An inspiration struck Lorraine.

"Are you going to the railway cutting? Oh, Uncle! We've just had such a
hullabaloo down there. Could you possibly help us out of it?"

Mr. Barton Forrester listened with a twinkle in his eye to his niece's
graphic account of their adventure, and promised his moral support.

"It's Winston-Jones on duty there," he commented. "I know him, so I'll
do my best to convince him that none of you are German spies or
dangerous incendiaries. Cheer up! They won't hale you off to prison this
time. I expect I can put matters straight, and you'll hear no more about
it. But remember the railway is taboo for the future. We can't allow
even botanists to be straying about near tunnels in a military zone."

"We won't so much as lean over the palings. Thanks most immensely,
Uncle! You're an absolute angel!"

"I wish I had wings to waft me up the hill. I'm deficient in leg power
to-night," coughed Mr. Barton Forrester. "No, I won't kiss you,
Monica--you'd catch my cold. Good-bye, all three of you! I'll have a
talk with Winston-Jones, and persuade him to wipe off that black score
against your names."

"I always said Uncle Barton was a trump," murmured Monica, as the three
sinners, vastly relieved, went on their way.

"He's an absolute sport," agreed Mervyn with enthusiasm.

CHAPTER IV

Greets Claudia

By dint of urging on the part of the new monitresses the school made a
special effort for the social gathering. The idea of an exhibition had
frightened the juniors at first, but when they grew used to it it
appealed to them. They were rather pleased to bring specimens of their
best drawings, photos, plasticine models, or other pieces of handiwork,
and, though their efforts might be somewhat crude, Lorraine on the first
occasion rejected nothing, thinking that comparison with better work was
the surest means of raising the standard for next time. She and her
fellow-monitresses certainly made merry in private over Vera Chambers'
lopsided plasticine duck, Opal Clarke's extraordinary original
illustrations, and the cat-stitches in Jessie Lovell's tea-cloth, but
they kept their mirth to their own circle and allowed no hint of it to
leak into the lower school.

On the eventful day of the "Social" the closing bell rang at 3.35
instead of at four o'clock, and forty-two delighted girls promptly put
away their books, closed their desks, and trooped into the gymnasium.
The monitresses, aided and abett