silly,' remarked Leucha.

Hollyhock whispered to her companions, who immediately dispersed into
different parts of the grounds. The night was perfect for her purpose.
She felt half-mad with delight. She was only sorry for Daisy, who
meant no harm, but was in leading-strings to that proud Lady Leucha.
Leucha deserved her fate richly. Daisy did not.

Hollyhock whispered certain directions to her followers to try to get
Daisy out of the way. This they promised, feeling quite sure that they
could easily manage it.

Just as Daisy's last morsel of candle expired a voice sounded from
afar: 'Daisy Watson, you are wanted in the house. Go in as fast as you
can!'

Two or three girls boldly entered the Summer Parlour, clasped Daisy by
both arms, and dragged her toward the house. Leucha was now alone.
She was wild with rage at this final desertion.

Wrapping her cloak round her, she prepared to step out of the Parlour.
The Scots, the English, and the French girls all hid behind trees.
Hollyhock was near, but not too near. Leucha wrapped her cloak tightly
round her. It _was_ cold! She would be glad to get in out of the
bitter air. She made up her mind to write that very night to her
mother to remove her at any cost from this horrible school; but
although she made up her mind, she knew quite well that the said mother
would pay no attention to her. Was it not the aim of her life to have
her only girl educated in the Palace of the Kings? And she was the
last person to be influenced by mere girlish sadness and loneliness.

All these thoughts flashed through Leucha's mind as she stepped into
the still, frosty night. She went a few yards; then she stood
motionless, transfixed, turned for the time being into stone.
What--what was this horror coming to meet her? A tall figure with
skeleton hands and face, wearing a very mournful expression in the
eyes--a figure that walked slowly, solemnly, such as she had certainly
_never_ seen before. She felt herself alone and a long way from home,
for the Summer Parlour was quite a distance from the house. The figure
held a lantern in its skeleton hands, which was so cleverly arranged
that it lit up the worn features and revealed the dripping locks.

'Dry my hair, my wet hair!' cried the ghost in a deep sepulchral voice.
'Kind English maid, be so kind as to dry my hair!'

Leucha gave vent to an irrepressible shriek of horror. She had always
hitherto laughed at the bare idea of