you could look inside her desk, you wouldn't
find it full of classical authors; there'd be novels and beauty recipes
instead."

"She keeps it locked, at any rate."

"Wise of her, too. If we could only open it now! Hallo! She's actually
forgotten to lock it to-day! What a joke! Let us see what she's got
here!"

"Particularly honourable for a warden!" came a voice from the other end
of the room.

Hope turned round angrily.

"Indeed, Madam Sanctimonious! So you've grown a prig all of a sudden?
Who asked Saint Dorothy to interfere?"

"Go on, Hope," said Blanche; "we're not goody-goody."

"Well, I mean to have a look, at any rate. There! Didn't I tell you? The
first thing I find is a novel. What a heap of papers! I believe she must
keep her love letters here. Oh, girls, I say, here's a portrait of a
gentleman!"

Blanche, Irene, and Valentine came crowding round, all sense of honour
lost in their curiosity.

"Oh, what a supreme joke!" they exclaimed.

Now the back desks of the classroom were raised on a platform, and in
the corner where Dorothy sat there was a tiny window that served the
purpose of lighting the passage. From her place Dorothy that moment
caught a vision--no less a person than Miss Pitman herself was walking
down the corridor. Should she give a warning "Cave!" and let the others
know? She was not sure whether they deserved it.

"Look here, you wouldn't be doing this if Miss Pitman could see you!"
she remonstrated. "Why don't you stuff those things back and shut up the
desk?"

"Shut up yourself, Dorothy Greenfield, and mind your own business!"

"On your heads be it, then," muttered Dorothy. "I tried to save you, but
here comes swift vengeance!"

At that moment through the open door walked Miss Pitman. She stopped
short and surveyed the scene through her pince-nez. There was her
portrait on the blackboard--not at all a flattering one, especially with
the inscription issuing from her mouth, but quite unmistakably meant to
represent her, for her name was written above. At her open desk were her
four favourite pupils, giggling over the photograph which Hope held
aloft. It was a disillusionment for any teacher, and Miss Pitman's mouth
twitched.

"What are you doing at my desk?" she asked sharply.

No girls were ever so hopelessly caught. Hope remained with the
photograph in her hand, staring speechlessly; Blanche tried to shuffle
away, Valentine looked sulky, and Irene--always ready for tears-