ll she
had her good points.

"I'll forgive her--to-morrow!" thought Lesbia, cooling down a little.

But to-morrow, alack! came a fresh cause of offence. The Sixth were
getting up a photographic exhibition, mainly of pictures which they had
taken during the holidays. Marion was the lucky possessor of an
enlarging apparatus, and she very kindly offered to enlarge a photo for
each of her fellow-prefects if they would bring her the films.

Now, Lesbia's camera was a rather old-fashioned one and contained
plates. She had taken a portrait of the Webster family having tea by the
stream on a brilliant sunny day, and the negative was beautifully sharp
and clear. She brought it to school packed in a flat box. Several other
girls were clustering round Marion showing her their pet films.

"This is at Dawlish, on the sands."

"Mine's a view of Windermere."

"This is a snap of our fox-terrier, Barry. It's got him absolutely
perfectly."

"Oh, you'll like mine! It's my baby niece, yawning in her perambulator.
We think it's great."

"Here's mine, old sport," said Lesbia, unpacking her treasure.

She handed it to her chum, who, to do her credit, perhaps did not
realize it was a plate and not a film. Marion seized it so carelessly
that it slid from her hand, fell upon the floor, and smashed in three
pieces. For an instant there was a ghastly silence.

"Oh! Hard luck!" sympathized Calla.

Marion was stooping to pick up the fragments.

"I'm _awfully_ sorry!" she apologized. "It can be pieced together though
I'm sure. I'll take it to the Kodak shop and see what they can do with
it. They'll probably stipple it up so that it doesn't show in the
least."

In certain circumstances there is nothing more aggravating than too
great optimism. To have your trials made light of, and to be told a
thing will turn out all right when you are absolutely sure that such a
happy ending is quite outside the bounds of all possibility, irritates
rather than soothes.

"All right a hundred years hence perhaps, but all wrong now!" flared
Lesbia. "It _can't_ be mended, so don't talk humbug. You've smashed it,
and it's done for. I wish to goodness I'd left it safely at home and
never trusted it to you. Of all butter-fingered Handy Andies you're the
biggest!"

"Might as well let her try and get it mended," urged Calla.

"No thanks. I'd rather take it home."

And Lesbia, still with red spots in her cheeks, put the poor fragments
tenderly back in t