Foreseeing a "lecture," Dorothy interrupted:

"Beg pardon, Miss Muriel, but there's Win yonder this minute, walking with her head down as if she were worrying. She thought her father was coming home next week and he isn't, and she's so disappointed. She's reading his letter over again. She said, when I asked her why she was so blue, that it didn't seem like home here any longer with you offended, and he wasn't coming, and she had no real home anywhere. Oh!

you needn't be afraid of darling Win doing anything crooked again. Do love her and take her back into your trust, and may I go now to tell her she can go nutting and about Sat.u.r.day, and may I hurry up?"

Without waiting an instant longer, Dorothy took permission for granted and ran out of the house. In reality, she had grieved far more over Winifred's punishment, by being kept on bounds and denied some other privileges, than that lively young person had herself.

Winifred was ashamed, but she wasn't unhappy. Only now this letter of her father's, and the longing to see him, had sobered her greatly. Yet she was ready enough for the next amus.e.m.e.nt that might offer and looked up eagerly as Dorothy ran towards her across the lawn, crying:

"Don't look so forlorn, Win! We can go--you can go--"

"They can go!" finished the other, her mood quickly changing at sight of Dorothy's beaming face. "Where can they go, how can they go, when can they go, Teacher?"

"Nutting, with Miss Aldrich's cla.s.s. On their feet. With baskets and bags and the boot-boy with poles to thresh the trees and carry the nuts! and on Sat.u.r.day to old John's cottage to hear the Robin sing!"

"Oh! do you mean it? Do you? Then I know I'm all right with Miss Muriel again and I must go and thank her."

Away hurried the impulsive girl and in the Lady Princ.i.p.al's room was presently an interview that was delightful to both. For in her heart, beneath a cold manner, Miss Tross-Kingdon kept a warm love for this wild pupil of hers; and was as ready to believe in Winifred's promises as the girl was to make them.

The late autumn day was uncommonly fine. Not only Miss Aldrich, but most of the other teachers, were to take their cla.s.ses to a distant forest on their annual nutting excursion, from which, this year, Winifred had felt she would be excluded. Miss Aldrich was not her own cla.s.s director, but the girls in it were her especial friends and belonged to her gymnasium cla.s.s. They were all "Commons," except Marjorie Lancaster, a gentle little "Peer," whom haughty Gwendolyn kept well reminded of her rank.

"I don't like your being so chummy with those girls, and, worst of all, with that Dorothy Calvert. She's a pert sort of girl, with no manner at all. Why, Marjorie, I've seen her leaning against the Bishop just as if he were a post! _The Bishop_, mind you!"

"Well, if he wanted her to, what harm, Gwen? Somebody said he knew her people over in the States and that's why she was sent away up here to his school. I like her ever so much. She's so full of fun and so willing to help a girl, any girl, with her lessons. She learns so easy and I'm so stupid!" protested Marjorie, who was, indeed, more noted for her failures than her successes at recitations.

"But I don't like it. If you must have an intimate, why not choose her from 'our set'?"

"The 'Commons' are lots jollier. They're not all the time thinking about their clothes, or who's higher ranked than another. I'm thankful I belong with the Aldrich ten. We have splendid times."

Gwendolyn sighed. She found it very difficult to keep many of her "set" up to their duty as peers of the realm. "Cla.s.s distinction" fell from her nimble tongue a dozen times a day in reprimands to other "Peers" who would hobn.o.b with unt.i.tled schoolmates despite all she could do; and now to preserve Marjorie from mingling too much with the "Commons," she declared:

"Well, if you won't come with us, I shall go with you. My director will let me. She always does let me do about as I like. She's lots more agreeable than the Lady Princ.i.p.al, who ought to appreciate what I try to do for the good of the school. When I told her how Florita Sheraton had complained she just couldn't get enough to eat here, she was cross as two sticks and said: 'Gwendolyn, if you are a real Honorable, you'll not descend to tale-bearing!' Hateful thing. And she comes of a t.i.tled family, too, somebody said. Yes, I'm sure my teacher will let me."

"Even a worm will turn," and mild little Marjorie murmured under her breath:

"I wish she wouldn't! But, of course, she will, 'cause it's the easiest way to get along. Yet you'll spoil sport--sure!"

But the Honorable Gwendolyn Borst-Kennard was already moving away to announce her intention to her greatly relieved director. For it was usually the case, that wherever this young aristocrat went, trouble followed; for, like the 'twelfth juryman,' she never could understand why the 'eleven contrary ones' didn't agree with _him_.

n.o.body stayed at Oak Knowe, that day, who was able to join this outing: and when nearly three hundred girls take the road, they are a goodly sight worth seeing. Each had been provided with her own little parcel of lunch packed in the small basket that was to be carried home full of nuts, and each carried a stout alpenstock, such as the experienced teachers had found a help on their pupils' long walks.

"A walk that is less than five miles long is no walk at all for healthy girls," had been Dr. Winston's remark; adding, for the Lady Princ.i.p.al's ear alone: "That'll take the kinks out of them and they'll give you less trouble, skylarking. Teach them the art of walking and let them go!"

To escape Gwendolyn, Marjorie had hurried to the fore of her "Ten" and slipped her arm into Winifred's, who had expected Dorothy instead. But she couldn't refuse Marjorie's pleading:

"Don't look like you didn't want me, Winnie dear. Gwen is bound so to take care of me and I don't need her care. I don't see any difference between you 'Commons' and we 'Peers' except that you're nicer."

"Why, of course, I want you, Marjorie. Can you see Dorothy Calvert anywhere behind? It's so narrow here and the hedge so thick I can't look back."

From her outer place and lower height Marjorie could stoop and peer around the curve, and gleefully cried:

"Of all things! The girls have paired off so as to leave Gwen and Dolly together at the very end! Another cla.s.s is so close behind they can't change very well and I wonder what Gwendolyn will do!"

"I'm sorry for Dolly, but she'll get on. Gwen has pretended not to see her so many times that Dorothy can hardly put up with it. Under all her good nature she has a hot temper. You'd ought to have seen her pitch into one of the scullery boys for tormenting a cat. And she said once that she'd make Gwendolyn like her yet or know the reason why.

Now's her chance to try it! It's all that silly imagination of Gwen's that makes her act so. Made up her mind that Dolly is a 'charity'

girl, when anybody with common sense would know better. There are some at Oak Knowe, course: we all know that, for it's one of the Bishop's notions he must give any girl an education who wants it and can't pay for it. But I don't know which ones are; do you?"

"No, indeed! And if I did, I'd never let them know I knew."

"Of course you wouldn't. No gentlewoman would, except that stuck-up Gwen. Her mother, Lady Jane's so different. She's almost as jolly and simple as her brother, Dr. Winston. But her Honorable young daughter just makes me tired! Peek again. What are they doing now?"

"The 'Peer' is walking like a soldier on parade, stiff as can be, thumping her alpenstock up and down plumpety-plump, hard as nails. But Dorothy seems to be chattering away like a good one!"

Winifred stooped and peered between the bobbing rows of girls and branches of trees and caught Dorothy's eye, to whom she beckoned: "Forward!" But Dorothy smilingly signaled "No!"

"Well, _one_ of that pair is happy, but it isn't Lady Jane's daughter!

I fancy we'd best leave them to 'fight it out on that line,'" decided Winifred, facing about again. "I know Queen Baltimore will down Honorable England at the end."

Despite her own stiffness, Dorothy's continued chatter at last began to interest Gwendolyn, and the perfect good nature with which she accepted the marked coldness of the haughty girl to make her ashamed.

Also, she was surprised to see how the girl from the States enjoyed the novelty of everything Canadian. The wild flowers especially interested her, and Gwendolyn was compelled to admire the stranger's love and knowledge of growing things.

With more decency than she had hitherto shown, she finally asked:

"However did you come to know so much botany, Miss Calvert?"

"Why, my Uncle Seth, the Blacksmith, taught me; he lived in the woods and loved them to that degree--my heart! he would no sooner hurt a plant than a person! He was that way. Some people are, who make friends of little things. And he was so happy, always, in his smithy under the Great Tree, which people from all the countryside came to see, it was so monstrous big. Oh! I wish you could see dear Uncle Seth, sitting at the smithy door, reading or talking to the blacksmith inside at the anvil, a man who worked for him and adored him."

The Honorable Gwendolyn stiffened again, and walked along in freezing silence. She would have joined some other girl ahead, but none invited her, and she was too proud to beg for a place beside those who should have felt it an honor to have her. Besides, pride kept her to her place in the rear.

"Huh! I'll show this Yankee farrier's niece that I am above caring who is near me. But it's horrid to be forced into such a position and I wish I hadn't come. Goodness! how her tongue runs! And now what freak sets her 'Oh-ing!' and 'Ah-ing!' that style?" ran Gwendolyn's thoughts, and she showed her annoyance by asking:

"Miss Calvert, will you oblige me by not screaming quite so loud? It's wretched form and gets on my nerves, for I'm not used to that sort of thing."

"Neither am I!" laughed Dorothy; "but you see, I never saw anything so lovely as that glimpse before. I couldn't help crying out--we came upon it so suddenly. Do see yonder!"

Her finger pointed westward, then was promptly drawn back, as she admitted:

"Pointing is 'bad form,' too, I've been taught. But do look--do look!

It's just like fairyland!"

Gwendolyn did look, though rather against her will, and paused, as charmed as Dorothy, but in a quieter fashion. She was a considerable artist and her gift in painting her one great talent. Oddly enough, too, she cared less for the praise of others than for the delight of handling her brush.

Beyond, a sudden break in the thick wood revealed a tumbling waterfall, descending from a cliff by almost regular steps into a sunlit pool below. Bordering it on both sides were trees of gorgeous coloring and mountain ashes laden with their brilliant berries; while a shimmering vapor rose from the pool beneath, half veiling the little cascade, foaming white upon the rocks.

For a moment Gwendolyn regarded the scene in silence but with shining eyes and parted lips. Then she exclaimed:

"The very spot we've searched for so often and never found! 'The Maiden's Bath,' it's called. I've heard about it so much. The story is that there was an Indian girl so lovely and pure that it was thought a mortal sin for mortal eyes to look upon her. She had devoted herself to the service of the Great Spirit and, to reward her, He formed this beautiful Bath for her use alone, hid it so deep in the heart of the forest that no one could find it but she. There was but one trail which led to it and--we've found it, we've found it! Hurry up! Come."

Dorothy stared. Here seemed a new Gwendolyn, whose tongue ran quite as rapidly as her own had ever done, and whose haughty face was now transformed by eager delight. As the young artist ran forward toward the spot, Dolly noticed that no other girl was in sight. They two had turned a little aside from the smoother path which the rest had taken, Dorothy following the lure of some new wild flower and Gwendolyn stiffly following her. Only a minute before the chatter and laughter of many girls had filled the air; now, save for their own footsteps on the fallen leaves, there was no sound.