethyst's, could only just whisper, "We may come on Saturday," before the bell, which summoned them all to their places in the large hall, warned them to lose no time.

Scrambling into their slippers, and hanging hats and coats on their respective pegs, the trio hastened into the hall, and were each in their own particular place by the time the bell ceased clanging: much to Elsa's and Amethyst's delight, as they had no wish to begin so early in the term with a late mark. Olive was one of the happy-go-lucky sort who did not mind a few marks one way or the other.

Indeed, she ran the risk of losing a conduct mark by nudging Elsa, and whispering: "Monica Beauchamp is----" just as Miss Buckingham, the head-mistress, who conducted prayers from a raised platform at one end of the hall, announced the number of the hymn.

But Elsa only smiled, and resolutely turned her head away from Olive, so that the sentence remained unfinished.

Prayers over, and the various notices relative to the new term having been given out, the classes filed into their classrooms, which all opened off the spacious hall, with the exception of the First and Sixth Forms, whose rooms were on the first floor, where were also the studio, music-rooms and others used for various purposes.

There was a friendly rivalry among the girls with respect to the appearance of their own particular classrooms, and they had inaugurated a fund among themselves for decorative purposes, by means of which plants and pictures, etc., were purchased for the adornment of the rooms.

The Fourth Form, by reason of its position, had the best view of all the classrooms, for it overlooked the prettily laid out garden of Miss Buckingham's private house, so that the girls of that form always tried to outdo the others in their decoration of the room itself. And indeed, as the twenty or more girls filed into it that bright May morning, and took their places, each at her own desk, it looked a charming room. Half a dozen pretty engravings, well-framed, and a couple of coloured maps, on rollers, adorned the walls which were painted a pale green; on the dark oak mantelpiece, which matched the door and wainscoting, stood some "Liberty" vases, which the "Decoration Committee" undertook to keep supplied with flowers. Miss Churchill (the Fourth Form governess) had a large desk on a raised platform, from which she could command a good view of all her pupils at once; behind her hung the baize-covered notice board, and at her right hand stood the black-board on its easel. The windows, of which there were three, were, much to the girls' disgust, guiltless of curtains, as such commodities as carpets and window-hangings were not allowed in the classrooms, a large Oriental rug before the tiled hearth being the only covering on the inlaid floor. But the upper parts of the casement windows were filled in with coloured glass, and on each of the deep window ledges stood a palm, or some hardy fern, in artistic pots, so that the appearance was all that could be desired.

There is just one more thing to be mentioned, and that is, that each class had its own motto, framed, and hung over the mantelpiece, where it could not fail to be seen; that of the Fourth Form being _Suaviter in modo, fortiter in re_ (Gentle in manner, resolute in deed).

The mottoes had been Miss Buckingham's gift some few months before, when the girls, for the time being, in each class had chosen their own, by vote, and the idea was still sufficiently fresh to cause a good deal of interest.

"Now, girls," said Miss Churchill brightly, as she seated herself at her desk, "let us get to work at once. We did really nothing yesterday, what with giving out stationery, and drawing up the timetable, etc.; so this morning we must begin in earnest. Divinity is our first lesson."

She was a plain little person, dressed in a blue serge skirt, and blouse of blue and white striped flannel. Her age might have been anything under forty, but as a matter of fact, Mary Churchill had not yet passed her twenty-eighth birthday. Her soft brown hair, guiltless of fringe or wave, was simply arranged, and her broad forehead was suggestive of talent, while her lips spoke of a resolute will. But beneath the commonplace exterior, there beat a warm loving heart, which took a real vital interest in the character of each of her pupils; and it was because of her love for them that, for the most part, the girls of the Fourth Form were devoted to their teacher.

There was an opening of desks, a rustling of Bibles and notebooks, and then the work of the morning began. The period in Scripture that had been chosen for that term's study was the book of Exodus, and the girls grew quite interested as Miss Churchill graphically described the position of the Israelites in bondage.

Elsa and Amethyst, who shared a double desk between them, listened intently, for they thoroughly enjoyed the Divinity lesson always; but Olive paid scant attention. It was far too dry, she thought, to trouble about listening properly, and so her thoughts wandered, first to one thing, and then to another, until she had quite lost the thread of the lesson, and gave up trying to follow it. So she looked about her, to see what the others were thinking, and found Monica Beauchamp's eyes were fixed on her. She was too far away from her to whisper, as she would undoubtedly have done if she could, so she contented herself with smiling and making various grimaces, to show her feelings, when Miss Churchill was engaged with the blackboard.

Monica, who had felt terribly "out of it" the day before, was only too ready to make advances towards this girl who seemed to have plenty of fun in her, and was not a goody-goody like her sister; so she returned the gesticulations with interest.

For a few minutes Miss Churchill noticed nothing wrong, but presently as she looked round from the blackboard she heard a decided titter, and turning in the direction from which the sound came, she saw that one of the girls, Hetty Warner, a quiet, inoffensive child, was endeavouring to conceal her merriment by means of her handkerchief.

"What are you laughing at, Hetty?" she said, somewhat sternly.

"Nothing, Miss Churchill," muttered the girl, as best she could.

"There must have been some reason, and I insist upon knowing it," and Miss Churchill came a few steps nearer to the culprit's desk. A hasty movement between two of the girls did not escape her, and quick as thought she intercepted a small piece of paper which Olive Franklyn was frantically trying to put out of sight.

The girls held their breath as their teacher opened and smoothed out the paper, which Olive had screwed up into a ball rather than hand it up as it was. Those who had been in the form before remembered a similar occasion when Miss Churchill had confiscated a little scribbled note which was being passed along, and the punishment that had been inflicted for such an underhand trick. But that was as nothing to the present scene, for Miss Churchill held aloft, so that all could see it, the paper on which was an unmistakable caricature of herself, in the attitude she assumed when delivering a lesson.

"What a shame!" cried several of the girls simultaneously, but she stopped them with a motion of her hand.

"Who drew this?" she enquired, in a well-controlled voice; but her eyes flashed, and it was evident that she was very, very angry.

For a moment no one answered, and she put the question again, while the girls waited breathlessly; those who were innocent were eager to know who the culprit was. Only two of them looked at all guilty, and those were the Franklyns. Miss Churchill, looking round at all the faces before her, noticed the frightened look of one, and the off-hand, nonchalant air of the other. As yet she scarcely knew them apart, so she enquired of the one nearest to her, who happened to be Elsa: "Did you draw this ... thing?"

A scarcely audible "No" came from Elsa's trembling lips, and Miss Churchill was about to tell her to speak louder, when Olive stood up, and said, in a bold, defiant tone: "Elsa knows nothing about it, I did it," and then she sat down again calmly, to await her punishment.

"You will apologise to me for your rudeness before you go home, and you will copy out a hundred lines of French translation and bring it to me, to-morrow, without a fault, or else I shall show this drawing to Miss Buckingham," was all the teacher said, in very quiet tones; but for once Olive was subdued, and behaved tolerably well for the rest of the morning.

She was greeted with various remarks during the ten minutes' recreation the girls had in the playground. Some of them looked askance at her, and she felt she had made a bad beginning in the new form. But two or three of the troublesome, fun-loving ones complimented her upon the cleverness of her drawing.

"You hither expression to a T!" said Lily Howell, a somewhat vulgar-looking girl, whose slangy expression jarred upon her superiors, but whose well-filled purse made her a desirable acquaintance.

"It wasn't bad," admitted Olive, "but I could have done it a great deal better if I had had time."

"I'm afraid you've done for yourself," said Gipsy Monroe, a dark-eyed girl, with short, curly black hair, as she and Amethyst Drury sauntered by arm in arm.

But, beyond a shrug of her shoulders, Olive took no notice, for all her interest was centred in Monica, who was just coming towards her.

"I say, wasn't it a lark?" was Monica's greeting, as she came near; "but it's hard lines that you should have all the punishment, because I was nearly as bad."

"Oh! I don't care a fig about the copying," said Olive carelessly. "It goes against the grain rather to beg her pardon, but, of course, I shall have to, or there'll be no end of a row, and I only did it for fun."

"Well, you _are_ a jolly girl!" was Monica's admiring reply. "I wish you'd be friends with me."

"So I will," agreed Olive, with alacrity. "I haven't got a real chum, and I should think you and I would get on A1."

"I've never had a girl-friend in all my life," said Monica; "to tell the truth I always thought them rather dull and stupid. I am awfully keen on dogs; do you like them?"

And Olive assenting, a lively conversation ensued, which was abruptly terminated by the sound of the bell recalling them to lessons.

Olive's equanimity appeared to be quite restored as she entered the school door with her new-made friend, but a pitiful little look from Elsa, and a whispered, "How _could_ you, Ollie?" made her feel most uncomfortable, and she seized an early opportunity of going up to Miss Churchill and expressing the contrition that, at the moment, she really felt, for Olive Franklyn was a good-hearted girl, although she was full of fun, and she began to realise that perhaps Miss Churchill had "feelings" the same as herself, and she knew she wouldn't have liked such a trick played upon her.

Something in the honest brown eyes which looked unflinchingly into her own touched Miss Churchill, who had somewhat recovered from the indignation which Olive's treatment of her had roused, and she spoke gently to the pupil who would doubtless prove a "handful" as time went on.

"Very well, dear, I quite forgive you; let us say no more about it. I don't think you will do such a thing again. You have evidently some talent for sketching quickly and boldly; see that you do not misuse your gift."

And Olive, glad to be at peace with her teacher again, made a mental vow that she would be an exemplary scholar from that day forward. But alas! Olive Franklyn's promises were, like the proverbial pie-crust, made to be broken!

*CHAPTER V.*

*"I WANT YOU A MINUTE."*

Monica Beauchamp returned home from her second day at school in high spirits. At last, she believed, she had found a friend, a girl of about her own age, who apparently had tastes somewhat similar to her own, to whom she could talk without restraint, and to whom she could confide all the hundred and one grievances of her everyday life at her grandmother's.

She felt so light-hearted about it that she even condescended to make an affable remark now and again, during the walk home, to the long-suffering Barnes, whom Mrs. Beauchamp insisted should accompany Miss Monica both to and from school, and who had had a sorry time so far. For Monica was so indignant at the idea of requiring a nurse-maid (as one or two of the girls had not hesitated to call the person whom they saw with Monica) that she had vented her spite on Barnes by marching sullenly along without saying a single word.

Barnes, who was accustomed to all sorts of treatment from "that Miss Monica," as she was wont to call her, confided to the other maids over their dinner that school was working wonders in their young lady already, and she wished she'd gone a good bit before.

"Not as I enjoys the constitootional twice a day," she added, "for I can't abear it, and it takes a sight of time. But still, if the missis will have it so----"

"I'm sure I'd just as lief go out a-walking, as tidy up all the rubbidge in her bedroom," sniffed Mary Ann, the under-housemaid, who privately thought herself far more suited to go than Barnes.

"You never need be expecting to, then," replied the maid, with conviction. "You're far too giddy."

"Dear, dear," was the mocking answer, "old maids isn't always the ones preferred!"

"There, that'll do, Mary Ann!" interposed cook good-temperedly; "don't be rude to Miss Barnes." And she adroitly changed the subject.

Meanwhile, Monica was having a _tete-a-tete_ meal with her grandmother in the dining-room upstairs. The old lady had been out the previous afternoon and evening, and so had not had an opportunity of questioning Monica about her first experiences of school life. She proceeded to do so when the parlourmaid left them alone together.

Monica, still happy in the thought of her new-made friend, looked bright and lovable as she sat opposite her grandmother at the lavishly appointed luncheon table; even Mrs. Beauchamp, austere and undemonstrative as she was, felt for the moment a thrill of satisfaction in possessing so handsome a grandchild. But neither her words nor tones gave any indication of such a state of feeling.

"Now give me some account of your school-work, Monica," she said stiffly, as she toyed with a minute helping of orange jelly.

"Oh! I think I shall like it no end," was the girl's off-hand reply, as well as she could between huge mouthfuls of rhubarb tart, which she was discussing with her healthy school-girl's appetite. "It was a bit strange at first, but I chummed up to one of the girls to-day, so I feel quite at home."

"Really, Monica," expostulated her grandmother, "you must not use such expressions; you quite shock me. I do hope they will not allow you to speak improperly at this school." And she sighed voluminously.

"That isn't slang, really, grandmother; everybody says chum nowadays," was Monica's conciliatory reply. "At least, all young people do."

"I do hope you won't grow unladylike, I'm sure. It is doubtful if it was a wise step to send you to such a large school, I am afraid."

"Don't fidget, grandmother," said her grandchild soothingly. "I daresay I shall turn out all right in the end." And she added, mentally: "At any rate, dad, I won't disappoint _you_ if I can help it."

"Well, what about this girl you've made friends with?" continued the old lady helplessly; "who is she?"

"One of Dr. Franklyn's daughters," began Monica, but Mrs. Beauchamp interrupted her.

"Oh! I'm glad you had the sense to choose a professional man's child. Although I don't know much of Dr. Franklyn, I think he is a very respectable medical man. But was there no girl in your own station, Monica, who would have been more suited as a companion for you?"

"I'm sure I didn't give a thought to what her father was," said Monica frankly. "I shouldn't have cared much if he had been a chimney sweep. I've taken a great fancy to Olive Franklyn, and she seemed friendly, so we have agreed to be chums."

"Well, I hope you have not been rash. I must make enquiries about these Franklyns before I can allow you to become further acquainted."

Monica muttered something under her breath, which sounded suspiciously like "What rubbish!" but the look on her grandmother's stern face warned her to be careful, if she would keep her friend.

"I thought Mr. Bertram said the Osmington clergy had daughters at the High School," remarked Mrs. Beauchamp after a pause; "would not one of them have done?"

"I think there's only Amethyst Drury in our form," was the scornful reply, "and I'm sure she's a little prig. She's great friends with Olive's twin sister Elsa, who is just such another as herself, I should think."

Her grandmother inferred from that remark that Monica had evidently chosen a kindred spirit, and she dreaded what might be in store, in the way of added unruliness. But she refrained from saying what was in her mind, and went on to enquire about lessons, and so forth.

Monica gave a very good description of all she had done, with the exception of the caricature episode, and having somewhat ingratiated herself with her grandmother, by repeating a few words of praise that had been bestowed upon her German exercise, she thought it a good opportunity to ask a favour.

"Oh! grandmamma," she said coaxingly, "don't you think I might go without Barnes? It seems so silly for a great girl like me to be obliged to have a maid to walk with me. The girls say nasty things about it, too," she added ruefully.

"I have been considering the matter, Monica," said Mrs. Beauchamp, as she rose from the table, "but I have not decided yet what I shall do."

"Can't I go by myself, grandmother? I'm sure you might trust me."

"I am not so sure, Monica," was the cold rejoinder. "I do not approve of young ladies tearing here, there, and everywhere by themselves, though it may be all very well for girls of the middle classes. I shall probably get a small governess cart, and Richards will drive you in and out."

A drive with the sedate old coachman who had been years in Mrs. Beauchamp's service, and who occasionally "spoke his mind to Miss Monica," was scarcely any improvement on walking with Barnes. But, at any rate, there would be no reason for the girls to ridicule her then. So she made no demur.

"Now, Monica, go to the schoolroom and do some of your lessons, and be ready at half-past-three to accompany me to The Knoll. Put on your cream serge frock, and make yourself as neat-looking as you possibly can, for Mrs. St. Quintin is very particular."

Monica was not over-pleased at the prospect of a longish drive, and drawing-room tea to follow, but even that was preferable to remaining at home alone. So she prepared to do as she was told, and behaved in so exemplary a manner during the rest of the day that Mrs. Beauchamp began to have great hopes from the new educational arrangements.

By the end of the week the governess cart was procured, and Monica was freed from Barnes's espionage. The girls were quick to see the fresh arrangement, and Lily Howell, who had been the one to talk about the nursemaid, was furiously jealous of the smart little turn-out. Her father, a retired soap-manufacturer, was extremely wealthy, and his only and much spoiled child was most extravagantly dressed; indeed, she had everything for which she expressed a wish. But for some unaccountable reason he would not go in for "hoss-flesh," as he called it, preferring to hire a landau from the livery stables when Mrs. Howell wished to drive; so that Lily's pet ambition, which was to drive herself, was not realised. A bicycle she might, and did, have, but she had tired of that, because it was such a "fag"; so that she was dreadfully annoyed when the new girl, with the uppish ways, passed her on her way to the High School, seated in just such a trap as her soul coveted. She made up her mind to vent her spite somehow upon Monica, who took absolutely no notice of her at all, while she was as "thick as thieves" with that Franklyn girl, whose father was as poor as a church mouse.

Now Lily was a sly, deceitful sort of girl, and was by no means a favourite with the others; but she was in the habit of spending money freely, simply because she wanted to show off; so that some of the more greedy girls made a sort of queen of her, and flattered her tremendously on account of the chocolate, and other good things, which she showered upon them. She was so lazy and indolent that she would have been continually getting into trouble with the governesses, had it not been for her little coterie, who managed, by one trick and another, to shield her from exposure; and somehow she managed to pass muster.

On the morning in question she nursed her jealousy of Monica until recreation time came round, and then she found a splendid opportunity, as she thought, of "paying her out."

The usual visit to the housekeeper's room, where the girls could buy various biscuits, and get milk, if they liked, for lunch, having been paid, some of the Fourth Form girls hurried off to secure one of the two asphalted tennis courts, Monica and Olive being among the number. But when they arrived on the scene, it was only to find that the Fifth Form had appropriated them both, and were practising with a view to a tournament which was to take place between the girls of the Osmington and another High School later on.

"Oh, I say! it's too bad of you girls to take both courts," cried Olive breathlessly.

"First come, first served, my dear," replied one of the elder girls condescendingly, as she returned a serve gaily, but so carelessly, that the ball was netted, and her partner groaned, as the umpire scored "forty--love."

"Well, let's have a game of fives, Monica," suggested Olive, as they left the tennis players. But, alas! the fives courts were all filled by then, so there was no amusement left but to saunter about the large playground arm-in-arm, as several of the others were doing, some, like themselves, in couples, and some in school-girl fashion, in strings of four, or even five.

"What do you do on Saturdays, Olive?" said Monica, as they left the tennis players behind them, and strolled round the quieter part of the playground, that nearest to Miss Buckingham's house.

"Oh! all sorts of things. In the summer we have picnics in Disbrowe woods, and sometimes on the river, when my brothers are home."

"You never told me you had any brothers but Pat," said Monica, in surprise. "Are they older than you?"

"Haven't I? Why, yes--Roger, that's the one at St. Adrian's Hospital, is twenty-two, and Dick is seventeen. He's with an uncle of ours who is an auctioneer. They'll both be home in August, and we can have some lovely picnics then, if Mrs. Beauchamp will let you come."

"I expect I shall have to go to the seaside with her again, like we did last year," was Monica's gloomy reply. "She always goes to Sandyshore for a whole month, because it's quiet and restful, she says. It's a hateful little place, _I_ think--no niggers, or band, or anything to amuse you all day long. I do wish we needn't go there this year."

"Oh, dear," sighed Olive lugubriously, "I wish I had half a chance of a month by the dear, darling sea! We are so dreadfully poor that father can never afford a holiday at the seaside for us. At least, we haven't been for years, though we did have a fortnight once, when Elsa and I were about eight or nine, but it is so long ago I can hardly remember it."

"Wouldn't it be awfully jolly if grandmother would let you come with us?" said Monica eagerly.

"If pigs might fly!" was her friend's merry response, as the bell clanging out warned them that "rec." was over.

"Olive Franklyn, I want you a minute."

The girl turned round at the sound of her name, and saw Lily Howell beckoning to her mysteriously from a little distance.

"Whatever does she want? I suppose I must go and see," said Olive, as she slipped her arm out of her companion's. "I'll catch you up in half a minute, Monica."

"All right; I'm glad she doesn't want me. I can't bear that girl."

"Nor I."

Monica went leisurely round the corner towards the entrance the girls generally used; several of them, hurrying past, advised her not to be late.

"I'm just coming," she said, and turned back to look for Olive. There was no one in sight now, except a girl called Maggie Masters, who came flying round the corner in great haste.

"Olive Franklyn told me, if I saw you, to ask you to go back to the tennis courts a minute. It is something particular."

If Monica had been a little more up to school-girls' tricks she would have scented something wrong in the way the girl delivered her message, and then rushed into school. As it was, she hastened back to the tennis courts, only to find the place absolutely deserted, and no trace of Olive anywhere! Feeling sure there was some mischief afloat, Monica retraced her steps hurriedly, determined to find out the originator of the trick. But alas! when she reached the school door it was bolted from within, and rattle at the handle as she would, no one appeared to open it. Growing more angry every minute, she rushed round the playground to the other entrance, only to find that fastened likewise!

Scarcely knowing what to do, Monica was just about to pull the door-bell, when she remembered that the Fourth Form windows were accessible to the playground. She hurried across the small plot of grass, nicknamed "The Square," and by dint of standing on tiptoe could just see into the classroom.

All the girls had taken their places, with the exception of Olive, who was vainly endeavouring to make Fraeulein Wespe understand that Monica Beauchamp must have got shut out. But Fraeulein, who was a very fresh importation from Germany, either could not, or would not understand, so she merely motioned to Olive to take her place, while she ejaculated "Ach, so!" and smiled benignantly.

A hurried glance round the room revealed to Monica that she had been the victim of a practical joke, for Lily Howell and Maggie Masters, who were seated at a desk just under the open window, were engaged in a whispered conversation about her non-appearance while Fraeulein's attention was being taken up with Olive.

"We've put a spoke in her ladyship's wheel, now," whispered Lily, an ugly sneer upon her thin lips.

"Nasty, uppish thing to look down on you, dear!" purred Maggie, who had vivid remembrances of the delicious milk-chocolate she had just been enjoying at Lily's expense.

"I'll be even with them yet," remarked Monica mentally, as she moved to the next window, from which the two conspirators would be unable to see her. Here she rapped loudly on the pane, to attract Fraeulein's attention. That lady was, of course, astonished beyond anything to see one of the pupils still out in the playground, and she began to question volubly in German as to the cause of such behaviour, leaving her desk, as she did so, and walking over to the window.

Now it so happened that Monica was not a bad German scholar, for her age, one of her long-suffering governesses having insisted upon German conversations, and Monica had picked up a very fair smattering of the language during her six months' reign. Therefore she made it sufficiently intelligible to Fraeulein that she had been the victim of a practical joke for that worthy to express pity for the girl who would evidently be one of her best pupils, and, in broken English, she bade some one go and unfasten the passage door.

Olive, of course, was the first to run and do her bidding, and in the second or two they were together Monica learnt that Olive had been decoyed into entering the school by the other door, under some pretext or other, Lily Howell having assured her that she had seen Monica go in the usual way a minute before. Neither of the girls could think of any reason for the trick, except that Olive thought it was "just like Lily Howell."

"She'll hear more about it one of these days," said Monica sententiously, as she entered the classroom, with her haughtiest air, and took her place, without deigning even to glance at the conspirators, who were burning with curiosity to know just how much Fraeulein had been told, and whether any exposure would follow. But as no further notice was taken of the affair, probably on account of Fraeulein Wespe's ignorance of rules, Lily Howell began to feel that her little manoeuvre to get the new girl into disgrace had fallen rather flat!

*CHAPTER VI.*

*"HE WEREN'T CALLED 'SEIZE-'ER' FOR NOTHIN'!"*

The following day was Saturday, and therefore a whole holiday. Monica, who had grown quite accustomed to the new life among companions of her own age, felt quite dismal when she rose in the morning, and remembered there were two long, long days to be got through before she could expect to see any of them again. She fully intended asking her grandmother if Olive might come to Carson Rise (as Mrs. Beauchamp's residence was called) to tea, at least, if not to spend the greater part of the day. But Olive had told her of the previous arrangement that she and Elsa should go to the vicarage (an invitation, by the way, which she now wished she had not been so eager to accept!), so that Monica was compelled to give up her plans for that week.

Whether it was that she missed the wholesome control of school _regime_, or whether, to use a common phrase, "she got out of bed the wrong side" that Saturday morning, it would be difficult to say; but at any rate, things went very much wrong.

To begin with, Mrs. Beauchamp was confined to her bed with a feverish cold, and Barnes came down at breakfast time to say "would Miss Monica please have her breakfast, and then amuse herself as quietly as possible, so that grandmother could get a little sleep, as she had had a very restless night."

Now Monica was not really an unfeeling girl, but being abnormally healthy and vigorous herself, she had scant sympathy with ailing people, and was of opinion that her grandmother coddled herself frightfully. Added to this, she knew that Mrs. Beauchamp had intended driving into Osmington that day, to call on some friends who would be likely to be able to tell her more about the Franklyns, and whether Monica might safely be allowed to mix with them. Now, with this cold, the drive would be impossible, and perhaps several days would elapse before she would get full permission to make a friend of Olive. It certainly _was_ vexing; it almost seemed to the disappointed girl as if her grandmother had caught cold on purpose; and Olive had hinted only the day before that perhaps Mrs. Beauchamp would let Monica come to tea, one day, with them, and the lonely girl was longing to have her first glimpse of real home life, and make the acquaintance of the "Pickle," and see the girls' "den."

And, in her chagrin, Monica, with a hasty movement, pushed the hot water jug roughly out of her way, as she reached after the butter dish, with the result that the silver cream jug, which she had carelessly placed near the edge of the table, tipped over, and spilling its contents on the handsome felt carpet, fell with sufficient force to bend the handle, and to make a very nasty dent in its pretty fluted side.

"Oh, horrors!" ejaculated Monica, "there _will_ be a row!" and she endeavoured to mop up the cream with her serviette, and tried what she could do with the jug.

"I suppose I must ring for Harriet," she muttered, in despair, as the carpet seemed to get worse under her treatment and the jug certainly no better!

Her hasty ring brought the parlourmaid quickly on the scene, and that worthy held up her hands in horror at the dreadful state of the carpet.

"Oh! Miss Monica," she gasped, "whatever will your grandma say? The carpet will be ruined, you may depend. There'll be a nasty looking stain, however much we get it out. That's the worst of these felts," and she hastened away, to return in a moment with cloths and hot water and various remedies for the mishap.

Harriet went down on her knees and applied them vigorously, but an ugly dark patch remained, and, as she seemed to take great pleasure in reminding poor Monica, "it always would." She turned her attention to the cream jug next, but, of course, could do nothing to remove the dent, or straighten the twisted handle.

"Oh, my!" she said; "your grandma will be vexed, Miss Monica, so partikler as she always is about the silver things, on account of their anticwitty, as she calls it. Well, well!"

Poor Monica! How she ached to box the ears of this Job's comforter; and it is to be feared the only motive that she had in refraining from doing so, was that she considered it _infra dig._ of a lady to strike a menial! She had not learnt the lesson "that he that ruleth his spirit is better than he that taketh a city." So, merely shrugging her shoulders, she said not one syllable to the retreating parlourmaid, as she departed with her cloths, and the final remark "that it _was_ unfortunate, the missis laid up, and all."

Monica finished her interrupted meal in gloomy silence, meditating upon the scene that would be enacted later on, when her grandmother was made aware of the mishap.

Having made a bad start, unfortunately Monica thought it didn't much matter now if she got into more trouble. So after lounging about in the schoolroom for half an hour, and finding nothing to amuse herself with, she decided upon a visit to the stables.

She knew very well that in going there she was acting in defiance of her grandmother's expressed wish; but the spirit of insubordination had seized hold of Monica, and she felt absolutely reckless. Old Richards was nowhere to be seen, so she proceeded to enjoy herself thoroughly, by visiting "Belle" and "Beauty," the handsome pair of greys in their loose boxes, and then passed on to inspect the new pony "Caesar," who was fastened in his stall.

She had just leaned over the door, the upper half of which was open, when she espied Tom, the stable-boy, in the harness-room beyond, busy over polishing the harness, and humming a tune.

"Mornin', miss," he grinned, as he touched his ragged cap with delight, and went on with his work with extra briskness. He was a bright little chap of fourteen, only recently introduced into the Carson Rise stables, and he appreciated to the full the magnificent opportunity of "getting on" that the situation afforded.

For Tom White meant to "get on" to the very best of his ability; and even Richards, who was rather grudging of praise, could find no fault in the little lad, who was as willing as willing could be, and took the greatest possible pains over all his jobs.

"Is the new pony all right, Tom?" queried Monica, as she stood looking admiringly at Caesar, as he pawed the ground impatiently, and tossed his silky brown mane. "Will he let me pat him?"

"Better not, miss," suggested Tom, with an elderly air, which sat comically upon his young shoulders. "Mr. Richards, he said this mornin' that he thought he were a bit of a tartar, miss." And Tom put down a piece of harness with evident pride in the high state of polish which his efforts had produced. He was just going to attack another vigorously, when Monica bade him come and unfasten the pony, so that she could see his head better.

"Please, miss, I'd rather not." And Tom came slowly out of the harness-room, but made no effort to do as Monica said.

"Why not, pray? You surely aren't afraid he'll bite you?" said Monica sharply. She had an intense scorn for those who were afraid. "You'll never be any good for a coachman if you're afraid of a _pony_." And her proud young face expressed disgust.

"Please, miss, 'tisn't that a bit," said the boy, his big grey eyes upraised to hers pleadingly; for he was devoted to Miss Monica. "I ain't a mite afraid of 'im, but Mr. Richards 'e said, said 'e: 'Now, Tom, you leave that there pony alone,' says 'e. 'If 'e don't bite, if 'e gits a chance, my name ain't Richards. You may depend,' says 'e, ''e weren't called "Seize-'er" for nothin'.'"

"Nonsense!" said Monica, scornfully, although she was tickled with the man's unconscious pun. "You wouldn't bite me, would you, old boy?" she added to the little chestnut, who eyed her rather maliciously as she entered the stall, and put out her hand to rub his soft brown nose.

"Oh, don't, miss, please don't!" cried the little stable-boy, as he tried to snatch her hand away. But even as he spoke the pony made a grab at the girlish fingers, and Monica realised too late that she would have been wiser to pay attention to the boy's warning, for her hand ached terribly, and there were ugly tooth marks on the palm and one or two fingers.

"You little wretch! You horrid little vixen!" she cried, in pain and anger, as she bound her hand, fortunately the left one, in her handkerchief, and tried to still the throbbing.

The pony, quiet enough now, appeared to take no notice of the epithets she poured out upon him, and Tom stood helplessly by, his very soul in his liquid grey eyes, wishing with all his heart, poor little chap, that it had happened to him instead of to his adored young lady.

"Please, miss," he suggested timidly, "'adn't you better go indoors, and get something to do your 'and good. Shall I run round to the kitchen and tell 'em?"

Monica blessed the warm-hearted little lad for his evident desire to make matters a little easier for her indoors, and gladly assented to his plan.

She was thankful when she reached the house that she was saved the effort of telling what had happened, for she felt a curious sensation all over her, and was seized with a desire to fall into the first chair she came to. Surely she was not going to faint? Monica Beauchamp had never been known to have nerves before!

"Mercy on us, Miss Monica, you do look bad!" cried the kindly old cook, as she called to one of the maids for a glass of water, and sent another for the vinegar bottle. "La, what a nasty grip the little beast give you!" she added, as the handkerchief fell off, and revealed the extent of the damage. "Get a bowl of warm water, Mary Ann, quick!" And in another minute she was gently bathing the injured hand in the water, to which she had added a little Condy's fluid.

"Is that better, miss?" she asked, with kindly sympathy, glad to notice that the colour was returning to Monica's cheeks. She was, perhaps, the only one of all the servants who had any affection for the girl whose coming had upset the even tenor of the quiet household, and whose pranks gave them so much extra trouble.

"Oh! yes, thanks, cook, it doesn't ache quite so horribly now," she said, with a sigh of relief, as the woman bound the hand up in some soft old linen, and Monica prepared to leave the kitchen regions. But when she let her hand fall for a moment, a stifled groan escaped her lips, and she raised it quickly.

"Let me make a sling of this old scarf, Miss Monica," said cook, suiting the action to the word, and hastily improvising a sling from a black and white check tie, which she produced from one of the huge dresser drawers. "It's a mercy the skin ain't broke."

"Thanks," was all Monica could manage to say, for it required all her self-control to keep her lips firmly clenched, the aching was so intense.

"Perhaps Barnes could find some soothin' stuff to put on it, miss," she called after the girl, as she slowly ascended the kitchen stairs.

Monica managed to reach the schoolroom door, where she came face to face with Barnes, who had been in search of her; and she had to tell the maid what had befallen her.

"Dear, dear, Miss Monica," said Barnes, "'tis nothing but a chapter of accidents this morning; the missis so poorly, too. But there, 'tis one consolation the doctor will be here in a few minutes to see her (for she told me I'd better send for him), and he'll soon put your hand to rights."

She spoke more cheerfully than she felt, for Monica looked very unlike her usual self, and she feared she was going to be ill. "Just you have a bit of rest in this easy chair, miss," she said, pushing forward a cosy basket chair, and Monica sank among the cushions with relief. "Why, there's the doctor's gig, I do declare," added the maid, with satisfaction, as wheels sounded on the carriage drive.

The fatherly old doctor, who knew Monica very well, although she had seldom required any of his physic, paid her a visit after he had attended to her grandmother. He examined the bite carefully, and commiserated with her on the unfortunate mishap, but said it was not at all a serious matter. He promised to send some lotion, and told her to keep her hand in a sling, and he hoped in a day or two there would be little more than bruises left.

"But you mustn't go and put your hand into the pony's mouth again, my dear child," said he with a smile, "or you might not get off so easily again. I can't quite understand how it happened yet."

"Oh! it was all my own fault," admitted Monica, frankly. "I was warned that the pony might bite, but, of course, I didn't think he would! In fact, I ought not to have gone into the stables at all." And she looked up saucily into the kind old face bending over her. But the expression in the keen eyes which looked searchingly at her made her lower her own, while something akin to shame filled her heart.