fifty-five busy little people, on one side of the curtain,
sewed laboriously at fifty-five flannel garments, while thirty-two others,
in the seniors' room, were cutting out fresh ones and struggling with
what Miss Smythe called the 'fixing.' Usually, plain-work evening was
the dullest out of the seven, for conversation did not flourish under
the depressing dominion of flannel, and Miss Smythe, the needlework
mistress who came from the town twice a week to teach them, had never
managed to interest her pupils either in herself or in what they were
doing. But to-night there was something to discuss that thrilled every
one of the workers on both sides of the curtain, and the effect on
the flannel garments of this unusual enthusiasm even awoke a faint
wonderment in the mind of Miss Smythe. She did not know, never having
tried to win the confidence of the children, that the cause of the
emotion that was pulsing from end to end of the two playrooms was the
temporary residence, under the honoured roof of Wootton Beeches, of Miss
Finlayson's uncle, the Canon.

The Canon had always been an object of interest, theoretically, to the
girls at Wootton Beeches. They did not know much about him, except that
he lived in some cathedral town in the North of England, and came South
about once a year and spent part of his holiday at Wootton Beeches;
and they were familiar with his portrait, which always stood on the
writing-table in his niece's study. That was all they could have told
anybody; but the very lack of facts only added to the magic of his name,
and as none of them happened to be in touch with a bishop, or even
with a dean, Miss Finlayson's uncle the Canon continued to impress
them from a distance with his importance. Hitherto, his visit had always
happened to fall in the holidays; but, this time, he had unaccountably
appeared in the middle of the term, and the excitement of his actual
presence among them had given them enough news to put in their letters
home for quite two weeks. The day before, he had even replaced the curate
in the little chapel, and had not only read prayers but had delivered
an address on unselfishness as well; and it was this address that had
provided the whole school, on plain-work evening, with a burning topic of
conversation.

The problem that had just been put into words by Charlotte Bigley was one
that had exercised the ingenuity of everybody since yesterday morning.
To do good works was the present