re at four o'clock with a feeling of
much satisfaction. Even Aldora, whose wrath was short lived, had already
forgiven the scrimmage and was friendly. Mentally Lesbia was purring.

"Wait for me for five minutes and I'll walk home with you," volunteered
Aldora. "I have to take a letter from Mother to Miss Tatham, and she'll
probably want to write an answer and send it by me."

And Lesbia, who loathed waiting for anybody, nevertheless agreed, as a
kind of recompense to Aldora for having ousted her out of the best desk.
It was a sunny afternoon so she went into the garden. There was a
pleasant corner there with an artificial pond, and bushes, and flights
of steps and a statue on a pedestal. She sat down under the shade of a
red-berried shrub and watched in the water of the pool the reflections
of white clouds that scudded overhead. The September wind blew, dropping
rose petals into her lap. A robin near by twittered its autumn song.
Summer was waning fast, and, though she did not yet know it, the summer
of her careless childhood was falling away like the roses. The first
disillusionment of mankind was in a garden; some of the greatest
tragedies of the world have happened among a setting of trees and
flowers.

As Lesbia sat twisting rose petals round her fingers she became aware
of voices talking near her. Two girls had strolled to the pond by the
lower path, and had settled down on the steps beneath her without
noticing her presence. They were evidently discussing the various
members of the form, and she caught her own name.

"Lesbia? Oh, I'm sorry for Lesbia!" (It was Marion Morwood who spoke.)
"Why? Well you see she's in such a queer position. Her father died when
she was a baby, and her mother married again, and then both her mother
and her stepfather died. She lives with her stepbrother, who, of course,
isn't the slightest relation to her really. He just keeps her out of
charity. Mrs. James was telling mother all about it one day. She says
Lesbia's own people didn't leave her a penny, and her relations won't
help; so the Hiltons are saddled with her."

"Very decent of them."

"Um, yes, I suppose so; but of course she's tremendously useful with the
children. You always see her trailing them out on Saturdays and Sundays,
and often even on weekdays after school. She's as good as a nursemaid. I
should hate to wheel a perambulator myself."

"Good-night! So should I! The bare idea gives me umpteen fits."

"I should