ees, and brushwood.

"What we want to make first," she announced, "is a raft. I wonder it
never struck me to make it before!"

Now rafts sound quite simple and easy when you read about them in
books of adventure. Shipwrecked mariners on coral islands in the
Pacific always lash a few logs together with incredible speed, and
perform wonderful journeys through boiling surf to rescue kegs of
provisions and other useful commodities which they observe floating
about on the waves. The waters of the moat, being tranquil, and
overgrown with duckweed, would surely prove more hospitable than the
surging ocean, and ought to support a raft, of however amateur a
description. Nevertheless, when they began to look round, it was more
difficult than they had expected to find just the right material. The
railway sleepers were too large and heavy, and the fence poles were of
unequal lengths. Moreover, there was nothing with which to lash them
together, for when Raymonde visited the orchard, intending to purloin
a clothes-line, she found the housemaid there, hanging up a row of
pantry towels, and was obliged to beat a hurried retreat. After much
hunting about, the girls at last discovered in a corner exactly what
they wanted. It was the door of a demolished shed, made of stout
planking, strongly nailed and braced, and in fairly sound condition.
Nothing could have been better for their purpose. After first doing a
little scouting, to make sure that the rest of the school were safely
at the other side of the garden, they dragged it down to the edge of
the moat, returning to fetch two small saplings to act as punt-poles.

"For goodness' sake, let's be quick and get off before anybody comes
round and catches us!" panted Raymonde.

"Are you absolutely certain it's safe?" quavered Aveline dubiously.

Raymonde looked at her scornfully.

"Aveline Kerby, if you don't feel yourself up to this business,
please back out of it at once, and I'll go and fetch Morvyth instead.
She may be a blighter in some things, but she doesn't funk!"

"No more do I," declared Aveline, suddenly assuming an air of
dignified abandon, reminiscent of the heroes of coral-island stories.
"I'm ready to brave anything, especially for the sake of old
Wilkinson. Don't tip the thing so hard at your end! You've made me
trap my fingers!"

They launched their craft from the water-garden, treading ruthlessly
on Linda's irises and Hermie's cherished forget-me-nots. It seemed to