led to
her.

"They're little plain birds to look at, but they just sing their hearts
out," she said. "I learnt Browning's piece about the thrush when I was
at school in Australia, and I always wanted to hear a real English one.
I don't wonder he was enthusiastic about it."

March had arrived like the traditional lion, but went out like the
orthodox lamb, and the 1st of April was ushered in by most appropriate
showers. The time-honoured festival was kept up in rather a languid
fashion at Briarcroft. The Upper School discountenanced it as childish
and foolish, but a few of the Juniors indulged in jokes at one another's
expense. These were mostly confined to the First and Second Forms, and
the Upper Fourth as a rule scorned them equally with the Seniors.

On this particular morning the girls had just taken their places in
their classroom, and were waiting for Miss White, when Maude handed
Gipsy a letter, with the casual enquiry: "I say, Yankee Doodle, is this
meant for you?" It was a thin foreign envelope, and bore a South
African stamp, and it was addressed to "Miss Latimer, Briarcroft Hall,
Greyfield, England". Gipsy glanced at it at first idly, then seized upon
it as a starving man clutches at food. Her heart was beating and
throbbing wildly, and her shaking, trembling fingers could scarcely tear
it open. Was it at last the news for which she had been yearning,
craving, sickening for so many weary, weary months? It was not her
father's writing, but it might possibly contain tidings of him. She
could scarcely control her violent excitement; her cheeks were white,
her lips were quivering, and she drew her breath with little, short,
painful jerks. In frantic anticipation she dragged the letter from its
envelope, and unfolded it. It was only a single sheet of foreign paper,
and it bore but one sentence:

"First of April; nicely sold!"

For a moment Gipsy gazed at the words without really comprehending their
meaning. Then it dawned upon her that she was the victim of a most cruel
hoax. The revulsion of feeling was so great, and the disappointment so
intense, that she gave a little, sharp, bitter cry, and, leaning forward
over her desk, buried her head in her arms, and sobbed audibly.

"What is it, Gipsy? What's the matter?" enquired her neighbours.

"Read it! Oh, how could anybody?" choked Gipsy.

Hetty Hancock seized upon the sheet, which had fallen to the floor, and
after one brief glance at