consisted of a washstand, two chests of drawers, and a large wardrobe fixed into the wall, containing two separate compartments with a drawer for best hats at the bottom of each. The beds had pink quilts to match the paper, the jugs and basins were white with pink rims, while even the mats on the dressing table were made of white muslin over pink calico.

Sylvia looked round with approval. She had expected school to be a bare, cheerless place, but this was as dainty as her own room at home. The walls were hung with pictures in oak frames, there was a small bookshelf beside each bed where Bibles and favourite volumes could be kept, and the mantelpiece was covered with tiny china cats, dogs, and other animals, which Miss Coleman said belonged to Linda.

It took some time to arrange Sylvia's possessions, for the mistress was very particular as to where they were put, and informed Sylvia that she would be expected to keep them exactly in that order, and her drawers would be examined once a week.

"Your dressing gown is to hang behind the door; there is a hook here for your bath towel, which, by the by, you are never to leave in the bathroom; your sponge must go in the lefthand sponge basket, and your bedroom slippers under this chair. Your coats must, of course, always be kept in the wardrobe, but your boots are to go downstairs. You may lay your writing case and paintbox on the chest of drawers, or keep them in your locker in the playroom."

"I'm glad I brought a white nightdress case," thought Sylvia; "it looks much nicer on the pink bed than the blue one Mother nearly packed instead. When I've put out my photos it will feel more homey. I'll write to Mother to-morrow and tell her all about it."

When at last everything had been tidily set in its right place, and a servant had carried the empty box to the boxroom, Miss Coleman took Sylvia to the playroom, and, giving her a book, told her she might read until her companions came to join her. The girls of the third class did preparation and practising until seven, after which they were allowed half an hour's recreation until supper. They had the playroom to themselves, as the little ones had gone to bed by that time, and the elder girls had a separate sitting-room of their own. Precisely as the clock struck seven Linda Marshall, Hazel Prestbury, Connie Camden, and Nina Forster came tearing in.

"I thought we'd find you here," cried Linda. "We're just through prep., but I don't know my history in the least. Do you, Hazel?"

"Not a morsel. Miss Arkwright will scold to-morrow. It's dreadfully hard, though; I don't suppose anybody will know it properly."

"Except Marian," said Nina.

"Oh, yes, Marian! She'll scrape through somehow. She always does. Look here, Sylvia! If you're clever, I wish you'd take down Marian Woodhouse. We're quite tired of seeing her always top."

"She's so conceited about it," said Connie Camden.

"She thinks no one else can do anything but herself," said Nina Forster.

"Yes, do try, Sylvia," said Linda; "it would be lovely if you got above her. It would do her ever so much good."

"Oh, do!" pleaded the others.

"Why don't you try yourselves?" asked Sylvia.

"Oh, we can't; it's no use!" said Connie; "but you look clever, and I'm sure you'll be able to learn things. She needn't think she's going to have it all her own way this term, because——"

"Hush, she's here!" said Hazel quickly, as the door opened, and Marian came in, carrying her music case, followed shortly afterwards by Gwennie and Jessie Ellis.

"What shall we play to-night?" asked Connie, who had gone rather red. "I don't think she heard," she whispered to Hazel.

"Word-making," said Marian decisively. "Here's the box."

"Oh no!" exclaimed Nina and Hazel, "that's a stupid game. We don't like it at all."

"Yes, you do. Don't be silly. Come along."

"I vote for telegrams," suggested Linda.

"No!" cried Marian.

"Yes!" cried the others in such overwhelming majority that Marian had to give way, though she looked anything but pleased.

Pencils and pieces of paper were collected, the eight girls seated themselves round the table, and each set to work to concoct a telegram the words of which must commence with twelve letters read out at random, in the order in which they were given. The letters were: T, C, M, I, C, D, C, I, W, E, A, B. They proved a little puzzling to fit together, but after much nibbling of pencils, and knitting of brows, everybody managed to get something written, and Marian volunteered to read them out.

The first happened to be Sylvia's. She had put: "Tell Charley Mother ill. Cook dead. Come immediately. Will explain all. Bertha."

"It's not bad," said Marian condescendingly, "but you don't know how to spell. You've written C-h-a-r-l-e-y."

"Well, and that's the right way too!" said Sylvia.

"Indeed it's not, it's C-h-a-r-l-i-e. Why, even Jessie Ellis knows that."

"I've seen it C-h-a-r-l-e-y in a book," objected Sylvia, who meant to fight her own battles.

"Then it must have been a misprint."

"I believe you can spell it both ways," said Hazel, "just like Lily or Lillie."