s already won in the county series,
and refuse permission to you to play again this year. But by doing that
the schools of Milton would be punished in total, for the athletic
standing of all would be lowered.

"Now I have considered a more equitable way of making you young ladies
pay the penalty of that very unladylike and dishonest proceeding. If the
Board of Education sanctions a production of _The Carnation Countess_ by
the pupils of the Milton schools, all you young ladies will be debarred
from taking any part whatever in the play.

"I see very well," pursued Mr. Marks, "that you who were guilty of
robbing Mr. Buckham are girls who would be quite sure of securing
prominent parts in the play. You are debarred. That, at present, is all
I shall say on this subject. If the farmer claims damages, that will be
another matter."

With his rosy face smiling and his eyeglasses sparkling, the principal
dismissed the woeful party. They filed out of the office, very glum
indeed. And Mary Breeze was more than a little inclined to blame Agnes.

"I don't care! I took only a few berries myself," she complained. "And
we none of us would have thought of going over that fence and raiding
the strawberry patch if it hadn't been for Agnes."

"Ah-yah!" repeated Eva, with scorn. "What's the use of saying that?
Aggie may have been the first one over the fence; but we were all right
after her. She may have a little the quickest mind in this crowd, but
her limbs are no quicker."

"And how about Trix?" murmured Myra Stetson. "How is it she has escaped
the deluge?"

That is what Neale O'Neil asked when he met Agnes just before she
reached the old Corner House.

"Oh, Aggie, how did you come out?" he asked soberly. "Was Mr. Marks just
as hard on you as he could be?"

"I think so," Agnes replied gravely. "We don't just know yet what he
means to do. Only in part. But that part is just _awful_!"

"Was the row about Buckham's berries?"

"Yes."

"I thought so. What's he going to do to you? Make you forfeit all the
games?"

"No. Maybe something worse than that."

"Worse? What is it?" asked Neale, in wonder.

"He says we none of us can act in that play he told about this morning."

"Huh!" muttered the boy, eyeing Agnes' flushed face and tearful eyes in
surprise. "Do you care?"

"Oh, Neale! I _know_ I can act. I love it. I've always been crazy for
it. And now, when there's maybe a chance, I am not--going--to--be--let!"

"Goodness!