us to stah't. It had such a bossy,
tyrannical sawt of sound."

"You'll not find it that way at Warwick Hall," was the emphatic answer.
"There are bells for rising and chapel and meals, but the signal for
exercise is a hunter's horn, blown on the upper terrace. There's
something so breezy and out-of-doors in the sound that it is almost as
irresistible a call as the Pied Piper of Hamelin's. You ought to see the
doors fly open along the corridors, and the girls pour out when that
horn blows. We can go in twos or threes or squads, any way we please,
and in any direction, so long as we keep inside the grounds. There's an
orchard to stroll through, and a wooded hillside, and a big meadow. On
bad days there is over half a mile of gravel road that runs through the
grounds to the trolley station, or we can take our exercise going round
and round the garden walks. The garden is over there at the left of the
Hall," she explained, waving her hand toward it. "Do you see that
pergola stretching along the highest terrace? That is where the garden
begins, and the ivy running over it was started from a slip that Madam
Chartley brought from Sir Walter Scott's home at Abbotsford.

"It is the stateliest old garden you ever saw, and the pride of the
school. There's a sun-dial in it, and hollyhocks from Ann Hathaway's
cottage, and rhododendrons from Killarney. There's all the flowers
mentioned in the old songs. Madam has brought slips and roots and seeds
from all sorts of places, so that nearly every plant is connected with
some noted place or person. I simply love it. In warm weather I get up
early in the morning, and study my Latin out in the honeysuckle arbour.
Latin is my hardest study, but it doesn't seem half so hard out there
among the bees and hummingbirds, where it's all so sweet and still."

"Oh, will they let you do things like that?" came the same amazed
question from all four at once.

"You wait and see," was the encouraging reply. "That isn't the
beginning."

The four exchanged ecstatic glances.

"Oh, we haven't introduced ourselves," exclaimed Kitty, bethinking
herself of formalities. "I am Katherine Walton, and this is my big
sister, Allison. That is Lloyd Sherman and Elizabeth Lewis. They're
almost as good as sisters, for they live together, and Lloyd's mother is
Betty's godmother. And we're all from the same place, Lloydsboro Valley,
Kentucky."

"And I am Juliet Lynn from Wisconsin. That is, I lived there till papa