The last two weeks had been so full of other things that lessons and their preparation had taken a somewhat secondary place in the thoughts of Form Five, and, in consequence, they had merited and received many rebukes.

Sally May had spent two hours of a precious Saturday afternoon learning poetry, for she had failed miserably in the last literature test; Josephine had been her companion in disgrace, and had even had to spend a precious Friday evening "in durance vile" because of returned lessons.

Judith's pride had been badly hurt by Miss Hilton's comment written in her geometry exercise book, "Very poor work, indeed, untidy and careless," and, worse still, when the lists were posted for the mid-term Latin examination, Judith's name had been halfway down with fifty-six marks to her credit. At Miss Graham's she had always headed the list. Just for a moment she almost thought that there must be some mistake, and then she realized that Five A standards were high and first-class standing meant first-class work.

Literature and history were Judith's strong subjects, and on the morning when she saw her Latin marks she made a mighty resolve to head the list in at least one of these. It wouldn't be easy. Joyce Hewson and Phyllis Lovell had been steadily piling up marks all term, and the whole form was watching their tussle for first place. Christmas reports and class standing for the half-year were made on class work and on the examinations at the end of the term.

"I've just got to have one 'first' on my report," said Judith to herself as she put away her books after morning school. "I've just got to—Daddy'll be awfully disappointed if I don't." And then, taking her place in the line that was filing into Big Hall, she whispered to Nancy, "What're we going to have this morning?"

"I'm not sure," said Nancy, "but I think Ruth Laughton's going to speak. I saw her going into Miss Meredith's study this morning."

The last period of Friday morning school belonged to Miss Meredith.

"It's like a grab-bag," Nancy had inelegantly told Judith; "you never know what you are going to get—sometimes it is a lecture, sometimes Miss Meredith reads us a story, sometimes we have carol singing—I do like that—and during the War we had talks from people who had been there. Once we had a Polish Countess who spoke the funniest English, but she was awfully brave, and once a man from Serbia. He was in the Red Cross and he told us a terrible story about the state of the Serbian children. We held form meetings the Monday following and voted to give up candy for a whole term, all of us, and we sent the money to him for the relief work. I think it's the nicest time of the week."

Judith too was coming to look forward to that last hour of the school week, very often to schoolgirls a wasted hour at the fag end of things.

This Friday an Old Girl was to speak to them. Miss Meredith held that a school like York Hill, in order to justify the time and effort, the money and brains, the service and consecration put into it, should send out girls who would be leaders and workers in everything which would make for the betterment of the community in which they lived, and unconsciously the Nancys and Judiths of the School, through these Friday morning glimpses of the great world of service, would be steadily and surely prepared for the part which they were to play. Social service, as such, was not talked about; most girls dislike what they call "preachments," but when Form Four decided to make baby clothes as a Christmas shower for the crÊche where an Old Girl worked, and when Form Five promised a woolen sweater from every girl for the Fourteen Club at the University Settlement, social service became a real and vital fact in their lives. For, as Judith learned, knitted sweaters mean work, and wool costs money, which had to be deducted from an already painfully shrunken allowance, and baby clothes, although fascinating and cute, represent many hours of careful stitching.

Meanwhile the seeds planted on Friday mornings grew and flourished until "Noblesse oblige" became a natural and an actual attitude towards life. Social service of some sort or other, after one left school, was an established fact like unlimited tea-parties and dancing partners. And Miss Meredith and many of her staff made it the business of their lives to see that it should be social service of the right kind.

About once a term the Old Girls' Association provided a speaker. Miss Meredith had entertained many distinguished guests who had spoken in Big Hall, but none were made more welcome than the Old Girls, for the Head Mistress knew the appeal which they alone could, and did make. To-day the speaker was to be Ruth Laughton, a nursing sister decorated for gallantry by the King. Catherine had been a Junior when Ruth was Captain of South House, and she had pointed out to Judith Ruth's name on the tablet in Big Hall where the names of House and School captains were printed in letters of gold.

Judith considered, as Form Five marched into the Hall, what it would be like to carry out wounded soldiers under fire. Nursing Sister Laughton must be big and strong and brave, perhaps she was always brave and did not really mind the explosions. What was courage, anyway? And then, before she could decide this puzzling question, Miss Meredith was coming down the centre aisle with her distinguished guest. The School gave a thunderous welcome and settled back after Miss Meredith's brief introduction to hear a thrilling story.

Form Five confessed among themselves afterwards to a distinct feeling of disappointment when the speaker came forward. She was small, "not a bit pretty," the girls decided, and her voice seemed tired and lacking in vitality. The decoration on her breast appeared to be the only significant thing about her. Evidently Ruth was nervous.

"If she is not afraid of bombs, she is afraid of us," thought Judith, for the Sister's face grew white, her lips dry, and her assertion that she was glad to be back at dear old York Hill seemed to be all that she could remember of her speech. Three hundred pairs of hands had clapped her a warm welcome, but now she confronted three hundred pairs of critical eyes. She faltered, began again, and finally looked appealingly, a schoolgirl once more, at her Head Mistress.

"Never mind about your own experiences just now, Ruth," said Miss Meredith's calm, reassuring voice, "we'd like to hear a little more about the children's hostels in the north of France. We are all interested because we are sending clothes to Jean Warner to distribute."

And then a miracle happened, the whole School saw it. Ruth was transformed before them, her eyes brightened, her shoulders straightened, her voice had an inspiring ring in it as she told the story of the heroism of other Old Girls.

She had an interesting story to tell and she told it well: even the First-Form wrigglers sat with their eyes glued on her face as she told of the brave fight which was being made for the life and health of the children of Europe. "There is one thing especially I should like to tell you," she finished, looking down into the sea of upturned faces, "wherever I found a York girl—and you know my duties have taken me into all sorts of queer places these last four years—whether she was a V.A.D. ambulance driver, a nurse in hospital, a Y.W.C.A. secretary, or a Child's Welfare worker, always the record was the same, that when a York Hill girl undertook something, she put it through—especially if it were a hard job! That's what the General said when he pinned on Gwen's Mons Star—'Another of the ladies from Canada! They have taught you out there to put things through with a will!' York Hill Old Girls look to York Hill present girls to maintain the record of the School."

And if the applause meant anything, it surely stood for a determination on the part of her listeners to maintain the York Hill tradition.

Without considering the matter overmuch, Judith was convinced that the thing she was "to put through" during these last few weeks of term was hard study, and she bent to her tasks with a will.

The School seemed suddenly to become very busy, though about what Judith did not know. Much whispering was heard in the "Jolly Susan"; Nancy and Josephine looked very mysterious, girls from all parts of the School seemed to be in the same secret, and Judith heard tantalizing phrases, "scenery committee"—"scene shifters"—"costume committee"—"the Play." Very soon she herself was in a big secret, for a meeting of all New Girls was called by the School Captain, and Eleanor explained that the New Girls would be entertained at a play in the last week of November; that the custom was that the New Girls should return the compliment by an entertainment given during the last week of term; that since the New Girls were decidedly in the minority, two of the prefects and she herself would help in any way they could; and that, in a word, she was now ready to receive nominations for the various committees.

An exciting hour followed. To her dismay Judith found herself on the Costume Committee and she hated sewing. Sally May gave her little comfort—"just be glad you don't have to paint scenery; that's a dirty and hard job if you like," said Sally May. "Miss Ashwell makes us work like demons. If she didn't work like a demon herself, we just wouldn't do it," was her sage comment. Committee meetings multiplied. The play chosen was to be kept a secret from its audience and a delicious air of mystery pervaded the whole School.

After much discussion and help from Eleanor and Miss Marlowe, the New Girls chose the "Christmas Carol." Many other things were suggested, but Scrooge and Tiny Tim had apparently a warm place in their affections, and the appropriateness of the Christmas story for the end of term was irresistible.

The choosing of the cast was a difficult and a tedious job, and Miss Marlowe and Eleanor spent much time trying out various candidates, but at last the list was complete, and, a little to her relief, and, it must be confessed, a little to her regret, Judith was not included. She had never acted, and she had a firm conviction that she could not, so that the regret was merely that she didn't like to think that other people had the same conviction.

Her membership on the Costume Committee was no sinecure. Coveted Saturday afternoon and evening leisure had to be given up to the stitching of long seams. Mathilde LeBrun, who was another Josephine in that her brain seemed to be in her fingers, was convener of the committee, and under her direction Judith sewed and cut out, and, it must be confessed, ripped. Tiny Tim's coat and trousers were her task, and although the smallest of the new girls, Edith Holland by name, had been chosen for this rÔle, Judith found the utmost difficulty in making her look like a Tiny Tim. Twice did she make and un-make that wretched little suit, but she was nothing if not conscientious, and at last it was finished.

"Twelfth Night," which was the Old Girls' play, was a huge success. Nancy and Josephine had been so excited all week that Judith had found it about impossible to keep her own attention on her lessons. Catherine must be a chief character in the play, decided Judith, for Catherine's room was the centre of numberless committee meetings and endless discussions, and Genevieve Singleton—who, to Judith's envy had established herself as Catherine's chief messenger—ran hither and thither, bursting with importance. Nevertheless the secret was kept, and as Judith sat with Sally May and Frances Purdy and all the other new girls on Friday night and listened to the noise behind the green curtain, she felt that she could bear the suspense no longer.

And then, when the curtain rose, the Master Magician waved his wand and Judith, who had seen very few plays, was transported to a land of beauty, romance, and sweet adventure. Helen made a noble Duke, and Catherine an enchanting Viola. Judith had never quite recaptured the thrill of delight she had felt when on the opening night of term she had first seen Catherine, but now to the charm and witchery of first impressions of beauty was added the knowledge of Catherine's sweetness and gentleness. Nancy might be a witty Maria, and Josephine a rollicking Sir Toby; Judith had eyes and ears for Viola only, and as the play progressed she envied passionately the Duke who seemed criminally stupid in his misunderstanding of Viola's love. The surprise of the play was Genevieve Singleton's Malvolio. Even Judith was moved out of her trance of adoration to laughter and admiration.

"That was real acting," said Sally May with the air of a theatre habituÉ as Malvolio pranced off the stage in the immortal scene of the yellow stockings and cross-garters.

After the last bravos had died away and the actors had bowed their thanks before the footlights, both audience and players were refreshed with lemonade and cakes, and Judith transferred her envy to the fortunate ones who stood talking over the evening's triumph with Catherine and Genevieve and the rest of the cast. She envied Genevieve who had had such a success, and she wished, but did not dare, to join the group. "Perhaps," thought silly Judith, "if I run upstairs now and get her room ready for her, Catherine may kiss me good-night." Judith was on the verge of what is technically known as a "crush."

Meanwhile preparations went forward in earnest for the "Christmas Carol," and "All costumes must be finished for Monday. Full rehearsal at eight o'clock in the Big Hall." So ran the Order-in-Council.

"I'm certainly glad Tiny Tim's costume is done," thought Judith as she ran downstairs for the rehearsal; "four more days till the literature exam. I'm going to work like everything."

"Come on, Judy," Sally May hailed her as she found her place behind the curtain where she was to help shift scenery; "you're late, but who ever heard of a rehearsal starting on time?"

"Seems to be some sort of a row on," said Judith as a distinct groan reached their ears. "What's up?" she asked as they joined the group on the stage.

"Marjorie Jones has measles," answered Eleanor, their stage manager: "come here, all of you, and think hard. Who can take Scrooge at such short notice? Is there any new girl with a good memory? It's the longest part by far."

Various names were proposed and rejected for one reason or another, and then Eleanor's eye fell on Judith, who saw her consider for a moment, speak in a low tone to the two other prefects; then very reluctantly she answered the summons, "Judith, come here and read this page for me, will you, please? Perhaps you'll do."

Judith read the page and a tiny feeling of resentment began to make itself felt. She hadn't been asked to do anything nice, or anything she wanted, and now they weren't even asking her if she would be willing to take Marjorie's place.

"I guess you'll do," was Eleanor's uncomplimentary comment when Judith had finished.

"There's really no one else," she said, turning to Patricia, "and I think Judy can be word-perfect by Friday. I'll coach her every spare minute myself. Come along, Judy," she added, "and read over the part before we begin."

Somewhat breathless from this prompt decision, Judith obediently took the manuscript and seated herself at one corner of the stage. Suddenly as she read, the full meaning of this new turn of events flashed into her brain. The final term examination in literature was listed for Friday morning, and Judith had planned to spend all her spare time between now and then in the thorough revision of her work, for there was still much to be done, and this examination would really decide whether she or Joyce or Phyllis would head the list.

For a long ten minutes Judith read her part and at the same time debated within herself, while Eleanor settled some difference of opinion about exits and entrances. Self number one tried to hoodwink self number two—"Top Self" and "Deep-Down Self," Judith as a little girl had christened these two voices within her. "Daddy would like you to come out first; you oughtn't to disappoint him. Lessons must be done. Just go and tell Eleanor you can't do it and then your time will be your own."

"No," said Deep-Down Self, "be fair, Judy. You know you can't act well, you won't be a success like Genevieve. You don't want Catherine and the others to see you fail, and honestly, do you want to come out first for Daddy's sake or for your own? I really believe you don't think enough fuss has been made over you. You'd rather work at your literature and come first, perhaps, but you can memorize quickly and they need you. Which ought you to do?—never mind whether it's hard or not."

Judith had always been honest with herself and she knew quite well what the real issue was.

The struggle was hard, the hardest, perhaps, which Judith had ever fought. Mechanically she turned the pages while the argument continued within her. She seemed to have no way of deciding, when suddenly she remembered Nursing Sister Ruth's words, "York Hill girls have the reputation overseas of being willing to tackle any job—no matter how hard—and of putting it through." Top Self hadn't a chance after that. Filling in here seemed her most immediate duty and Judith settled down grimly to her task.

The rehearsal was long and tiring, and twenty times during the first hour Judith was tempted to give up. But she did her best, and although Eleanor was distracted by all the numberless things demanding attention, she found time to stop and say at the end of the first act, "Good work, Judy! I knew I could depend on you. You'll make a first-rate Scrooge, and you are a brick to get to work without any fuss." And although Judith did not believe the remark about her acting, her face flushed with pleasure and she determined that she would not spend another moment in questioning. This job must be put through.

And it was. She woke early in the morning and learned her part by the light of Nancy's flashlight. She cut her recreation time and scamped her lesson preparation. She thought and lived Scrooge, and as she had a good memory she was word-perfect before Eleanor had thought it possible. Eleanor and Patricia coached her whenever they could, and Miss Marlowe gave her Wednesday evening and Thursday afternoon.

Friday morning, and with it the literature examination! Judith read the paper with a sinking heart. She would not fail, but, as she had guessed, the extra reading which she had planned to do during these last few days would have given her paper "The little more, and how much it is" which would have lifted it to the first rank. Came Friday afternoon with its last rehearsal and then the fateful night.

Judith will never forget the thrill of terror that ran through her as the curtain rose and she saw the rows of faces staring at her out of the semi-darkness. For an instant she was paralyzed with terror, and it was only the audience's delight at finding Frances arrayed as Scrooge's irrepressible nephew that covered the gap between "Merry Christmas, Uncle," and "Bah! Humbug!"

The first short scene was wooden enough in all conscience, but Judith remembered her words, and as the story progressed she got a better grip on herself surprising and delighting Eleanor and those who were in the secret by her spirited acting.

But at the end of Act Three, Nancy, who had slipped behind the scenes to congratulate her chum, and to tell her that her wig was the least bit askew, was surprised and alarmed to find Judith almost in tears.

"I can't do the last act, Nancy, I simply can't. My face feels all stiff and solemn. I can't laugh and joke, I can't, no matter how I try"—and two tears actually rolled down her cheeks. She was tired out, and the very imagination which had made it possible for her to be for the moment the gloomy old miser, now made it seem impossible for her to change him in a few minutes into a jolly, generous, incarnation of old Father Christmas.

Nancy was horrified and distracted. She did her best, but with seemingly no avail, and then she had one of those inspirations, which seem almost heaven-sent. Hurrying back and learning that there were still four or five minutes before the curtain would rise, she sought Catherine, who luckily had left her seat during the interlude.

"Captain," she said, saluting, "there is one of the crew who needs your help; can you come at once?"

And then, as they neared the stage—

"It's Judy, Cathy," she whispered; "do buck her up. She has been such a brick, but she is so tired that she feels that she can't do the last act."

Catherine waited for no more explanations, but went swiftly behind the curtain, where she found Judith trying to look cheerful, but making a dismal failure of it. "Careful," said Cathy to herself. "I mustn't be sympathetic or she will break down."

Judith looked up, and instead of the dreaded warning that the curtain was going up, here was Catherine saluting her merrily.

"Good work, Judy! The 'Jolly Susan' needs a first mate; can I induce you to accept the job?" And she put a steadying arm round the new mate's shoulders. "You've been splendid; we're all proud of you, and especially we of the 'Jolly Susan.'"

No more question of can or can't. Judith felt that she could do anything for her captain and here was a chance. She threw herself into the unforgettable scene of Scrooge's awakening, and the whole school was infected with the joyousness of her declaration: "I am as light as a feather. I am as happy as an angel. I am as merry as a schoolboy. A Merry Christmas to everybody, a Happy New Year to all the world. Hullo, here, whoop! Hullo."

And every one was quite ready to agree with Scrooge's declaration at the end of the scene, "Wonderful party, wonderful games, wonderful unanimity, won-der-ful happiness!"

The New Girls were cheered to the echo by the School, and the party which was voted a great success ended with cake and lemonade and a delightful Sir Roger de Coverly in which every one took part.

Judith, dancing with Bob Cratchit, felt supremely happy, and her cup was filled to overflowing by Miss Meredith's words as she said good-night.

"Congratulations on your success, Judith, you gave us a fine presentation of Scrooge, and Eleanor tells me you had very little time for preparation."

And then the delightful whispered conferences upstairs after "Lights Out" bell had rung—Catherine turned a deaf ear, for discipline must occasionally be relaxed.

"Did you see Mr. Fezziwig's coat, Judy?"

"Wasn't Mrs. Cratchit too funny for words?"

"Wasn't the ghost splendid?"

"I shivered all over when he was speaking," Nancy declared; and so on and so on, until Judith fell asleep and dreamed that she was dancing the Sir Roger with Miss Meredith arrayed as Mrs. Cratchit, and that, so arrayed, Miss Meredith had proceeded to the platform and had read out the term's marks beginning with Five A. First, Judith Benson; second, Joyce Hewson; third, Nancy Nairn.

It was a good thing that Judith had the fun of her dream because in the lists read out after prayers next morning our heroine stood fourth, in Five A, but that didn't spoil her morning, such a happy morning. Desks were tidied, Christmas presents tied up, suitcases packed, and at twelve o'clock a short Christmas service was held in Big Hall.

The carols which they had been learning the last few weeks at morning prayers were sung now with a right good will to the accompaniment of the School orchestra. And then Miss Meredith, having read the beautiful Christmas story, explained the meaning of its message so clearly, so simply, and yet so earnestly, and with such a passionate longing that from York Hill there should indeed radiate "Peace and good will towards all men," that not the stupidest nor the most frivolous girl but was touched to a sense of higher ideals and nobler living.

Every girl in the School knew that the Head Mistress was humbly striving to embody in her own life the high ideals she held before her pupils, and because of this they listened. Doubtless some of the seed fell by the wayside, some into hard and stony ground, some was choked by the deceit and riches of this world, but other seed fell into good ground and brought forth abundantly, "some thirty, some sixty, and some an hundred-fold."