tfully
for the postman--how wistfully nobody but Miss Edith ever noticed. It
was growing towards the end of November, and already the boarders were
beginning to talk of the holidays. The evening recreation time was
devoted to the making of Christmas presents; even the little girls were
busy embroidering traycloths and constructing pincushions. Gipsy began
to work a pair of slippers for her father, a rather lengthy proceeding,
for she was not clever at needlecraft, and was apt to pull her wool too
tightly, having to unpick her stitches in consequence. There was no
particular hurry in her case, though, for it was impossible for her to
dispatch the parcel in time for Christmas when she did not know where to
address it. If there was a forlorn look in the brown eyes sometimes when
others talked about home, they twinkled again so readily that her
schoolmates never realized she could feel lonely, and a stranger in a
strange land. To them she appeared the very epitome of fun and
happy-go-lucky carelessness, and they would have been surprised indeed
if they had known what a very sore heart she carried occasionally under
her outward assumption of jollity.

Daisy Scatcherd's birthday fell on the last day of November. Daisy,
though she merited her nickname of "Scatterbrains", was rather a
favourite among the boarders, so she came off very well indeed in the
matter of presents. Her home people had also remembered her, and many
interesting parcels arrived for her during the course of the morning.
Between four and half-past, in the afternoon, she was taking a run round
the garden in company with a few friends, when she spied the postman
walking briskly up the drive.

"I expect he's got something more for me," she exclaimed, and dived
under the laurels to take a short cut to the drive and intercept him.

"Give me the letters, please! It's my birthday!" she said breathlessly.

"Only three this afternoon, missy! Don't know whether any of 'em's for
you or not," said the man, laughing.

"Let me see! Yes! yes! I'll take them, please. It's all right."

Not sorry to save the extra walk to the house, the postman departed. He
was late, and had a long round before he could return home. Daisy was
looking eagerly at the letters. One, a thin foreign envelope, was
addressed to Miss Gipsy Latimer, and that she thrust hastily into her
coat pocket; the other two were for herself. They both contained postal
orders, which elevated her to such heigh