are such a thing never happens again," said Miss Tempest, eyeing
both the culprits, who at that moment would have given a great deal to
have been a little less clever. "You will each put down 'Fair' in your
reports."

"So I've lost my 'Excellent'," lamented Dorothy after school. "Miss
Pitman will be rejoicing; I believe she 'twigged'."

"I'm almost certain she did, she was looking at you so keenly. Well,
there's one good thing, it will show her that we think she favours."

"Much she'll care!"

"Oh, I don't know! No teacher likes to be accused of unfairness."

"I know one thing--I should have got into an uncommonly big scrape if
you hadn't put in a word."

"Well, it was much easier for me than for you, as you'd got the
'Excellent'."

"But I haven't got it now, worse luck! And probably I shan't have
another all this term," groaned Dorothy.

CHAPTER VI

A Promise

Dorothy had grown so accustomed to travelling to school with Alison that
she felt extremely at a loss when one morning she looked out of the
carriage window at Latchworth and did not see the familiar rosy, smiling
face on the platform.

"I wonder if Alison's late, or if she's stopping at home?" she thought.
"She had rather a cold yesterday, and Mrs. Clarke seems so fearfully
fussy. I'm glad Aunt Barbara doesn't worry over me to such an extent; it
must be a perfect nuisance to have to wear galoshes just on the chance
of its raining, and to swathe a Shetland shawl over your mouth if
there's the slightest atom of damp in the air. And Alison is so
conscientious over it! I believe I should stuff the shawl inside my
satchel, and lose the galoshes on purpose!"

The journey seemed dull without her friend and their usual chat
together. It was not interesting to stare out of the window when she
knew every yard of the line by heart, and for lack of other occupation
she was reduced to taking out her books and looking over her lessons.
Both in the mid-morning interval and the half-hour before dinner she
missed Alison exceedingly. She tried to fill up the time with various
expedients. She got a book from the library, and was so long and so
fastidious in choosing that the prefect in charge grew tired of
recommending, and waxed impatient.

"Really, Dorothy Greenfield, you might be a literary critic! One is too
childish, and another's too stiff, and you don't care for historical
tales. I should like to know what you do want! Be quick and take
something,