"Remember Vivien's coming back," warned Marjorie.

"She won't come back for a few minutes!" grinned Effie, hopping between the desks, "and I don't care if she does, either! I'm not afraid of Vivien! She may jaw away as much as she likes. It amuses her, and it doesn't hurt me. So there we are. See?"

Some of the girls sn.i.g.g.e.red, and Effie, encouraged by popular approbation, waxed more reckless still. She danced to the blackboard, seized the chalk, and began to draw.

"Here's Vivien's portrait," she announced. "This is her long nose, and this is her mouth, and this is her hair."

"Oh, it _is_ like her!" chirruped Gracie.

"The very image!" hinnied Doris.

"Shut up, Effie, and rub it off, you silly c.o.c.kchafer," recommended Marjorie, giggling in spite of herself.

"No, no! I haven't finished. I must put her blouse and sw.a.n.ky tie. Wait a sec!" cried the artist, drawing in those details and adding a large balloon issuing from the mouth of her model, and containing the words: "No talking, girls!"

"You'll be caught," urged Marjorie, seizing the duster to clean the blackboard. Effie s.n.a.t.c.hed it out of her hand.

"All right, Grannie. Half a sec. more! I've just time!"

And she scrawled hastily over the top of the portrait: "This is old Vivien."

The last half second was the undoing of Effie, for at that very same instant the monitress reentered the room. Effie wiped the blackboard with frantic speed, but not before Vivien had caught a clear view of her portrait. She glared first at Effie, who had skipped back to her place, then at the nine other conscious faces. Finally she announced:

"You'll every one of you report yourselves to me at four o'clock this afternoon. I shall expect you in the handicraft room, and you'll each bring a poetry book with you. I shall stay here now until Miss Poole comes. I'm not going to have this form a bear-garden."

The mistress, entering almost immediately, looked rather astonished to see Vivien standing by her desk. Her enquiring glance asked an explanation.

"It was necessary for someone to come in here and keep order, Miss Poole," vouchsafed Vivien.

The mistress turned a reproachful eye on her flock.

"I thought I could have trusted you, girls! I'm sorry to hear you've not been behaving yourselves."

The form focused indignant glances at Vivien, but dared not utter a protest. Their wrath, overflowed, however, at the earliest opportunity for conversation.

"Sneak!"

"Tell-tale-t.i.t!"

"Mean thing!"

"And we've actually got to report ourselves to her at four o'clock."

"It's the limit!"

Though the juniors might rage, the established tradition of The Gables compelled them to comply with the monitress's orders. They grumbled, but obeyed. Directly afternoon school was over, ten sullen and sulky girls presented themselves at the door of the handicraft room. This was situated at the opposite end of the playground, and was, in fact, the old coach-house converted into a sort of joiner's shop. The school, in relays, learned wood-carving here, and carpentry, and clay modelling, and any other crafts which made too much mess inside the form rooms or the gymnasium.

Vivien was busy at the bench, planing a piece of wood. She greeted the victims grimly.

"If you can't remember to behave yourselves in school, you'll have to have something to remind you," she remarked. "You may all sit down there. Have you brought your poetry books? Very well, turn to page sixteen and learn the first three verses of Lochinvar. You'll stay here till you know them."

As a matter of fact, Vivien was entirely exceeding her authority. Miss Kingsley had never given the monitresses leave to keep girls in, or give them punishment lessons. Such privileges belonged to mistresses only.

The form, however, was not aware of this, and supposed that she had received instructions from head-quarters. They took their places like martyrs, and opened their poetry books, outwardly submissive, but with black rebellion raging in their hearts.

Vivien, going on with her carpentering, kept a strict eye upon them, and said "Hush!" if any one attempted to con her task even in a whisper. She heard each child recite her verses separately, and would not let any of them go till all had said their portions perfectly. By the time they had completely finished it was a quarter to five.

"You may trot home now if you like," allowed the monitress. "And just let this be a lesson to you for the future. Go in order and close the door after you."

The martyrs made a decent exit, but once outside they stood and pulled faces at the closed door.

"She's an absolute beast!"

"It's abominable!"

"To keep us all this time!"

"And learning hateful poetry!"

"And we hadn't done anything to deserve it, either!"

"What can we do to pay her out?"

"I know," said Effie. "Hush!"

She held up a warning hand and ran back to the coach-house door. The key was on the outside, in the lock. She stood and listened for a moment, then turned it and fled across the playground, followed by the rest of the form. Instead of going home, however, they stayed in the cloak-room, giggling over their achievement.

"If she's so fond of the handicraft room, she may stay there!"

"She shall just be kept in herself, to see what it feels like."

"_Won't_ she just be savage!"

"Serve her right!"

Vivien, having finished to her satisfaction the particular little bit of carpentering upon which she had been engaged, put away her tools at last, and turned to leave. She was very much surprised to find that she could not open the door. She rattled the handle, thinking it had stuck.

Then she suddenly realized that it was locked, and that she was a prisoner. She hammered till her knuckles were sore, and shouted, but n.o.body came. It struck her that she was in an exceedingly awkward position. The handicraft room was some little distance from the house.

It was improbable that Miss Kingsley, Miss Janet or the maids would hear her. The window was nailed up, and would not open, so escape that way was impossible. Had those wretched juniors locked her in on purpose, and scooted off home? She stamped with wrath at the idea. Yet it seemed only too probable. If so, would she have to spend the night here? The prospect was appalling. She made a last despairing a.s.sault on the door.

To her immense relief a voice on the other side responded. It was a deep, gruff, evidently feigned voice, and it said:

"Hullo, there!"

"Hullo! Let me out!" shouted Vivien.

"No, thanks! You're better where you are!"

"Let me out, I tell you!"

"Gently! Gently! Don't show temper!"