o doubt that Ingred would have had the
undivided post of favorite in her form had it not been for Bess
Haselford. Not that Bess was in any way a self-constituted rival--on the
contrary she was rather shy and retiring, and made no particular bid for
popularity. Perhaps that was one reason why the girls liked her. She was
generous in lending her property, invited her form-mates to charming
parties at Rotherwood, and often persuaded an indulgent father to
include some of her special chums in motoring expeditions on Saturday
afternoons. She had, indeed, taken up the exact role that Quenrede had
played years ago, before the war, and which Ingred would have followed
had Rotherwood and a car still been in the Saxons' possession. In spite
of several overtures from Bess, Ingred had thrust away all idea of
friendship, and had steadily refused any invitations to her old home.
The reports which the girls brought back of the renewed glories of
Rotherwood made her feel like a disinherited princess. She considered it
rough luck that her supplanter should be at the same school and in the
same form as herself, and decided that Bess had ousted her from both
house and favor. It made it only the more aggravating that Bess's
musical talent was quite equal, if not superior, to her own. Bess had
improved immensely on the violin, and her performance at the end-of-term
recital had received quite a little ovation.

When the question of the walking tour was broached, Bess, owing to home
engagements, had at first reluctantly refused, then had managed to
rearrange her holidays and had joined the party after all. To Ingred her
presence utterly marred the enjoyment. It was extremely unreasonable of
Ingred, for Bess was most unassuming and really very long-suffering. She
put up with snubs that would have made most girls retaliate indignantly.
Nobody likes to be sat upon too hard, however, and even the proverbial
worm will turn at last.

As the walking party, much urged by Miss Strong straggled along towards
Ryton-on-the-Heath, Bess made a lightning dive up a bank and came back
with a blue flower plainly of the _labiate_ species.

"Bugle!" she remarked with satisfaction.

"Bugle?" echoed Ingred scornfully. "Shows how much you know about
botany! That's self-heal!"

"Oh no; it's certainly bugle."

"I tell you it's self-heal. I found some at Lynstones last August and
looked it up in the flower-book."

"Very likely you did, but that doesn't prove t