map seared and scored with
boundary-lines, black and bristling with names. She could not have laid
her finger on London at this moment, and as for Stafford, it might have
been in the moon.

While the class straggled along the verandah at the end of the hour,
Inez came up to Laura's side.

"I say, you shouldn't have said that about her mother." She nodded
mysteriously.

"Why not?" asked Laura, and coloured at the thought that she had again,
without knowing it, been guilty of a FAUX PAS.

Inez looked round to see that Bertha was not within hearing, then put
her lips to Laura's ear.

"She drinks."

Laura gaped incredulous at the girl, her young eyes full of horror.
From actual experience, she hardly knew what drunkenness meant; she had
hitherto associated it only with the lowest class of Irish agricultural
labourer, or with those dreadful white women who lived, by choice, in
Chinese Camps. That there could exist a mother who drank was
unthinkable ... outside the bounds of nature.

"Oh, how awful!" she gasped, and turned pale with excitement. Inez
could not help giggling at the effect produced by her words--the new
girl was a 'rum stick' and no mistake--but as Laura's consternation
persisted, she veered about.

"Oh, well, I don't know for certain if that's it. But there's something
awfully queer about her."

"Oh, HOW do you know?" asked her breathless listener, mastered by a
morbid curiosity.

"I've been there--at Vaucluse--from a Saturday till Monday. She came in
to lunch, and she only talked to herself, not to us. She tried to eat
mustard with her pudding too, and her meat was cut up in little pieces
for her. I guess if she'd had a knife she'd have cut our throats."

"Oh!" was all Laura could get out.

"I was so frightened my mother said I shouldn't go again."

"Oh, I hope she won't ask me. What shall I do if she does?"

"Look out, here she comes! Don't say a word. Bertha's awfully ashamed
of it," said Inez, and Laura had just time to give a hasty promise.

"Hullo, you two, what are you gassing about?" cried Bertha, and dealt
out a couple of her rough and friendly punches.--"I say, who's on for a
race up the garden?"

They raced, all three, with flying plaits and curls, much kicking-up of
long black legs, and a frank display of frills and tuckers. Laura won;
for Inez's wind gave out half way, and Bertha was heavy of foot.
Leaning against the palings Laura watched the latter come puffing up to
join he