Dona's suggestion was adopted, and she and Marjorie began a little system of correspondence with Eric. At their request Elaine bought a small present and left the parcel with the attendant at the refreshment kiosk, who promised to give it to him.

"I know the child quite well by sight," she said. "A delicate little fellow in an invalid carriage. They used to pass here two or three times a week last summer, and sometimes they'd stop at the kiosk and the girl would buy him an orange or some sweets. I hadn't seen him for months till he went by a few days ago. Yes, I'll be sure to stop him when he passes."

That the girl kept her word was evident, for a week afterwards she handed Elaine a letter addressed to "The Fairy Ladies". Elaine forwarded it to Marjorie and Dona. It was written in a round, childish hand, and ran:

"Dear little man!" said Marjorie. "I expect it's taken him a long time to write this. We'll buy him a blotter and some fancy paper and envelopes and leave them at the kiosk for him."

"I wish we could go to the cove and see him again," said Dona.

It happened that for the next two exeats Aunt Ellinor had arranged a tennis party or some other engagement for her nieces, so that it was not possible to take a walk on the cliffs. They left a supply of little presents, however, at the kiosk, so that something could be given to Eric every time he passed. The assistant was almost as interested as Marjorie and Dona.

"He looks out for those parcels now," she assured them. "You should just see his face when I run out and give them to him. I believe he'd be ever so disappointed if there was nothing. The girl that wheels him left a message for you. His mother thanks you for your kindness; and will you please excuse his writing, because it isn't very good for him and takes him such a long time. He's never been able to go to school."

"Poor little chap!" laughed Dona. "I expect someone has to sit by him and tell him how to spell every word. Never mind, he can draw fairies on the notepaper we sent him. We'll get him a red-and-blue chalk pencil."

"I dare say he'd like a post-card album and some cards to put in it," suggested Marjorie.

"Oh yes! I saw some of flower fairies at the Stores. We'll ask Elaine to get them."

"And those funny ones of cats and dogs. I've no doubt it's anything to amuse him when he has to lie still all the day long."

As the summer wore on, and submarines sank many of our merchant vessels on the seas, the food question began to be an important problem at Brackenfield. Everyone was intensely patriotic and ready to do all in her power to help on the war. Mrs. Morrison believed in keeping the girls well abreast of the important topics of the moment. She considered the oldfashioned schools of fifty years ago, where the pupils never saw a newspaper, and were utterly out of touch with the world, did not conduce to the making of good citizens. She liked her girls to think out questions for themselves. She had several enthusiastic spirits among the prefects, and found that by giving them a few general hints to work upon she could trust them to lead the others. Winifrede in particular realized the gravity of the situation. Armed with a supply of leaflets from the local Food Control Bureau, she convened a meeting of the entire school in the Assembly Hall.

Winifrede was a girl whose intense love of her country and ready power of fluent speech would probably lead her some day to a public platform. Meantime she could always sway a Brackenfield audience. She was dramatic in her methods, and when the girls entered the hall they were greeted by large hand-printed posters announcing:

"THE GERMANS ARE TRYING TO STARVE US.
GERMAN SUBMARINES ARE REDUCING SUPPLIES.
YOU MUST ECONOMIZE AT HOME."

There were no teachers present on this occasion, and the platform was occupied by the prefects. Winifrede, with an eager face and fully convinced of the burning necessity of rationing, stood up and began her speech.

"Girls! I think I needn't tell you that we're fighting in the most terrible war the world has ever seen. We're matched against a foe whose force and cunning will need every atom of strength of which we're capable. They are not only shooting our soldiers at the front, and bombing our towns, but by their submarine warfare they are deliberately trying to reduce us by starvation. There is already a food crisis in our country. There is a serious shortage of wheat, of potatoes, of sugar, and of other food-stuffs. Perhaps you think that so long as you have money you will be able to buy food. That is not so. As long as there is plenty of food, money is a convenience to buy it with, but no more. Money is not value. If the food is not there, money will not make it, and money becomes useless. Food gives money its value. We can do without money; but we cannot do without food. People see the bakers' shops full of bread, the butchers' shops full of meat, the grocers' shops full of provisions, and they believe there is plenty of food. This is merely food on the surface. The stock of food from which the shops draw the food is low, seriously low, already. Unless we ration ourselves at once, and carefully, there will come days when there may be no bread at all at the baker's. There is a shortage of wheat all over the world, not only in Europe, but also in North and South America. Millions of the men who grew the wheat we eat are fighting, hundreds of thousands of them will never go back to the fields they ploughed. If the present waste of bread and wheat flour continues, there will be hardly enough to go round till next harvest time. Great Britain only produces one-fifth of the bread it eats. Four-fifths of the wheat comes from abroad. Hundreds of the ships that brought it are now engaged in other work. They are carrying food and munitions to France, Italy, and Russia. The ships that brought us food are fewer by those hundreds.

"It is the women of the country who must see to this. By careful rationing we can make our supplies hold out until after the harvest. Our men are out at the front, fighting a grim battle, but, unless we do our part of the business at home, they may fight a losing battle. It is for us to see that our noble dead have not died in vain. With martyred Belgium for an object lesson, it is the duty of every British girl to make every possible sacrifice to keep those unspeakable Huns out of our islands. I appeal to you all to use the utmost economy and abstinence, and voluntarily to give up some of the things that you like. Remember you will be helping to win the war. There is a rationing pledge on the table near the door, and I ask every girl to sign it and to wear the violet ribbon that will be given her. It is the badge of the new temperance cause. The freedom of the world depends at the present time on the food thrift and self-restraint of our civilians, no less than on the courage of our soldiers. Please take some of the leaflets which you will find on the table, and read them. They have been sent here for us by the Food Control Bureau."

After Winifrede's speech every girl felt in honour bound to comply with her request, and turn by turn they signed their pledges and sported their violet ribbons.

"It'll mean knocking off buns, I suppose," sighed Sylvia mournfully.

"Certainly.

improvised Marjorie.

"Look here!" said Betty, studying a pamphlet; "it says: 'If a man is working hard he needs a great deal more food than when he is resting. There are no exceptions to this rule. It follows that workers save energy by resting as much as they can in their spare time.' If that's true, the less work we do the smaller our appetites will be. I vote we petition the Empress, in the interests of patriotism, to shorten our time-table by half."

"She'd probably suggest knocking off cricket and tennis instead, my Betty."

"Well, at any rate, it says: 'large people need more food than small', and I'm taller than you, so I ought to have half of your dinner bread, old sport!"

"Ah, but look, it also says: 'people who are well covered need much less food than thin people', so I score there, and ought to have half of your dinner bread instead."

"We'll each stick to our own allowances, thanks!"

Mrs. Morrison, who was on the committee of the Whitecliffe Food Control Campaign, was glad to have secured the co-operation of her girls in the alterations which she was now obliged to make in their dietary. On the whole, they rather liked some of the substitutes for wheat flour, and quite enjoyed the barley-meal bread, and the oatcakes and maize-meal biscuits that figured on the tables at tea-time.

"They're dry, but you feel so patriotic when you eat them," declared Marjorie.

"I believe you'd chump sawdust buns if you thought you were helping on the war," laughed Chrissie.

"I would, with pleasure."

It was just at this time that potatoes ran short. So far Brackenfield had not suffered in that respect, but now the supply from the large kitchen garden had given out, and the Whitecliffe greengrocers were quite unable to meet the demands of the school. For a fortnight the girls ate swedes instead, and tried to like them. Then Mrs. Morrison received a message from a farmer that he had plenty of potatoes in his fields, but lacked the labour to cart them. He would, however, be prepared to dispose of a certain quantity on condition that they could be fetched. Here was news indeed! The potatoes were there, and only needed to be carried away. The Principal at once organized parties of girls to go with baskets to the farm. Instead of sending Seniors, Intermediates, and Juniors separately, Mrs. Morrison ordered representatives from the three hostels to form each detachment. She considered that lately the elder girls had been keeping too much aloof from the younger ones, and that the spirit of unity in the school might suffer in consequence. The expedition would be an excellent opportunity for meeting together, and she gave a hint to the prefects that she had noticed and deprecated their tendency to exclusiveness.

As a direct result of her suggestions, Marjorie one afternoon found herself walking to the farm in the select company of Winifrede Mason. It was such an overwhelming honour to be thus favoured by the head girl that Marjorie's powers of conversation were at first rather damped, and she replied in monosyllables to Winifrede's remarks; but the latter, who was determined (as she had informed her fellow prefects) to "do her duty by those Intermediates", persevered in her attempts to be pleasant, till Marjorie, who was naturally talkative, thawed at length and found her tongue.

There was no doubt that Winifrede, when she stepped down from her pedestal, was a most winning companion. She had a charming, humorous, racy, whimsical way of commenting on things, and a whole fund of amusing stories. Marjorie, astonished and fascinated, responded eagerly to her advances, and by the time they reached the farm had formed quite a different estimation of the head girl. The walk in itself was delightful. Their way lay along a road that led over the moors. On either side stretched an expanse of gorse and whinberry bushes, interspersed with patches of grass, where sheep were feeding. Dykes filled with water edged the road, and in these were growing rushes, and sedges, and crowfoot, and a few forget-me-nots and other water-loving flowers. Larks were singing gloriously overhead, and the plovers flitted about with their plaintive "pee-wit, pee-wit". Sometimes a stonechat or a wheatear would pause for a moment on a gorse stump, flirting its brown tail before it flew out of sight, or young rabbits would peep from the whinberry bushes and whisk away into cover. Far off in the distance lay the hazy outline of the sea. There was a great sense of space and openness. The fresh pure air blew down from the hills, cooler and more invigorating even than the sea breeze. Except for the sheep, and an occasional collie dog and shepherd, they had the world to themselves. Winifrede took long sighing breaths of air. Her eyes were shining with enjoyment.

"I like the quiet of it all," she told Marjorie. "I can understand the feeling that made the mediÆval hermits build their lonely little cells in peaceful, beautiful spots. Some of the Hindoos do the same to-day, and go and live in the forests to have time to meditate. When I'm getting old I'd like to come and take a cottage on this moor—not before, I think, because there's so very much I want to do in the world first, but when I feel I'm growing past my work, then will be the time to arrange my thoughts and slip into the spirit of the peace up here."

"What kind of work do you want to do?" asked Marjorie.

"I'm not sure yet. I'm leaving school, of course, at the end of this term, and I can't quite decide whether to go on to College or to begin something to help the war. Mrs. Morrison advises College. She says I could be far more help afterwards if I were properly qualified, and I dare say she's right, only I don't want to wait."

"I'm just yearning to leave school and be a V.A.D., or drive an ambulance wagon," sympathized Marjorie.

"My sister is out in France at canteen work," confided Winifrede. "It makes me fearfully envious when I have her letters and think what she's doing for the Tommies. I've three brothers at the front, and five cousins, and two more cousins were killed a year ago. My eldest brother has been wounded twice, and the youngest is in hospital now. I simply live for news of them all."

The girls had now reached the farm, a little low-built, whitewashed house almost on the summit of a hill. Though the principal occupation of its owner lay among sheep, he had a clearing of fields, where he grew swedes, potatoes, and a little barley. In a sheltered place behind his stable-yard he had a stock of last year's potatoes still left; they were piled into a long heap, covered with straw and then with earth as a protection. He took the girls round here, measured the potatoes in a bushel bin, and then filled the baskets.

"They won't keep much longer," he informed Miss Norton. "I'd have carted them down to Whitecliffe, only I've no horse now, and it's difficult to borrow one; and I can't spare the time from the sheep either. Labour's so scarce now. My two sons are fighting, and I've only a grandson of fourteen and a daughter to help me."

"Everybody is feeling the same pinch," replied Miss Norton. "We're only too glad to come and fetch the potatoes ourselves. It's a nice walk for us."

The girls, who overheard the conversation, felt they cordially agreed. It was fun wandering round the little farm-yard, looking at the ducks, and chickens, and calves, or peeping inside the barns and stables. Several of them began to register vows to work on the land when school-days were over.

"They've got a new German camp over there," volunteered the farmer. "I suppose their first contingent of prisoners arrived yesterday. Hadn't you heard about it? Oh, they've been busy for weeks putting up barbed wire! It can't be so far from your place either. You'd pass it if you crossed the stile there and went back over the moor instead of round by the road."

At the news of a German camp a kind of electric thrill passed round the company. The girls were wild with curiosity to see it, and pressed Miss Norton to allow them to return to Brackenfield by the moorland path. The mistress herself seemed interested, and consented quite readily. It was a much quicker way back to the school, and would save time; she was grateful to Mr. Briggs for having pointed out so short a cut.

The camp lay on the side of a hill about half-way between the farm and Brackenfield, near enough to distinguish the latter building quite plainly in the distance. It was surrounded by an entanglement of barbed wire, and there were sentries on duty. Within the circle of wire were tents, and the girls could see washing hanging out, and a few figures lying on the ground and apparently smoking. They would have liked to linger and look, but Miss Norton marched them briskly past, and discipline forbade an undue exhibition of curiosity. They had gone perhaps only a few hundred yards when they heard the regular tramp-tramp of footsteps, and up from the dell below came a further batch of prisoners under an escort of soldiers. Miss Norton hastily marshalled her flock, and made them stand aside to allow the contingent room to pass. They were a tall, fine-looking set of men, stouter, and apparently better fed, than their guards. They had no appearance of hard usage or ill treatment, and were marching quite cheerily towards the camp, probably anticipating a meal. The girls, drawn up in double line, thrilled with excitement as they passed.

"If one tried to run away would they shoot him?" asked Betty in an awed voice.

"Yes, the guards have their rifles all ready," replied Marjorie; "if one tried to escape he'd have a bullet through his back in a second—and quite right too! What's the matter, Chrissie?"

"Nothing—only it makes me feel queer."

"I feel queer when I remember how many of our own men are prisoners in Germany," declared Winifrede.

"Quietly, girls! And don't stare!" said Miss Norton. "We ought to pity these poor men. It is a terrible thing to be a prisoner of war."

"I don't pity them," grumbled Marjorie fiercely under her breath. "Perhaps they're the very ones who've been fighting Leonard's regiment."

"Yes, when one thinks of one's brothers, it doesn't make one love the Germans," whispered Winifrede.

"Love them!" flared Marjorie. "I wouldn't consciously speak to a German for ten thousand pounds, and if I happened by mistake to shake hands with one—well, I'd have to go and disinfect my hand afterwards!""Miss Norton's welcome to them if she pities them," said Betty from behind.

"Go on, girls, now!" came the teacher's voice, as the contingent tramped away into the camp.

"I'm disgusted with Miss Norton!" groused Marjorie. "Come along, Chrissie! What's the matter with you, old sport? Anybody'd think you'd seen a ghost instead of a batch of Germans. Why, you've gone quite pale!"

"I'm only tired," snapped Chrissie rather crossly. "You're always making remarks about something. I'm going to walk with Patricia."

"Oh, all right! Just as you please. I don't press myself on anybody. I'll walk with Winifrede again if she'll have me."

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