on, and each inscription bore the name of
a girl at its head. Rhoda craned forward and read first one and then
another:

"...Winifred Barton, joined Hurst Manor, September, 189--, left
Christmas, 189--. The youngest pupil who ever obtained honours in
Mathematics in the Oxford Local Examinations."

"Elizabeth Charrington, an old pupil of the school, obtained First Class
in the Honours School of Modern History at Oxford."

"Eleanor Newman, joined Hurst Manor, September, 189--, left Mid., 189--.
Beloved by her fellow-students as the kindest and most loyal of
friends, the most unselfish of competitors. Held in grateful
remembrance for the power of her influence and example."

"Fanny Elder. For two years Games President of the school. Winner of
the Wimbledon Lawn Tennis Tournament, 189--. Holder of Edinburgh Golf
Cup, 189--. A just and fearless sportswoman..."

The list of names went on indefinitely, but Rhoda had read enough to
inflame curiosity, and wheeled eagerly round to confront Kathleen.

"What is it? What does it mean? Who puts them up? Is it just the
cleverest girls?--"

"It's the Record Wall!" said Kathleen. "We are very proud of our Record
Wall at Hurst. The cost of these tablets is paid by the pupils
themselves, and they are put up entirely at their discretion. The
teachers have nothing to do with it. If a girl has distinguished
herself at work, but is conceited and overbearing, and makes herself
disliked, no one wants to put up a tablet to _her_; so it is really a
testimony to character, as well as to cleverness. Eleanor Newman was
quite stupid, they say. I never knew her. She never passed a single
examination, nor took a prize nor anything, yet every one loved her.
She was a little, fair thing, with curly hair too short to tie back, and
soft, grey eyes. She wasn't a bit goody, but she always seemed waiting
to do kind things, and make peace, and cheer the girls when they were
home-sick. And no one ever heard her say a cross word, or make an
uncharitable remark."

"And did she die?" croaked Rhoda solemnly. A long experience of girls'
stories had taught her that when girls were sweet and fair, and never
said an unkind word, they invariably caught a chill, and died of rapid
consumption. She expected to hear the same report of Eleanor Newman,
but Kathleen replied briskly:

"Die! Not a bit of it. She married, at nineteen, a doctor down in
Hampshire, and brought him to see the school