hat this is self-heal."

"It does, for anybody with a pair of eyes. I've been studying botany."

"And so have I!"

"You may think you know everything, Bess Haselford, but you don't know
this."

[Illustration: "YOU MAY THINK YOU KNOW EVERYTHING, BESS HASELFORD, BUT
YOU DON'T KNOW THIS!"]

"I didn't say I knew everything; but I'm certain this is bugle all the
same, and I stick to it!"

Bess's usually sweet voice had an obstinate note in it for once. She
seemed determined to defend her botanical trenches.

"Go it--hammer and tongs!" laughed Kitty. "I'll back the winner!"

"And I'll take the case into court," said Linda, snatching the flower
from her schoolfellow's hand and running on to show it to Miss Strong,
who was an authority on the subject.

The mistress paused to let the others overtake her.

"Bugle, certainly," she decided emphatically. "The first bit we've found
this year. It's out early. Self-heal? Oh dear no! The two are rather
alike and are sometimes mistaken one for another, but no botanist would
dream of confusing them. Bugle is a spring and early summer flower, and
self-heal blooms much later. Make a note in your nature diaries that you
found bugle on 15th April."

Considerably squashed, Ingred had for once to acknowledge her botany to
be at fault, and, though Bess did not triumph, Francie gave Kitty a poke
and the pair giggled.

"Well, of course, one can't be always right," said Ingred airily.

"So it seems; though some people set themselves up for wiseacres!"
sniggered Kitty.

Ingred fell behind with Verity and let the others walk on. It was only a
trifling incident, but she was annoyed to notice how openly and
instantly the girls had sided with Bess. She felt too glum for speech,
and as Verity was tired and disinclined to talk, they tramped along in
silence.

They had been winding steadily uphill for some miles and were now on the
heath from which Ryton took its name. The ground fell steeply to the
west, showing glimpses of a great river in the valley below, where the
still-leafless woods had burst here and there into faint tokens of
spring. Beyond the river rose the characteristic grey hills of the
neighborhood, with their stone walls and sheepfolds and stretches of
moorland, looking a little hazy in the afternoon light, but with patches
of yellow gorse catching the sunshine. Ryton was a delightful little
village. Its cottages, built long ago by local craftsmen, seemed
absolutely in h