to go to Number Twenty-Nine." And with a scowl at
the innocently offending new girl, she marched off to inspect her new
cubicle with an aggrieved air.

Left to herself, Geraldine pulled her curtain again, and curled herself
up rather forlornly upon the bed. In spite of the brave resolutions
she had made when she left home that morning not to cry or show her
home-sickness, no matter how lonely or miserable she might be, the
tears were very near her eyes at that moment. And a devastating
feeling of shyness and fearfulness, which was the bugbear of her
existence, descended upon her mind.

For of all the shy, nervous, frightened girls of fifteen that ever
were, Geraldine Wilmott was surely the most shy and nervous and
frightened! It was not her own fault. She had always been a delicate,
highly-strung child, while a severe illness when she was seven years
old had not improved matters. And then, three years ago, during the
War, she had been in an air-raid, and the sights and sounds she had
seen and heard that night had left an indelible impression upon her
nervous system. She was fully aware of her own failings--almost
morbidly so--and she did her best to struggle against the fears that so
constantly beset her. But it was uphill work, and even the three years
of peace and quiet in the country house her parents had taken, after
the doctor had said that a country life was imperative for the little
girl, if her nerves were to be saved, had not altogether accomplished a
cure.

And now at last the doctor had prescribed boarding-school as a remedy
for the nervousness.

"I really think it is worth giving it a trial, Mrs. Wilmott," he had
said. "There is nothing wrong with the child's health. It is purely
mental, and I believe that the society of other girls will do more for
her now than all the care and anxiety you lavish upon her at home.
Send her to a first-class school, a really big one. Don't make
arrangements for any special privileges--just let her mingle with the
other girls as though she were a perfectly normal child. She will
never get the better of this nervousness while you spoil and pamper her
at home."

"Really, I don't think I've spoilt her," began Mrs. Wilmott in some
distress, but the specialist interrupted her.

"No, I dare say you haven't, in the accepted sense of the word," he
said, with a smile. "And, of course, cosseting and pampering were what
she needed when you first brought her to me. H