"Ha-chaw! Ha-chaw! Ha-chaw!" issued from the cupboard with horrible distinctness. Miss Poppleton paused for a second, then made an instant dart, and seized the culprit in the very midst of her fourth convulsive gasp.

"Oh, indeed! So it's you, Gipsy Latimer, is it?" said the Principal grimly. "What are you doing here, I should like to know?"

Too much taken aback even to sneeze again, poor Gipsy stood looking the picture of guilt, without volunteering any explanation of her presence in the cupboard. She felt that to do so would only involve her in further difficulties. Miss Poppleton's keen, suspicious eyes seemed to note every detail of her embarrassment.

"You've been out, Gipsy Latimer; it's easy enough to tell that! So you're the one who's been seen every evening in Mansfield Road!"

"Out!" gasped Gipsy, galvanized into speech by the utter falsity of the accusation. "No, indeed! I haven't been out of the house at all."

"It isn't the slightest use denying it," returned Miss Poppleton harshly. "I might have known it would be you. Besides—" (here she began to examine the waterproofs and hats that were hanging upon the hooks), "Oh, you wicked, wicked girl! Here's proof conclusive that you are telling a deliberate untruth! Why, your 'sailor' and your mackintosh are quite wet! Look at them, marked with your name, and try to deceive me if you dare!"

"But, Miss Poppleton, indeed, indeed, you're mistaken!" protested Gipsy with warmth. "If you want proof, look at my shoes—they're not wet."

"You may think you're very clever, but you're not able to blind me! Whose galoshes are these, I should like to know, all muddy and covered with gravel? I suppose you'll pretend your initials are not 'G. L.' Go along immediately to your bedroom. I intend to sift the matter to the bottom. So this is how you repay me for my kindness in keeping you here!"

From Miss Poppleton's point of view the case against poor Gipsy certainly looked extremely black. Apparently she had been caught in the very act of returning from some clandestine excursion, and was leaving her incriminatingly moist garments in the cupboard when she was surprised.

The more the affair was investigated, the more everything seemed to indicate her guilt. The girls who had been present with her at preparation were obliged, much against their will, to confess how she had left the room without Miss Lindsay's knowledge by crawling under the table, and what had been merely a piece of mischief assumed a far graver aspect when coupled with other circumstances. It was really a very serious fault of which poor Gipsy was accused. She was supposed not only to have set the school rules deliberately at defiance by taking a surreptitious walk alone in the evening, but to have shielded herself by the most brazen falsehoods. Remembering how, when she had first come to Briarcroft, she had begged to be permitted to go out, had chafed against the confinement of her life, and had constantly quoted the larger liberty allowed in American schools, Miss Poppleton could easily believe that she would be ready to break bounds if she found a suitable opportunity; and though hitherto Gipsy had been strictly truthful, her previous reputation for honour could not do away with the circumstantial evidence of the damp waterproof and galoshes.

The neighbours who had reported noticing one of the Briarcroft boarders in Mansfield Road on several successive evenings could give no account of the truant's personal appearance. It had been dusk at the time, and they had only seen a girl in a sailor hat with a blue-and-white striped band hurrying rapidly past, as if anxious to escape observation. They thought she had dark hair, and that she must be about fourteen or fifteen years of age, but otherwise could not identify her in the least. The description might or might not fit Gipsy, but Miss Poppleton, misled by her own prejudice, jumped immediately to the conclusion that she and no other was the miscreant. If she had been harsh with the girl before, she was terribly stern with her now. She considered it an act of the very basest ingratitude and the most double-dyed deceit, and was the more particularly angry because the episode had brought the school into discredit. She had always prided herself upon the immaculate behaviour of her boarders, and it was extremely galling to have such an occurrence talked about in the neighbourhood. The reputation of Briarcroft, hitherto above reproach, had sustained a serious blow, from which it might take some time to recover.

"This is what comes of fostering the children of adventurers!" she said bitterly. "I feel as if I had warmed a serpent, and it had turned and stung me for my pains."

"I couldn't have believed it of Gipsy!" sobbed Miss Edith, who, if anything, was even more concerned than her sister, owing to her predilection for the offender.

"You were always much too generously disposed towards her," sniffed Miss Poppleton. "She certainly has not proved worthy of your kindness."

The affair made the most immense sensation in the school. Nothing else was talked of next morning, and the day girls questioned the boarders closely upon every detail.

"Isn't it awful?" sighed Lennie Chapman. "And to think that we had to tell about her!"

"We don't believe she's really done it, though," protested Hetty Hancock.

"It looks bad, I'm afraid," said Mary Parsons, shaking her head gravely. "It's so queer!"

"Very queer for a girl who set herself up to teach other people, like Gipsy," sneered Maude Helm. "What do you think of your precious leader now?"

"Where is Gipsy?" asked Meg Gordon.

"Locked up in the dressing-room next Poppie's bedroom till she confesses, and that she declares she won't do, if she stays there till she dies! We've none of us seen her, of course. We're forbidden to go anywhere near."

"Oh, poor Gipsy! I'm so sorry for her! Whatever did she go and do it for?" wailed Daisy Scatcherd.

"You don't for a second suppose Gipsy's guilty?" said Meg Gordon indignantly. "If you do—well then, you just don't know Gipsy Latimer, that's all!"



CHAPTER XVI

A Friend in Need

MISS POPPLETON, having, as she deemed, successfully detected Gipsy in her misdoings, was determined to force her into making a full confession. The girl's repeated denials she regarded as mere stubborn effrontery, and after several stormy scenes she had locked her up in the dressing-room, to try if a spell of solitary confinement would reduce her to submission. Poor Gipsy, agitated, overstrung, burning with a sense of fierce anger against the injustice of her summary condemnation, had faced the Principal almost like an animal at bay, and defying her utterly, had persisted in sticking without deviation to her own version of the story.

"You'll gain nothing by this obstinacy!" stormed Miss Poppleton. "I'll make you see who is in authority here! Do you actually imagine I shall allow a girl like you to set herself against the head of the school? Here you stay until you own the truth and beg my pardon."

"Then I'll stop here till I'm grown up, for I've told the truth already," returned Gipsy desperately.

She had kept up a brave front in opposition to Miss Poppleton's accusations; but after the key had turned in the lock, and the sound of footsteps died away down the passage, she sank wearily into a chair, and burying her hot face in her trembling hands, sobbed her heart out. She felt so utterly deserted, friendless and alone. There seemed nobody to whom she might turn for help or counsel, nobody in all the wide, wide world who belonged to her, and would defend her and take her part. Everything appeared to have conspired against her, and this final and most crushing blow was the last straw. Gipsy clenched her fists in an agony of hopelessness. "Oh, Dad, Dad! why don't you come back?" she moaned, and the utter futility of the question added to her misery. Outside the sun was shining and the birds were singing cheerily—they had their mates and their nests, while she had not even a relation to claim her. She could hear the voices of the girls as they took their eleven o'clock recreation; each one had a joyful home to return to, and parents or friends who would shield and protect her.

"I've never had a home!" choked Gipsy. "Oh! I wonder why some people are always left out of everything?"

Then she sat up suddenly, for there was the sound of a hesitating footstep in the passage. The key turned, the door opened gently, and Miss Edith, very nervous and excited, entered the room.

"Oh, Gipsy!" she began tremulously, "Miss Poppleton doesn't know I'm here, but I felt I must come. Oh! you poor, naughty, naughty child, why did you do it? How could you, Gipsy? I'd never have thought it possible. Oh, do be a good girl and own up! Miss Poppleton will forgive you if you'll only tell the truth—and you know you ought to! For the sake of what's right, be brave, and don't go on with this dreadful tissue of lies—it's too wicked and terrible!"

Miss Edith's eyes were full of tears. She laid her hand tenderly on the girl's shoulder, and looked at her with a world of reproach in her twitching face. If Miss Poppleton's scolding had been hard to endure, Miss Edith's concern was far worse. Gipsy seized the kind hand, and held it tightly.

"Oh, Miss Edie, I can't bear you to misjudge me!" she exclaimed bitterly. "Indeed, if you only knew, I am telling the absolute, whole truth. Have I ever told you an untruth before?"

"No, Gipsy. But this, alas! has been so conclusively proved."

"But has it? It all rests on my wet waterproof and galoshes. I don't know how they got wet, but I do know that I didn't go out in them, and if I said I did, why, then I should be really telling a falsehood."

Miss Edith sighed with disappointment, and drew her hand reluctantly away.

"I thought I might have influenced you, Gipsy," she said, with a little sad catch in her voice. "I'm not clever like my sister, but you were always fond of me. I can't put things as she does, but I should have liked to make you feel that doing right is worth while for the sake of your own conscience. Oh, you poor misguided child, do think it over, and make an effort! You'll be glad all your life afterwards if you own your fault, and start afresh. I can't stay any longer now—and you've no need to tell Miss Poppleton that I came—but I'll be your friend, Gipsy, if you'll only confess."

She lingered a moment, half hopefully; then, as Gipsy only shook her head in reply, she gave up her useless attempt, and went sorrowfully away. In black despair Gipsy mentally went over the conversation, wondering how she could have convinced Miss Edith of her innocence. She could not allow herself to be cajoled by kindness into a confession of what she had not done, any more than she could permit herself to be coerced by severity. Miss Edith might use gentle persuasion, and Miss Poppleton might try to cow her and break her spirit, but neither should succeed in forcing her to a false admission.

Helen Roper came up at dinner-time with a plate of meat and vegetables in one hand and a glass of water in the other. She slammed them down hastily on the table, with a scornful glance at the prisoner.

"That's all you'll get," she remarked brusquely. "Miss Poppleton says you don't deserve pudding to-day. And quite right, too! Bread and water'd be enough for you, in my opinion. Why haven't you the pluck to face things in an honourable way, and say you're sorry for what you've done? I never much cared for you, but I thought better of you than this. For the sake of the school, do let's have an end of this wretched business! 'Noblesse oblige' has been our motto, and I hoped every girl would have risen to it. Have you no self-respect?"

"Yes—too much to say I've done what I haven't," retorted Gipsy, glowering her defiance.

Helen shrugged her shoulders.

"Miss Poppleton says you're as obstinate as a mule, and she's about right!" she remarked tartly, as she banged the door and locked it noisily behind her. Gipsy was not hungry, so the plentiful supply of meat and vegetables was quite sufficient for her needs, and the lack of pudding was no grievance. Helen's severe censure hurt her desperately. Had the girls all condemned her equally without fair trial, and without sifting the evidence against her? Did Hetty, and Dilys, and Meg, and Lennie, her own particular friends, consider her guilty? Had they no better belief in her honour than that? Had everybody forsaken her? Gipsy pushed her half-finished plateful aside. She was choking too much with sobs to swallow another morsel.

"There isn't a single soul here who cares! I shall have to go away and find Dad!" she exploded in a kind of desperation, standing up and scrubbing her eyes with her wet pocket-handkerchief.

In the meantime Gipsy's friends had not altogether abandoned her, as she supposed. They had been on the alert all the morning to discover some means of communicating with her, though, owing to Miss Poppleton's vigilance, their efforts had so far met with ill success. Any girl found loitering in the vicinity of the passage that led to the dressing-room had been packed off in a most summary fashion, with a warning not to show herself there again under penalty of an imposition. After dinner, however, Meg, who had secret plans of her own, managed to dodge Miss Lindsay, and by creeping under the laurels in the plantation made her way to a forbidden part of the garden which commanded a view of the dressing-room window. Exactly underneath this window stood a greenhouse with a sloping glass roof, and at the corner of the greenhouse there was a long down spout to drain the gutters above. Meg advanced under cover of the bushes with the caution of a scout, and reviewed the position carefully before she ventured into the open.

"I believe I can manage it," she murmured. "My toe would fit into that hole, and I could catch hold of the bracket. I haven't learnt mountaineering for nothing, and if I could tackle that crag on Hawes Fell I oughtn't to be stumped by a gutter pipe. I flatter myself there's not another girl in the school who could do it, though. Between half-past one and two is a good time. Probably no one will be round at this side of the house, but I shall have to risk something, and trust to luck."

The down spout certainly put Meg's climbing powers to the utmost test. It was smooth and slippery, while the footholds in the wall were of the very slenderest. With considerable difficulty she swung herself up, and creeping over the roof of the greenhouse reached the small railed balcony that gave access to the dressing-room window. She peeped in. There was Gipsy, sitting, doing nothing, and looking the picture of disconsolate misery.

"Gipsy!" called Meg, under her breath.

"Hello! It's never you! Oh, Meg, you angel!"

"Don't make such an idiotic noise, but help me in quietly. Mum's the word! How are you getting on here?"

"Come in and I'll tell you. But you'll have to whisk out pretty quickly if we hear Poppie's fairy footsteps in the passage. We must listen with both ears open while we talk."

"Trust me! Oh, Gipsy, we're all so sorry for you!"

"You believe in me, then? How does the school take it?"

"Variously. Some are for you, and some are against. Dilys and Lennie and Hetty of course stand up for you hard, and funnily enough so does Leonora. She took your part this morning quite hotly, and had such a quarrel with Maude and Gladys that she won't speak to them. I didn't think Leonora would have behaved so decently. The Seniors are very dubious, especially Helen Roper."

"Yes, Helen lashed into me when she brought my dinner. She's always ready to think the worst of me."

"Poppie's furious," continued Meg. "She says you're only making your punishment worse by obstinate falsehoods, and she means to make an example of you."

"What's she going to do?" asked Gipsy with apprehension.

"I don't know—she didn't condescend to tell us."

"Look here, I'm sick of the whole business!" said Gipsy bitterly. "I'm not wanted at Briarcroft. Poppie'd be only too delighted to get rid of me. I'm not going to stay here any longer to be ordered about and scolded, and accused of things I've never done. I'll run away. If you can climb up the greenhouse roof, I can climb down it."

"Oh, Gipsy! Where will you go? Come to us! We'd hide you somewhere at home, and Mother wouldn't give you up to Poppie, I know!"

But Gipsy shook her head emphatically. The very fact of the Gordons' kindness made it impossible for her to trespass upon their generosity. She knew that if she were to seek sanctuary at their house, she would place Mrs. Gordon in a most awkward and difficult position, and her natural delicacy of feeling caused her to shrink from such a course. It would be a poor return indeed for their former hospitality.

"No, Meg; it's awfully good of you, but I must go farther away than that. I'm off to Liverpool. Don't look so staggered; I've quite made up my mind!"

"Liverpool! Why, that's miles and miles away! How will you go? And what will you do when you get there?"

"I shall manage somehow to sell my watch. It's a gold one, you know, so it ought to be worth enough to pay my railway fare, at any rate. It belonged to my mother, and I wouldn't have parted with it under any other circumstances than these. Thank goodness I put it on this morning! I don't wear it always. When I get to Liverpool I have a plan. Captain Smith—the captain of the vessel we were wrecked on—lives at a suburb called Waterloo. I'll enquire and enquire till I find the house. If he's at home, it's just possible that he could give me some little hint about my father. Dad might have dropped something in talking to him that he did not tell to me. I believe Captain Smith would help me if he could."

"But suppose he's gone to sea again?"

"That's quite likely. I've thought of that too. Well, I mean to go to some of the shipping offices, and see if they'll give me a post on a South African liner as assistant stewardess. Don't look so frightfully aghast! It's work I could do very well, though it wouldn't be pleasant. I've travelled so much about the world that I'm absolutely at home on board ship. I know all the ins and outs of voyaging, and I'm a splendid sailor, never seasick in the least. I could make myself most uncommonly useful. I'd buy a packet of hairpins and tuck up my hair so that I'd look much older, and I believe they'd engage me, because it's so difficult sometimes to meet with assistant stewardesses. I'm nearly fifteen now, and I'd rather earn my own living like that than stay here at Briarcroft on Poppie's charity. American and Colonial girls are never ashamed to work. When I get out to Cape Town, I'll go to the headmistress of the school where I stopped three months. She was a trump, and I believe she'd help me to find Dad."

So bold a plan almost took Meg's breath away, yet its ambitious daring appealed strongly to her schoolgirl imagination. She had absolutely no knowledge of the world, and the scheme which an older person would have instantly vetoed sounded to her inexperienced young ears not only perfectly feasible, but delightfully enterprising and romantic. She entered into it with enthusiasm, absolutely certain that anything that Gipsy proposed must be right. Having worshipped her friend for so long, she could not believe her idol's judgment would be at fault.

"I'll tell you what we'll do!" she exclaimed. "Let's change dresses! Then if Poppie tries to follow you, it will throw her off the scent. Mine's longer than yours, too, so it will be better for a stewardess."

"Won't they notice it in school? It might give the thing away," hesitated Gipsy.

"It's Drawing the whole afternoon with Mr. Cobb, and he won't know the difference. Quick, or somebody may be coming! Take my hat too. I'll get yours out of the cupboard, or go home without one. None of the girls would tell, and I'll dodge mistresses."

It did not take very long for the pair to effect an exchange of costumes. They were soon arrayed in each other's dresses, an arrangement which was certainly more to Gipsy's advantage than Meg's. They knew there was no time to be lost, so, swinging themselves over the balcony railings, they began creeping cautiously down the greenhouse roof. They had just about reached the middle when Meg, who was first, suddenly stopped with a stifled exclamation, and lay as flat and as still as she could. Gipsy naturally followed suit, and looking downwards saw the reason for the alarm. They were in horrible and imminent danger of discovery. Miss Poppleton herself had entered the conservatory below, and with a little watering can in her hand began to attend to her plants. Would she look up and notice the two dark bodies on the roof above her?

Gipsy felt she had never been so thrillingly interested in gardening in the whole of her life. She watched while the geraniums and fuchsias received their due sprinkling, and held her breath when the Principal appeared about to stretch up to a hanging basket. Most fortunately for the two girls, she changed her mind, and evidently thinking there was not enough water in the can, emptied the remainder on a box of seedlings, and went into the house for a fresh supply.

"Now!" breathed Meg. "As quick as you can, without putting your heels through the glass!"

"It was the nearest squeak!" gasped Gipsy, as the pair, after a rapid slide down the gutter pipe, reached the ground in safety. "She'll be coming back directly."

"Rush under the shrubs—quick!" said Meg. "Oh, I say! There's the bell! I must fly. I daren't walk in late, or your dress might be noticed at call-over."

"I'm off too, then," returned Gipsy. "When Poppie unlocks the dressing-room door, she'll find the bird has flown!"

"Goodbye! I can't wait! Oh, Gipsy! when shall I see you again?"

"Some day. I promise that! The bell's stopping! You'll be late, Meg, if you don't scoot."

Torn in two between her reluctance to part from her friend and her anxiety to be in time for call-over, Meg hurried away without further farewell; and Gipsy, in wildest fear of detection, metaphorically speaking burnt her boats, and darting through the side gate, ran with all possible speed down the high-road.



CHAPTER XVII

A Tangled Story

MEG rushed to the lecture hall just in time to enter unobtrusively among a crowd of other girls, and to take her seat for afternoon call-over without attracting special notice from mistresses or monitresses. She congratulated herself on having been promoted to Mr. Cobb's painting class. The fact of her change of costume would be quite lost upon him, though Miss Harris, the ordinary drawing mistress, might possibly have recognized Gipsy's dress. One or two of her Form mates stared at her curiously, but the greater number were too much preoccupied with answering "present" to their names, and filing away to their various classes, to pay any particular attention to her. The girls at the painting lesson, with the exception of Fiona Campbell, were all Seniors. If they realized any difference in Meg's appearance, there was no opportunity either for them to make comments or for her to give explanations. I am afraid the study in oil colours of carnations, upon which she was engaged, did not make much progress that afternoon, for her thoughts were entirely about Gipsy, wondering how far she had got upon her travels, and whether Miss Poppleton had yet discovered her absence.

Directly the four o'clock bell rang and the class was released, Meg, leaving the other girls leisurely putting away their tubes of paints and cleaning their palettes, scrambled her possessions together anyhow, and bolted from the room before she could be questioned. Going boldly to the boarders' cupboard in the hall, she purloined Gipsy's hat, and, without waiting even to tell her story to Hetty and Dilys, departed from the premises with all possible speed.

She had come to school that day on her bicycle, and fetching it hastily from the shed where all the machines were stored, she rode away in the direction of Greyfield. There was something slightly wrong with one of her pedals, and her father had told her that morning that she had better have it mended at once, so she intended to take the cycle to the depot where it had been bought, and let it be thoroughly overhauled before she returned home. The assistant at the shop promised to have the repairs finished in about half an hour, and Meg therefore strolled into the town, to wait with what patience she could muster. She walked up Corporation Street and round by the Town Hall, peeped into the Parish Church and the Free Library, then finding herself close to the railway station, decided to go and buy a copy of Home Chat or Tit Bits at the bookstall.

"Want a ticket, Miss?" asked a porter, as she passed the booking-office near the entrance.

"No, thank you; I'm only going to get a paper," replied Meg, walking briskly on.

She noticed that the man looked at her keenly, and said something to another official. Immediately afterwards an inspector came on to the platform, and eyed her with more than ordinary curiosity. She could hear the telephone bell ringing hard, but it never struck her that these occurrences had anything to do with herself. She walked to the bookstall, and after spending some minutes looking at the various magazines spread forth, bought a copy of Tit Bits, and strolled back down the platform reading it as she went, and smiling over the jokes. At the automatic sweet-machine she paused, put a penny in the slot, and had just withdrawn her box of chocolates when, turning round, she found herself face to face with a policeman.

"Very sorry, Miss," said the man civilly, "but I'm afraid you've got to go along with me."

Meg was so surprised that she nearly dropped both Tit Bits and the chocolates.

"To go along with you!" she gasped. "Indeed I shan't do anything of the sort."

"Better not make a scene, Miss," advised the policeman, with an indulgent smile. "I'm sorry, but it's my duty to take you in charge."

"But what for? I've done nothing!" protested Meg in huge indignation.

"That's a little matter between your schoolmistress and yourself. It's none of my business. My instructions are to take you straight to the police station."

"But I tell you I won't be taken!"

"Better go quietly, Missy," said the station inspector, who had come bustling up. "You don't want to attract a crowd, I'm sure, do you? No; then let me put you in this cab, and drive you round to the police station. It's only a couple of streets away. They'll explain everything to you there."

There was sense in his remarks, for people on the platform were beginning to stop and stare at Meg with an interest she deeply resented. To enter the cab seemed the lesser evil, even if she must pay a visit to the police station. The inspector handed her in politely, and entering after, took the seat opposite, while the policeman mounted the box beside the driver.

"They seem desperately afraid of my escaping! I wonder they don't handcuff me!" thought Meg, waxing more and more angry at the indignity of the proceeding. The little drive only occupied a few minutes, and arrived at the police station, she was shown at once into the head inspector's office.

"I should like to know what charge you have against me," demanded Meg, determined to hold her own, and not to be frightened at her arrest.

"Withdrawing yourself from the hands of your lawful schoolmistress and present guardian," replied the inspector pompously.

"But I was only on my way home!"

The official, however, was busy reading something from a notebook.

"'Surname Latimer, Christian name Gipsy. Height, 5 feet 1 inch. Eyes brown, complexion dark, hair brown. Dressed in navy-blue alpaca frock over white delaine blouse top, and probably wearing sailor hat with blue-and-white striped band, and a pair of tennis shoes.' The whole tallies exactly," he murmured, surveying Meg from head to foot, to see that he had not omitted any of the items.

"You're making a mistake. My name's Margaret Gordon, not Gipsy Latimer! I live at The Gables, near Willowburn. My father is a solicitor in the town. His office is at 15 Wells Street."

"We'll soon see about that. I think I must trouble you for your pocket-handkerchief, Missy, please."

Considerably mystified, Meg felt in her pocket and handed over the article in question. The inspector examined it closely, then shook his head.

"It has 'G. Latimer' marked in the corner. That doesn't look much like Margaret Gordon, does it?"

Meg was furious at her own stupidity. She and Gipsy had never thought of exchanging the contents of their pockets.

"Look here! Send for my father!" she begged. "He'll soon tell you who I am, and explain the whole matter."

"We don't need to send for anybody," returned the official. "Miss Poppleton's quite enough for us. We've got her description of you, and our instructions are to take you straight back to the school. You'll find you've not gained much by running away."

There was only one consolation for Meg, the remembrance that her capture would possibly enable Gipsy to escape in safety.

"They must have been looking out for her at the railway station," she thought, "but they wouldn't recognize her in my dress. I'd like to know what Poppie'll say when I turn up instead!"

There was undoubtedly a humorous side to the situation, and Meg laughed as she pictured the discomfiture of the officials when they discovered their mistake. It seemed of no further use to try to prove her identity at present, so she allowed herself to be once more escorted to the cab and driven off, this time in the direction of Briarcroft.

"I wonder what sort of a scrape I'm in for," she thought, as they drew up at the front door, and the constable in charge solemnly marched her into the house. Miss Poppleton came hurrying out of the library into the hall, followed by Miss Edith.

"I am happy to be able to inform you, Madam, that our search has been successful," said the policeman, standing at attention.

"What? Have you found her?" cried Miss Poppleton eagerly; then she stopped as she recognized Meg. "Ah! So that's it, is it? I'm sorry to say, constable, that you've brought the wrong girl!"

Meg had thought out her plan of action carefully during her drive in the cab, and took advantage of the sensation that followed to rush at the Principal with an air of aggrieved and injured innocence.

"Oh, Miss Poppleton! Isn't it a horrible mistake!" she exclaimed. "I told them my name, and they wouldn't believe me! Oh! please, may I go home immediately? My mother will be so dreadfully anxious at my being so late!"

"Meg, do you know where Gipsy is?" interposed Miss Edith, catching her by the arm.

"Indeed I don't; I haven't the least idea!" replied Meg truthfully. "Please let me go home, and relieve Mother's mind!"

"Yes, go at once!" answered Miss Poppleton distractedly; and turning to the rueful constable, she began to explain matters with much volubility.

Meg vanished like the wind, thankful that in the general excitement nobody had remarked upon the fact that she was wearing Gipsy's dress. She considered that she had come out of the affair uncommonly well, and congratulated herself upon her presence of mind in the emergency. She hurried home as fast as she could, anxious to tell the tale of Gipsy's escape and her own adventure, and rather proud of her share in both. To her surprise her mother took an utterly different view of the case from her own.

"Gipsy run away!" cried Mrs. Gordon in great consternation. "And you changed dresses with her so as to help her? Oh, Meg! what have you done! You naughty, foolish, foolish girl! You little know the dangers you may have thrown her into. We must do our utmost to find her and bring her back this very evening. We should never forgive ourselves if any harm came to her. I must telephone at once, and see if Father's still at the office."

"But, Mummie darling, Gipsy doesn't want to be caught and brought back to Poppie's tender mercies. She's going to ship as a stewardess, and go to South Africa to look for her father. I think it's ripping!"

"You don't know what you're talking about, Meg. Gipsy is too young to manage her own affairs without consulting her elders. I would have had the poor child here, rather than that she should run away. Tell me everything you can remember of her plans. I expect Father will start for Liverpool at once in search of her."

"You won't tell Poppie, Motherkins?"

"I shall send a note to Miss Poppleton as soon as I have telephoned to Father. We must leave no stone unturned to find Gipsy. Miss Poppleton will be as alarmed and anxious as I am myself. She may be a little stern, but she is a good, conscientious person in the main."

Mrs. Gordon's estimate of Miss Poppleton's character was a correct one. The latter, though she had been severe and even hard with Gipsy, had meant well by her, and had intended to take charge of her until she found an opportunity of sending her, under careful protection, to her relations in New Zealand. She was in a state of the utmost concern at the girl's rash action in running away, and had lost no time in summoning the aid of the police to track her and ensure her safety. If Gipsy were the black sheep of the flock, she was at any rate the lost sheep, to be sought for diligently, and rejoiced over when found.

To Miss Edith the affair was a sad blow. She was genuinely fond of Gipsy, and had been greatly distressed by the events of the last few days. Though she dutifully accepted her sister's opinion, and believed Gipsy guilty, she nevertheless was ready to welcome back the prodigal with open arms. She did not dare to break down before Miss Poppleton, who disliked a public exhibition of feeling, so she retired to the linen room to wipe her eyes in private. Having indulged in a little surreptitious weeping she felt better, and decided to try to distract her mind by tidying her cupboards. Now, though Miss Edith was on the whole a good housekeeper, she had a poor memory, and was very apt to put things away and forget all about them. As she rearranged her drawers and shelves on this particular evening, she was dismayed to find several articles for which she had searched in vain elsewhere.

"Why, here's the tea cloth that I thought had been lost in the wash!" she exclaimed. "And Miss Lindsay's dressing jacket—she was afraid she must have left it in London. Why! and here's a coat of Daisy Scatcherd's. I remember quite plainly putting it by last autumn, when she had such a terrible cold. I thought it was too thin for her to wear. Why didn't the child ask me for it? She's as forgetful as I am. It's just the thing for chilly evenings, to slip on when she's been playing tennis."

Miss Edith gave the coat a good shake, and as she did so there fell from the pocket an unopened letter. She picked it up and looked at the address:

"MISS GIPSY LATIMER, Briarcroft Hall, Greyfield, England."

She read it twice before she realized its significance. Then, trembling violently, she sank on to a chair, and gave way to what very closely resembled a fit Of hysteria.

"Fetch Miss Poppleton!" she cried to the alarmed servant who ran to the linen room at the sound of her wails. "Oh, dear! To think it's all my fault!"

Miss Poppleton hurried to the scene at once, and though at first her sister's explanation was rather incoherent, she managed to grasp the main facts of the case.

"It's Gipsy's missing letter, Dorothea! It must have come after all, you see, only I can't imagine how it got into Daisy Scatcherd's pocket. I don't remember looking in the pockets when I put the coat by. And it's been there all this time! Look, the postmark is Cape Town, 3 November. Oh, isn't it dreadful? And the poor, dear child has just run away! Dorothea, whatever are we to do about it?" moaned Miss Edith, almost beside herself with horror at her discovery.

"In the circumstances I consider I am perfectly justified in reading the letter," replied Miss Poppleton, solemnly tearing open the envelope. "Why, here's an enclosure for me inside it!"

The long-delayed missive was from Gipsy's father, and contained the very information for which Miss Poppleton had waited more than six weary months. Mr. Latimer informed her that he was on the point of starting with a pioneering expedition to prospect for minerals in the almost unexplored district at the sources of one of the tributaries of the Zambesi. It might be several months before he would be in any civilized place whence it would be possible for him to communicate with her again, but during his absence he was glad to know that his little daughter was left in good hands. For all expenses in connection with Gipsy's education, dress, and pocket-money, he begged to refer her to his London bankers, Messrs. Hall & Co. of Lombard Street, who had instructions to settle the account as soon as submitted to them.

"I hope my girlie will behave well, and give no trouble," he wrote. "She is generally ready to attach herself to anybody who is kind to her."

Miss Poppleton turned a dull crimson as she finished reading the letter, and handed it to Miss Edith.

"I must question Daisy Scatcherd at once," she remarked peremptorily. "I can't understand how the letter came to be in her pocket at all."

The luckless Daisy, subjected to a searching examination, could at first render no account of how she came to be mixed up in the affair. Then little by little a vague remembrance returned to her, and she began dimly to recall the circumstances.

"It must have been on my birthday," she faltered. "I have a kind of recollection that I stopped the postman in the drive, and he gave me several letters. But indeed I never noticed one for Gipsy! If I even looked at the name, I didn't take it in properly. I suppose I only saw it wasn't for me, and stuffed it in my pocket while I opened my own letters. Then I utterly forgot all about it."

"It must be a warning to you, Daisy, against carelessness—a warning to last you the rest of your life," said Miss Poppleton, relieving her feelings by improving the occasion. "Your thoughtless act has had the most unfortunate consequences. It's no use crying now" (as Daisy dissolved into tears). "You can't mend matters. But I hope you'll take this to heart, and be more careful in future."

"If we could only find that poor, unfortunate child, Gipsy," sobbed Miss Edith, when the weeping Daisy had taken her departure. "I always said perhaps her father wasn't an adventurer after all. I think you were too hard on her, Dorothea—too hard altogether!" Which, was the nearest approach to insubordination that Miss Edith, in all her years of meek subserviency to her sister, had ever yet dared to venture upon.



CHAPTER XVIII

Gipsy at Large

AND where, all this time, was Gipsy, whom we left running down the road in the direction of Greyfield?

She tore along at the top of her speed, until she had put a considerable distance between herself and Briarcroft; then, panting and almost breathless, she slackened her pace, and looked round to see whether anyone was following her. As nobody of a more suspicious character than an errand boy and a nurse girl with a perambulator was in sight, she began to congratulate herself that she had escaped unobserved. How soon her absence would be discovered depended upon when Miss Poppleton or one of the monitresses next paid a visit to the dressing-room; and she laughed to picture the consternation that would ensue when the door was unlocked and her prison found to be vacant. No doubt they would send in search of her, but in the meantime she had stolen a march upon them, and given herself the advantage of a start, so she hoped by using all possible haste to get away before she was traced.

As she strode rapidly along, all her old vagabond instincts arose, and the gipsy element which had justified her name came strongly to the fore. It was a delightful, mild afternoon, with blue sky and bright sunshine; the gardens on either side of the road were gay with pink hawthorn and long, drooping sprays of laburnum, while blackbirds, thrushes, chaffinches, and tits were singing in a perfect chorus of joy. It felt so glorious to be as free as the birds, to be rid of all the tiresome rules and restrictions and conventions that had oppressed her soul for the last eight months, to be accountable to nobody but herself, and to be able to do just what she chose and go where she liked. School seemed as a nightmare behind her, and the world a fresh wonderland which it was her happy privilege to have the chance to explore.

"I'll never go back again—never!" she resolved. "Not if I have to sweep a crossing or sell flowers! But I don't think it will come to that, because I'm sure I can get a post on board ship. Oh, what a blissful relief it is to be on my own for once! I've made up my mind to find Dad, if I have to go to the ends of the earth to hunt for him."

In the exuberance of her spirits she almost danced along, humming now Schubert's "Wander Song", with its ringing refrain:

"Oh! surely he must careless be, Who never loved to wander free, To wander! To wander!"

or "The Miller of Dee", with special emphasis on the words:

"I care for nobody, no, not I! And nobody cares for me."

The sight of the town of Greyfield, with its streets and shops, changed the current of her thoughts, and brought the more sober reflection that she had no money in her pocket, and that it was a matter of urgent necessity to obtain some if she meant to reach Liverpool and start for South Africa. The fare, she knew, was about seven shillings, and though she hoped to be able to embark on board ship almost immediately after her arrival at the port, she supposed she would require something in the way of food on the journey. It went to her heart to be obliged to sell her beautiful gold watch, but in the circumstances it seemed the only thing to be done, and she braced her mind to part with it. She had no previous experience of selling things, so, choosing out the best jeweller's shop in the High Street, she marched blithely in, and taking off her watch and chain laid them upon the counter.

"Yes, Miss; want repairing, I suppose?" enquired the assistant who came to attend to her.

"No, they're in perfectly good order; but I wish to sell them. What price can you give me for them?" returned Gipsy confidently.

The man looked at her in decided astonishment, then pushed back the watch across the counter with a marked decrease of civility.

"We don't do that kind of business," he replied shortly.

"Won't you buy it then?" asked Gipsy in accents of blank disappointment.

"No; it's not in our line at all."

"Then where should I be able to sell it?"

"I couldn't say; probably at a secondhand shop. We only deal in new articles."

Very much disconcerted and snubbed, Gipsy snatched up her watch and chain and fled from the shop. She had evidently made a mistake in applying at a first-class jeweller's, and she was angry at having exposed herself to the humiliation of a rebuff. With two flaming spots in her cheeks, she stalked down the High Street, and into one of the narrower and more modest by-streets, where smaller shops were to be found. She walked on for quite a long way without meeting with any place that looked in the least degree likely; then at last, at the corner of an even humbler street still, she found a secondhand furniture dealer, who, to judge by the contents of his windows, seemed also to trade in a variety of miscellaneous articles. On the pavement in front of the shop were spread forth specimens of chairs, tables, and washstands, and inside she could see a goodly array of glass, antique china, old jewellery, old silver, prints, pictures, books, candlesticks, firearms, and an assortment of small pieces of bric-a-brac. Over the door was the name of Daniel Lucas.

"This looks more the kind of place," she murmured. "I'll have a try here, at any rate."

The interior of the shop was so crowded with furniture that it was quite difficult to walk between the piled-up sideboards and sofas to the corner where a very dirty and shabby-looking individual, with untidy grey hair and unshaven chin, was busy adding up accounts. He paused with a grimy finger in the middle of a column of figures, and peered at Gipsy with a pair of red, bleary eyes.



"I see you sell secondhand jewellery here, and want to know if you care to buy a watch," she began, with rather less assurance than at her former interview.

"It depends on the article. Have you brought it with you?" replied the old man cautiously.

"It's real gold, and so is the chain," volunteered Gipsy, as she produced her treasure.

Mr. Daniel Lucas examined both watch and chain with minute care, then shook his head deprecatingly.

"I'm afraid it wouldn't be of much use to me. You see, it's not exactly in the nature of an antique," he replied.

Gipsy's face fell. To get the money for her journey was a matter of vital importance.

"Couldn't you offer me anything for it?" she pleaded.

The bleary red eyes glanced at her keenly, and appeared to appreciate her disappointment.

"Well, to oblige you, I might go to a matter of seven and six."

"Couldn't you possibly make it ten shillings, with the chain?" hazarded Gipsy. She had no idea of the value of secondhand articles, and thought only of what amount would take her to Liverpool.

"All right—with the chain. But it's a poor bargain for me, mind you. I'm only doing it just to oblige you," returned Mr. Lucas, opening a drawer and counting out four half-crowns with an alacrity that belied his words. Thankful to have concluded the transaction on any terms, Gipsy seized the money and beat a hasty retreat. She was extremely anxious to reach the station before Miss Poppleton missed her and sent somebody in search of her. She had no idea of the times of the trains, but trusted to luck to catch the next that would take her anywhere in the right direction. With her four precious half-crowns grasped tightly in her hand, she hurried back up the sordid street, and took the shortest cut possible to the railway station. There was quite a crowd at the booking office, so she was able to take her place in the queue of prospective travellers and to obtain her ticket without attracting any special attention.

"Liverpool?" said the inspector who stood at the platform door. "You've just time if you're quick. That's the train over there on No. 3."

Gipsy fled across the bridge with a speed that seriously interfered with the convenience of passengers coming in the opposite direction; she rattled down the steps on to Platform 3, and, nearly falling over a pile of luggage, flung herself into the first third-class compartment that came to hand.

"Am I right for Liverpool?" she gasped tremulously to the collector who came to punch her ticket.

"Quite right, Miss; change at Preston, that's all," replied the man as he slammed the door.

The porters were thrusting some boxes into the luggage van, and a few latecomers made a last dash for carriages; then the green flag waved, the whistle sounded, and the train started with a jerk. Gipsy, hot, excited, and agitated, drew a long, long breath of relief. She was actually off! They were speeding fast out of the station, and she was leaving Greyfield and Briarcroft, and all the painful experiences of the last few months, entirely behind her. She could hardly believe her good luck in thus slipping away unobserved. True, she had only a half-crown and two pennies left after paying her fare, but she supposed that would be enough to last her until she could go on board a vessel. Surely chance had favoured her in enabling her to reach the station in the nick of time to catch the train, and no doubt she would be equally fortunate when she reached Liverpool. Her fellow passengers were uninteresting, and she had no desire to talk to anyone and confide her affairs, so she amused herself with her own thoughts and plans for the future. At Preston she changed, and bought a bun at the refreshment rooms; her dinner had been almost untasted, and she was growing hungry now. It seemed funny to have absolutely no luggage, though in one respect it was a great convenience not to be obliged to haul about a heavy handbag, or to tip a porter out of her extremely small capital.

"I feel almost as if I'd been shipwrecked again—in a borrowed dress and hat, and nothing else to call my own!" she thought with a smile.

It was half-past six before the train arrived at the big Liverpool terminus—rather late in the day to begin all the numerous enquiries which Gipsy was determined to make; but, nothing daunted, she set out at once for Waterloo, to try to find the residence of her old friend Captain Smith. She was directed by a policeman to take an overhead electric car, and travelled several miles above what seemed a wilderness of streets before she reached the suburb in question. Not knowing where to make a beginning, she decided to go first to a post office, thinking that there she might be able to gain the information she wanted. She had somehow imagined Waterloo to be quite a little place, where by diligent enquiry it would be fairly easy to trace such an important person as a sea captain who had been wrecked in the Bay of Biscay; greatly to her dismay, however, she found herself in the midst of what seemed a large city in itself—a veritable maze of long streets and small houses, stretching away into the distance with an endless vista of chimneypots. In a distinctly sober frame of mind she entered the post office and proffered her question.

"Smith? I couldn't tell you, I'm sure; there are so many Smiths," said the girl at the counter, with a superior smile. "One of them may be a sea captain, for anything I know. You'd better look in the Directory."

Gipsy seized upon the book with a sense of relief, and carried it off to a less busy part of the office. She turned up Waterloo, found the list of residents, and went through them in alphabetical order till she reached the letter S. She was appalled to see the number of Smiths who resided at Waterloo. To some of the names the Directory had appended an occupation, but with many it gave no details. Taking one of the telegraph forms she wrote down the addresses of about a dozen Smiths who, she considered, might be likely; then, returning the Directory to the girl at the counter, she started off on her arduous quest.

"I shall go to 'Ocean Villa' first," she thought. "It has a particularly nautical sound. I shouldn't think anybody but a sea captain could possibly live there. 'The Anchorage' sounds hopeful too, though it ought to be the home of somebody who is retired. 'Sea View Cottage' is doubtful, but 'Teneriffe House' is likely. The Queen of the Waves used to touch sometimes at Teneriffe. Oh, dear! the trouble will be to hunt out where they all are."

Poor Gipsy had indeed undertaken a most difficult task. She was obliged to ask her way again and again, and when at length she arrived at "Ocean Villa" it was only to meet with the information that nobody of a seafaring description was known there. Much disappointed, she trudged away in an opposite direction to find "The Anchorage", and after walking half a mile or more in search of it, was again confronted with ill success. At "Sea View Cottage" and "Teneriffe House" she fared no better; the occupiers, albeit they belonged to the great family of Smiths, had no connection whatever with the sea: and though she went to several other addresses on her list, the answer was invariably the same.

Utterly tired out, weary and despondent, Gipsy retraced her steps in the direction of the post office. Having parted with her watch, she had no idea of the time, but catching sight of a clock in a public building, she was horrified to find it was nearly a quarter to nine. The days at that season of the year were long, and this particular evening had been more than usually light; moreover, she had been entirely preoccupied with her quest, so she had never given a thought to the rapidly passing hours. For the first time the question of where she must sleep presented itself to her.

"I must get back to Liverpool," she thought, "and apply at one of the shipping offices. The docks aren't very far away, so I can get engaged as stewardess and go on board some ship at once, I expect."

But in the meantime a meal was an urgent necessity. She was sick and faint from want of food, and felt as if her tired feet could scarcely carry her farther. Seeing a modest confectioner's shop with a notice "Teas Provided", she went in and asked for some refreshment. The proprietress, a little elderly woman, struck partly by the weary look on her face, and partly by the unusual circumstance of a girl of her age coming into the shop alone to ask for tea at so late an hour, took her into a small parlour, and while laying the table and bringing in the meal, insinuated a few skilful questions as to where she was going. Gipsy had decided to pose as a working girl, so she answered readily enough that she was on her way to Liverpool, to find a post as assistant stewardess; and she wished to be very quick over her tea, so that she might go at once to the shipping offices, procure an engagement, and proceed at once to her vessel.

The expression on the woman's face changed from curiosity to sympathy, and then to utter consternation, as Gipsy briefly stated her intentions.

"But my goodness gracious! You'll never get a situation at this time of night!" she broke out. "Why, don't you know all the offices close at half-past five?"

Gipsy had not known, and the news struck her like a deadly blow.

"The offices all closed! Do you mean to say I can't get on board ship to-night?" she gasped. "Then where in the world am I to go?"

The woman shook her head dubiously.

"Best go back where you've come from," she remarked.

"I can't! I can't!" cried Gipsy. "That's absolutely impossible. Oh! why didn't I know of this before? What shall I do? What shall I do?" and springing up excitedly from the table, she burst into a flood of tears. For the first time she realized what an extremely rash thing she had done in running away, and in what a terrible position she had placed herself. Alone, friendless, and nearly penniless, in the midst of a great, strange city, with no one who knew her, nowhere to go, and the light already fading so fast that it was dark in the little parlour! She had acted almost on the spur of the moment in leaving Briarcroft, without seriously considering whether her plans were practicable, and now she was reaping the bitter harvest of her own folly. She began heartily to wish herself back at school; even Miss Poppleton's severest scolding was as nothing to the misery of this present crisis, and she yearned for the sight of Miss Edith with a longing that amounted to home-sickness. Wishing and regretting, however, would not help her in the least. She must find some way out of her difficulty, and that promptly.

"I've only one and ninepence left," she faltered. "And out of that I have to pay for my tea and keep a few pennies to go back into Liverpool with by the car. Could I get a night's lodging anywhere very cheaply? Do you know of a clean place?"

"Better not try cheap lodgings!" said the woman emphatically. "Can't you go home again? No? That's a bad lookout." Then, noticing the utter agony in Gipsy's face, she added: "Well, I'd be sorry to turn a young girl like you out alone at this time of night. I'll let you sleep on the sofa here, if you can manage, and you can get on to Liverpool first thing in the morning."

Manage? Gipsy would have slept on the floor, instead of the sofa, if required. She was only too thankful to be allowed to stay, and was almost ready to hug the little confectioner with gratitude. She was so utterly wearied that she was glad to lie down at once in the parlour, and even before the tea-things were removed from the table she had sunk into a sleep of absolute exhaustion. Her hostess scanned her face narrowly, took in the details of her dress, and examined her school hat with attention, then shook her head.

"Doesn't look much in the stewardess line of business," she muttered. "There's something wrong here, I'm afraid. I'll have a talk with her to-morrow." Then she locked the parlour door carefully before she went back to the shop.

Gipsy slept straight on until eight o'clock the next morning, when she was aroused by her landlady, who brought her a cup of tea and a piece of thick bread and butter.

"If you'll take the advice of one who knows more of the world than you," said the woman, "you'll go back home as fast as you can. Your own folks are the best to look after you. If you've spent all your money, they'd help you at the police station. They'll always send a girl back to her friends." Then, leaving Gipsy to digest her remarks while eating her breakfast, she went to perform household tasks.

The last hint put Gipsy in a panic. With her long night's rest her spirits had revived, and her courage returned. The idea of seeking her father in South Africa appeared once more attractive, and she had no wish to be taken charge of by the police and ignominiously packed back to school. She wondered whether the little confectioner had already gone to inform a constable of her whereabouts. She could and would not allow herself to be thus treated. Hurriedly finishing the tea and bread and butter, she laid all her money, with the exception of sixpence, on the table, and finding the shop door already open, made her escape into the street. It felt almost like running away a second time, and she was sorry not to have said "Thank you!" for her night's lodging, but she considered the emergency to be critical, and was glad when she turned the corner and was out of sight of the shop. She made her way as fast as possible to the electric railway, and took the first car for Liverpool, determined not to waste any further time in looking for Captain Smith at Waterloo, but to try her utmost to obtain a berth as stewardess. By dint of diligent asking, she managed to find the quarters of one of the shipping companies that ran a line of steamers to South Africa, and after toiling up a long flight of stairs she boldly entered the office, and stated her business to an astonished clerk. He gave her one comprehensive glance, screwed up his mouth, and most impolitely whistled.

"Whew! You're rather juvenile for the job, ain't you?" he asked facetiously. "Ever been on the sea before? 'Tisn't nice when it's rough, I can tell you."

"I'm older than I look," returned Gipsy with dignity, suddenly remembering, however, to her confusion, that she had forgotten to buy a box of hairpins and turn up her hair. "That's to say, I'm quite old enough to be very useful on board ship, and I know all about long voyages. I'd like to speak to the head of the office."

"I dare say you would! But he's not here yet—never comes down till ten or half-past, and I don't believe he'd see you, either. We're not wanting any stewardesses at present—leastways, those we engage have to be on the wrong side of thirty."

"I'll wait and see the head of the office," announced Gipsy firmly.

"Well! Of all the cheek—!"

But at that moment the telephone bell rang violently in an inner room, and the clerk fled to the instrument. After a few minutes he returned, and with a complete change in his manner asked Gipsy to take a seat.

"The Chief will be here before long," he said affably. "If you don't mind waiting a little, I can promise it will be to your advantage."

Gipsy sat down on one of the office chairs, and amused herself for about the space of ten minutes in studying the shipping advertisements that were hung round the walls. She turned eagerly at last when a footstep was heard upon the staircase. Was it the manager of the Tower Line, she wondered, and would he after all be willing to engage her for the work she desired? Her heart beat and throbbed as the door swung open. But instead of a stranger appeared the familiar figure of her friend Meg's father.

"Gipsy! Gipsy!" cried Mr. Gordon reproachfully. "Thank Heaven I've found you! Come along with me at once, child! We must go straight back to Greyfield by the next express."



CHAPTER XIX

The United Guild Festival

MR. GORDON had been most seriously concerned at the news of Gipsy's unauthorized flight, and considering the part which his daughter Meg had played in helping her to escape, he held himself to be morally responsible for the consequences of so foolish a step, and had started at once for Liverpool in search of the truant. Until very late at night he had used all efforts to trace her, but without success; then as soon as possible in the morning, acting on the knowledge of Gipsy's plans which Meg had supplied, he had telephoned to every steamship company in the city that ran vessels to South Africa, giving a description of the girl, and asking, if she called at the office, that she might be detained until he could arrive and claim her. By a fortunate chance he rang up the Tower Line at the very time when Gipsy had presented herself to enquire for work, so, jumping into a taxicab, he had driven immediately from his hotel to their offices.

On the whole, Gipsy was so relieved to see a friend who was prepared to take charge of her that she submitted quite peaceably to be escorted back to Greyfield. The clerk's hilarity at her application for a stewardess-ship, and his assurance that such posts were only given to middle-aged women, had upset her calculations, and remembering her forlorn condition of the previous night, she was glad not to risk a repetition of such a painful experience. Mr. Gordon had at first intended to take her home with him to The Gables, but on telephoning to his wife on his arrival at Greyfield station, he learnt about the missing letter which had been discovered in Daisy Scatcherd's coat pocket, and decided it would be better for her to go straight to Briarcroft.

The prospect of a letter from her father was a magnet more than sufficient to draw Gipsy back to school. All fear of Miss Poppleton's wrath faded away in the excitement of this wonderful news.

"And to think that if I'd gone to South Africa I should have missed it!" she exclaimed.

Miss Poppleton received the prodigal with wonderful graciousness, and Miss Edith wept over her, upbraided her, and kissed her all at once.

"Gipsy, darling! How could you be so naughty? You might have known we were your best friends. I never slept all night for worrying about you; and I'm sure Miss Poppleton didn't either. To think that you should have run away from us! And your letter was there all the time, if we'd only known! It's locked up safely in my desk, all ready for you."

"Give it me now, please!" pleaded Gipsy.

Although Gipsy's return to Briarcroft had been a very desirable conclusion to the episode of her running away, there were several matters left which remained in a far from satisfactory condition. In the first place, though her father's letter had relieved all anxiety about her school fees and general expenses, and removed her from her former most unpleasant position, it did not give any clue to his present whereabouts. Beyond the brief information that he was going to the sources of a tributary of the Zambesi, she knew nothing. There was no address given to which she might write, or any definite date fixed for his return to civilization. The London bankers, with whom Miss Poppleton at once communicated, had no further knowledge. He seemed to have disappeared into the unexplored wilds of Central Africa, and to have left no trace. In view of the dangers to which a pioneering party, such as he had joined, would be exposed from wild beasts, hostile natives, lack of food and water, or the hardships of travelling in the interior of the continent, there was cause for considerable uneasiness on his behalf. It seemed high time that some news was received of the expedition. It was now seven months from the date of Mr. Latimer's letter, and he had apparently expected to return in three or four.

Poor Gipsy conjured up all kinds of fears for her father's safety. She imagined him ill in some inaccessible spot, without medical aid, or taken prisoner by a native chief, or—more terrible still—that he had succumbed to the dangers and difficulties of the journey. She carried his letter about as her greatest treasure, and kissed it a dozen times a day; but she felt that, while appreciating its possession, she found it a very unsatisfactory substitute for the fuller details she coveted of his present welfare.

Her second trouble was the fact that she was still supposed to be guilty of that surreptitious outing in the evening, and to have flatly told falsehoods to screen herself. Gipsy had many faults, but she was strictly truthful, and this imputation against her honour rankled sorely. Miss Poppleton had not pressed the matter, probably thinking it a secondary consideration to her greater crime of running away. In her relief at receiving a handsome cheque from Mr. Latimer's bankers, the Principal had decided to forgive Gipsy's past indiscretions, and to start afresh on a different basis. By a little rearrangement she managed to find room for Gipsy again in her old dormitory, and the manifold odd duties which had been assigned to her were entirely removed. Once back in her favourite No. 3, with a new set of summer clothes and an ample supply of pocket-money, Gipsy felt reinstated in her former position in school. With the utmost satisfaction she paid up her arrears of subscriptions to the Guild, and put straight several other little matters where she felt she owed a moral if not an actual debt.

"There's only one thing that makes me savage," she declared one evening to some of her own set who were assembled in the Juniors' room, "and that is that Poppie still believes I told those awful fibs about not going out that wet evening. On my honour I spoke the truth. Somebody else must have gone out in my waterproof."

"What does it matter, now it's all over?" asked Leonora. "Poppie's forgiven you."

"Why, it matters a great deal. I don't want to be forgiven for what I've never done. And I don't care to possess a reputation for telling fibs. Whoever went out in my cloak ought to own up, and if she doesn't, she's a mean, detestable, contemptible sneak!"

"Shielding herself at your expense!" added Hetty indignantly.

Leonora turned as crimson as the woolwork she was stitching.

"I never thought of it in that way! It really never struck me!" she gasped. "I'm sure I've no wish to shield myself at anybody's expense. Why, if you want to know, it was I who went out in your waterproof and galoshes."

Leonora's announcement made the sensation it deserved.

"You! You!" cried the amazed girls.

"But why did you go?"

"How could you do such a thing?"

"Why didn't you tell?"

"I went for a very simple reason," replied Leonora coolly. "You know how fond I am of sweets, and what an abominably mean rule there is here about our not buying them. Well, I just couldn't stand doing without my chocolates, so I used to dodge out whenever I dared to that little shop in Mansfield Road, and buy some. On that particular wet evening I was in a fearful hurry to go before I began practising, so I rushed to the hall cupboard and seized on the first waterproof and hat and galoshes that came to hand. I didn't know they were Gipsy's."

"And yet you let her bear the blame!" exclaimed Dilys heatedly.

"I thought, as she hadn't really done it, she'd very soon clear herself. She could have 'proved an alibi' directly, if the thing had been properly gone into. There were heaps of girls who could have witnessed for her. Even though she did crawl under the table and go out of the room, the times didn't fit in, as Poppie would have found directly, if she'd troubled to ask."

"That's true. Poppie was utterly prejudiced; she asked a few hasty questions, never noticed whether the stories agreed, and jumped to a conclusion," said Hetty.

"Then, when Gipsy came back, Poppie dropped the matter entirely," continued Leonora. "I thought she knew she'd made a mistake. I didn't see any use in getting myself into trouble if I could help it, so I held my tongue."

"And disgustingly mean of you, too!" exploded Lennie.

"You're the most extraordinary girl, Leonora! I never saw anybody like you!" commented Dilys.

"You'll tell Poppie now, won't you?" urged Hetty.

Leonora shrugged her shoulders.

"Of course I shall. She can do what she likes. I don't mind if she expels me! I'm sick of Briarcroft and its strict rules. I'd rather try another school, where they'd allow one to buy more sweets. I never much wanted to come here. I think I'll go and explain to Poppie now; she'll be in the study. If she expels me, I could just go home in time for next Thursday. Mother's giving a big garden party, and having some Russian dancers down from London. They're to give a performance on a platform on the lawn. I'm simply wild to see them!"

As Leonora walked calmly from the room, the girls broke into a universal "Well!" of astonished comment.

"She didn't even tell you she was sorry, Gipsy!" remarked Lennie.

"Never mind! As long as she sets me right with Poppie I don't care," returned Gipsy.

"She seems to want to be expelled," said Dilys.

"Poppie's pet won't be expelled, no fear!" laughed Hetty. "Catch Poppie parting with her millionairess! She's much too good an advertisement for the school."

"I think Poppie'll have somewhat to say on the subject, though!" remarked Dilys.

Both Dilys and Hetty proved right. Leonora was not expelled, but Miss Poppleton gave her a severe lecture on the error of her ways, and a warning against any further transgression of Briarcroft rules. She returned to the Juniors' room in a very chastened frame of mind.

"Poppie was as hard as nails," she volunteered. "She won't let me go home on Thursday to the garden party, so I shan't see the Russian dancers. Isn't it a shame?"

"Well, in my opinion it about serves you right, Leonora Parker," retorted Dilys. "You've looked at the affair all along entirely from your own point of view. I don't believe you'd have told now if you hadn't wanted to go home. You've not begged Gipsy's pardon yet."

"Oh, never mind!" said Gipsy magnanimously. "What do I care, now it's all serene with Poppie? I've proved I don't tell fibs, anyhow. I like people to know I'm straight and square and above-board, and since that's put right, I vote we drop the subject."

"I shall have the picnic next week, even if I don't see the Russian dancers," murmured Leonora.

The suggestion of a united picnic for the whole of the Lower School, which had been unanimously carried at the Guild meeting, had been approved by Miss Poppleton, and the date fixed for a day early in July. As it was the first outing in connection with the United Guild, the girls were anxious to celebrate the occasion with as much observance as possible. It had been decided to visit a castle about six miles away, and it was thought that the ruins would provide a picturesque setting for something in the nature of a grand ceremony.

"Like the Freemasons, you know," said Gipsy, "or any of those old 'worshipful companies' that meet and have big dinners and enjoy themselves."

"What do the Freemasons do?" enquired Lennie. "I thought their meetings were dead secrets."

"So they are; but sometimes they have processions through the streets, and carry banners. We might have a banner, and wear badges."

The idea of a banner appealed to the girls, who set to work with the greatest enthusiasm to make one. It was designed by Fiona Campbell, and carried out by a committee of six, chosen for their skill in needlework. It had a cream-coloured ground, on which was a bold pattern, in applique, of pink briar roses with green leaves, meant as a delicate compliment to Briarcroft. In the centre, in large green letters, was the motto chosen by the Guild: "United we Stand". It was decided at a special meeting that every member must wear a briar rose for a badge, and as real wild roses seemed too perishable to be of much use, an extra committee undertook to construct a sufficient quantity of artificial ones out of crinkled paper. Officers were to wear pale pink sashes, tied over the right shoulder and under the left arm, and a wreath of pink roses round their hats. The form of ceremony for the occasion was entrusted to Gipsy's fertile brain, for nobody else felt equal to inventing it. These preparations naturally absorbed all the energies of the Lower School. Many willing hands set to work to make paper flowers, copying a very pretty specimen of a briar rose twisted by the drawing mistress out of pink crinkled paper, with a most natural-looking green leaf, and secured with fine wire.

Gipsy, who wished the affair to be a great day in the annals of the Juniors, kept adding fresh items to her ceremonial programme till she made a list that filled her with satisfaction. There was nothing she loved so dearly as inventing entertainments, and this festival gave her just the opportunity for which she longed. As organizing secretary she was allowed full powers of administration, so she picked out her performers, called rehearsals, and arranged every detail with scrupulous care and attention.

The school picnic had generally been held on Saturdays, but thinking the castle would be more free from visitors on a Friday, Miss Poppleton had granted a special half-holiday for the purpose. Most fortunately the day turned out to be fine, and by two o'clock seventy-four excited Juniors were waiting for the arrival of the wagonettes that were to convey them to the ruins. Each Form was accompanied by its own mistress, and Miss Poppleton and Miss Edith completed the party. Every girl wore her briar rose badge, and the officers their sashes and wreaths. The banner was carried rolled up, but ready to be unfurled when the ceremonies should begin. Riggside Tower, the old ruined keep that was the goal of their excursion, had a romantic history of its own, and had been the scene of many an exciting struggle in border warfare. The guidebook related the legends of illustrious prisoners, fierce hand-to-hand combats, doughty champions, secret passages, underground dungeons, thrilling escapes, and other episodes of the past that added greatly to the attraction of the ancient building.

Some of the girls had been there before, but to others it was a fresh spot, and all looked with interest as the wagonettes turned a particular corner of the road where the first glimpse of the castle could be seen. It was a grey, turreted fortress, with half of its west wall battered down by Cromwell's cannon, and the rest in a crumbling state, chiefly held together by the great masses of ivy that clung round the worn stones. In former days it must have been grim and bare enough, but kindly Nature had thrown her mantle of greenery around it, and softened its rugged outlines. Wallflowers and scarlet valerian and the pretty trailing ivy-leaved toadflax were growing in every nook and cranny where they could find roothold; a thick grove of trees clothed the base of the south front; and the courtyard was a strip of verdant sward thickly covered with daisies. Gipsy took a survey of the old keep with the greatest complacency. No place could possibly have provided a better background for the pageant she had arranged. The courtyard made a natural theatre, and the stones lying about would provide seats for the audience. Happily there were very few visitors that day, so they had the castle almost to themselves, and could go through their programme without interfering with the convenience of other people. It was decided to begin the ceremonies at once, so that they would be over in good time before tea.

The banner, which had been rolled on two school pointers, was unfurled and borne aloft by Lennie Chapman and Meg Gordon, and very fine it looked with its design of wild roses and its motto in the centre. The members of the Guild, walking two and two, fell into line, and, preceded by the banner bearers and the chief officers, marched round the courtyard.

Barbara Kendrick had been constituted crier, and, ringing a small handbell, shouted the opening announcement in true mediaeval fashion:

"Oyez! Oyez! Oyez! Be it known to one and all that this worshipful companie is the Briarcroft United Juniors' Guild."

As the girls marched they chanted a ditty, the words of which had been composed by Gipsy for the event, though the music was out of one of the school song books:

"We've met to-day to celebrate A very great occasion, We wish to show by this display Our Guild's inauguration.

"For be it known to one and all, This blissful companie Doth now unite all former Guilds, So many as there be.

"Athletics, Music, Drama, Arts, We do include them all In the United Juniors' Guild We form at Briarcroft Hall.

"Each member's pledged to do her best To aid the common weal, And to the tenets of the Guild Aye to be stanch and leal.

"Then wave the banner, flaunt the badge, And Crier, ring the bell! Good luck to our United Guild! Long may it prosper well!"

Miss Poppleton, Miss Edith, and the mistresses, who composed the audience, applauded heartily at the end of the marching song.

It had made a good introduction for the Guild, and an opening for the proceedings which were to follow. Gipsy's programme had been drawn up somewhat on the lines of a May Day masque; she herself called it "The Festival of the Briar Rose". It consisted of a number of songs and dances, appropriate to the occasion, which she had collected from the repertoire of the Lower School. Each Form took its own turn. The little girls of the First performed a charming flower dance, the Second sang a madrigal in praise of summer and the Lower Third a May Day glee, the Upper Third executed a lively Tarantella, the Lower Fourth took Sir Roger de Coverley, the Upper Fourth chanted an Elizabethan Ode to the Spring, while at the end the whole Guild joined in a morris dance.

Besides wearing their badges, the girls had brought with them some garlands and a number of bunches of flowers, to be used in the dances, so that the whole affair, seen against the background of the ancient tower, had a most romantic and picturesque effect. A few parties of visitors, who were looking over the castle, stopped to watch the performance, and appeared greatly to enjoy it. To Miss Poppleton and the teachers the various items were of course well known, as they had been often rendered at school; but thus combined, in such suitable surroundings, they made quite a pretty pageant. Gipsy was in her element, marshalling, conducting, directing, and acting leader, while all the time taking her own part in the singing and dancing. As the members ranged themselves at the end, and wound up the programme with "God Save the King", she felt a thrill of delighted gratification. The Guild, which had begun under her auspices, and which she had so carefully fostered, seemed a well-established institution of the Lower School, likely to continue and flourish among the Juniors for many years to come. If she had done nothing else during her three terms at Briarcroft, it was a satisfaction to feel that she had accomplished this much. Perhaps some such thought struck her companions.

"Hip, hip, hip, hooray for the Guild!" shouted Hetty Hancock. "And hip, hip, hip, hooray for the Festival! And hip, hip, hip, hooray, girls, for our secretary, Gipsy Latimer! She arranged it all, and she deserves a hearty vote of thanks."

As the vigorous cheers rang out, Gipsy stood with flushed cheeks and shining eyes. It was sweet to have her schoolgirl triumph, and to feel that her efforts on behalf of her fellow Juniors had met with so much appreciation.

When the applause died away and the girls broke up, a stranger, who from behind a portion of the ruins had been an eager witness of the proceedings, stepped up to Miss Poppleton.

"I should like to add my congratulations," he remarked. "Perhaps you don't remember me? If I may have one word with the little secretary of your Guild, she will tell you who I am."

But at that moment Gipsy caught sight of him, and with one wild cry of "Father!" flung herself into his arms.

How Mr. Latimer had arrived upon the scene at such an extremely opportune moment demands a word of explanation, so we will narrate his story as he told it to Gipsy afterwards. In the previous November, after landing at Cape Town, he had joined a pioneering expedition, and gone far into the interior to prospect for minerals. The little party had experienced many hardships, perils, and privations, but had been very successful in its discoveries, finding a rich vein of gold that promised a handsome return when worked. Once back at Cape Town, Mr. Latimer had taken the first vessel to England, landing there with the mails. Finding that he could reach Briarcroft as soon as a letter, he had decided to go straight there in person, instead of writing to Gipsy to tell her of his coming. On his arrival at the school, he had learnt that his daughter, with a number of her companions, had started for a picnic at Riggside Tower; so, keeping the taxicab in which he had driven from Greyfield station, he had followed at once to the castle. Finding the Guild celebrations in progress, he had not interrupted the programme, but, concealing himself in an angle where he could see without being seen, he had remained an interested spectator of the pageant, waiting till the affair was over before he made his presence known.

Gipsy's rapture at this reunion was enough to compensate her for all the trouble she had endured during her father's absence. "You won't go away, Dad, and leave me again?" she pleaded.

"No, sweetheart! Fortunately I have business in connection with these newly discovered mines that will keep me in England for a year or two. You can continue at Briarcroft, where by all appearance you seem to be much appreciated, and we can spend all your holidays together. No more gadding about the world just at present. Will that suit you, little woman?"

"Splendiferously!" answered Gipsy, with a sigh of ecstasy.

* * * * *

There is very little more to be told. For Gipsy the sequel was a time of intense thankfulness and utter content. Two matters, however, which disturbed her, she brought to her father's notice, and he at once settled them to their common satisfaction.

He paid a visit to the secondhand shop of Mr. Daniel Lucas in Greyfield, and bought back her watch and chain; and though he was obliged to pay four pounds to regain what she had parted with for ten shillings, he was glad to get possession on any terms of what was to him a treasure to be valued for old time's sake. He further hunted out the little confectioner at Waterloo who had sheltered his daughter in her hour of need, and gave her not only his heartfelt thanks, but a more substantial token of his appreciation. Gipsy, you may be sure, lost no time in introducing him to her friends the Gordons, for whose share in fetching her back from Liverpool Mr. Latimer considered he owed a debt of gratitude. It was arranged that the two families should spend a summer holiday together in Switzerland—an event to which Donald, Meg, and Gipsy, with their thoughts on the joys of mountaineering, looked forward with the keenest anticipation.

"I've only one regret," confessed Gipsy on the breaking-up day. "If I'm moved up next term into the Fifth, I shan't be Lower School any more, and it will mean goodbye to the United Guild."

But as none of us can remain stationary, and all growings are outgrowings, I think we may safely predict that Gipsy, who won her way as leader of the Juniors, will have an equally successful career among the Seniors, and that her name will be handed down in the annals of Briarcroft institutions as that of one who upheld the common weal, and whose record was an asset to the school.

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PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN By Blackie & Son, Limited, Glasgow

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Transcriber's Notes:

Obvious punctuation errors repaired.

Page 66, "appearance" changed to "appearances" (but for appearances' sake)

Page 116 "sh" changed to "she" (for it if she)

Page 256, "sake's" changed to "time's" (time's sake)

THE END