he cross and stumbling-block of Lesbia's life.
She was passing through a restless phase, and enjoyed giving trouble;
Miss Campbell, her own form-mistress, could not easily be defied, so she
broke out all the more under a junior teacher.

School had grown so intolerable lately that Lesbia welcomed week-ends as
a prisoner does a reprieve. She felt sometimes as if she wanted to
shake the dust of Kingfield off her feet for ever. One Saturday, simply
to get away for a mental change, she borrowed Joan's bicycle and rode
out into the country. Flowers were opening in the hedgerows and woods,
thrushes and blackbirds were singing their spring songs, and in spite of
occasional showers the afternoon was fresh and pleasant. Some of the
peace and quiet of nature seemed to steal into her tired soul. She began
to feel that life was not all High School, and to listen to those
soothing voices that whisper in the rustle of leaves and the murmur of
streams. She spent more than an hour simply resting in a wood, and
started to go home very much refreshed and consoled.

As she rode along, fully seven miles out of Kingfield, she passed a girl
who was walking and wheeling a bicycle. The general set of the figure
was familiar, and, turning her head, Lesbia recognized Maisie Martin.
Her first feeling was to ignore her, and pedal along in front as fast as
possible, to get away from such an incarnation of all her school
worries. But the leaves and the brook had been rustling and rippling a
different gospel, and her mental tone was in tune with them. She got off
her machine instead and turned back.

"Hello, Maisie! What's the matter with you?" she inquired.

She might well ask, for Maisie's usually clean and cheerful face was
streaked with smudges of dirt, her skirt held a big rent, and she
hobbled rather than walked. She was indeed a most forlorn-looking
object, visibly depressed.

At sight of someone she knew she made an eager spurt forward.

"Oh, I've had such a spill," she explained. "I don't know how I did it,
but I pitched right over the handles, and I've smashed my bike. It's not
fit to ride. Look! I've scraped my leg too, and grazed my hands."

"Hard luck! Be glad you're not worse hurt though. How are you going to
get back to Kingfield?"

"I don't know. Walk, I suppose," Maisie's voice shook. She looked on the
verge of tears.

"Could you leave your bike at that cottage and ride on my
luggage-carrier?"

"Oh! Would you take me?"