There never was such a glorious place as the Manor. Upon that point the whole school perfectly agreed. The garden was as fascinating as the house, and proved an absolute dream of delight, with its smooth bowling-green, its winding paths, its charming little arbours overgrown with creepers, its clipped yew hedges, and its unexpected flights of steps. It might have been designed as a kind of terrestrial paradise for girls. The big lawns afforded space for so many tennis courts that there was no need for the younger ones to hover about, waiting enviously until their elders had finished before they could get a chance of a game; and there was plenty of room left for croquet and clock golf. The shrubbery and the plantation were ideal spots for hide-and-seek (almost too good, Lindsay said, because it was so very difficult to find anybody); while the various rustic seats scattered under the trees made sewing and reading a luxury on hot days, when no one felt inclined for violent exercise. A stone-flagged terrace ran the entire length of the front of the Manor, proving an invaluable playground when the grass was too wet for games in the garden; and a roomy summer-house stood near the bowling-green, so big that it was capable of sheltering all the school during a thunder shower.

Beyond the avenue, and at the farther side of the shrubbery, was a maze. Marvellous little narrow, twisting paths, with high hedges of clipped box, wound round and round in an utterly bewildering manner, most of them either ending blindly or turning back to the original entrance, and only one of the number leading to the arbour in the centre. For a long time the girls amused themselves with trying to discover the proper clue. Cicely, like Hansel, dropped pebbles to show which paths she had already traced; Lindsay essayed to cut the Gordian knot by creeping through the hedge; and it was only after many and repeated trials that they were at last able to solve the puzzle.

In the midst of one of the lawns grew a grand old yew tree, the lower branches of which were easy to climb. It was a favourite haunt of the younger girls, each having her special seat, and here they might often be seen perched like birds, and certainly chattering enough to suggest a flock of magpies. A stalwart oak close by supported a swing that was far more romantic than the swing in the playground at Winterburn Lodge, because a strong push would send the happy occupant high up among the green leaves, and give her a flying peep into a missel-thrush's nest on the topmost bough, where four gaping yellow mouths were clamouring for food. In a corner, down a flight of steps, there was a pond where grew marsh marigolds, and irises, and forget-me-nots, and other water-loving plants. A pair of ducks lived here in a wooden hutch, and would come waddling up to be fed with bread, which the girls saved from breakfast for them. Great was the delight of the whole school when one morning a brood of seven small ducklings appeared on the water, each as yellow as a canary, and seemingly quite at home already in its native element.

Then there was the rose garden, where every variety of the queen of flowers seemed to flourish, from the delicate MarÉchal Niel to the sweet, oldfashioned, striped York and Lancaster. Archways and pillars were covered with climbers and ramblers, a little untrained, but hanging down in such glorious profusion that one almost approved of the neglect. Round this garden was a high hedge of clipped holly, so that it was sheltered from every wind, and the roses bloomed as if in a greenhouse. Nor must we forget the peacocks, which were as much a feature of the old house as the twisted chimneys, or the stone balls on the porch. There were six of them, and the gorgeous sheen of their feathers as they spread their tails in the sunshine was a sight worth remembering. In fact, as Miss Russell often remarked, they gave a finishing touch to the whole scene, and made the Manor look more than ever like a medieval picture.

The village of Haversleigh was only ten minutes' walk from the lodge gates. It consisted of one long row of quaint black-and-white cottages, with thatched roofs, and gardens so gay with flowers that they seemed to be overflowing into the road, and pinks and pansies were coming up between the cobblestones of the street. At the end stood the beautiful ancient church, built in days when each artisan was a master of his craft, and made his work a labour of love. Strangers often came from a distance to admire the delicate tracery of the windows, the exquisite carving of the pillars, and the splendid old oak choir stalls that had formed part of a tenth-century abbey. At the west end hung a collection of banners, won by Monica's ancestors in many a hard-fought battle, and, all tattered and faded as they were, still bearing tribute to the glories of the past. There were monuments, too, in memory of the Courtenays: stone effigies of knights in armour, lying under carved canopies emblazoned with their coats-of-arms; stiff ladies and gentlemen of Tudor times, with starched ruffs and buckled shoes; and one lovely marble figure, by a forgotten sculptor, of a young daughter of the house who had perished during the Great Plague. The ruthless hands that had chipped and spoiled many of the other monuments had spared this one, and the beautiful, calm face seemed to be resting in tranquil sleep, patiently waiting for the summons to arise to immortality.

The Manor pew, though large, could not accommodate the school. The girls sat in the left aisle, and made quite an important addition to the little congregation of villagers. They certainly helped to swell the singing, and I think even the most thoughtless among them learned to love that dear old church, and carried its remembrance into after years.

The Rectory marked the last boundary of the village, then the road passed over a bridge straight into the open country. The scenery was pretty without being grand. Picturesque farmhouses stood in the midst of rich pastures, behind which rose wooded slopes leading to a higher peak, called Pendle Tor, that stood out as a landmark for the district. Naturally the girls were very anxious to explore the neighbourhood, and delighted when Miss Russell allowed walks on half-holidays. The whole school was not often sent out together, but each form would go in turn, separately, with its own teacher—an arrangement that all much preferred, as they could then ramble about in an informal manner, instead of keeping to the prim file which was the general rule.

One Wednesday afternoon, at the end of May, it was the turn of the third class, and its six members were standing by the gate, impatiently awaiting the arrival of Miss Frazer, who, to do her justice, was not often at fault in the matter of punctuality.

"I hope she isn't telling Miss Russell what bad marks I got this morning," said Effie Hargreaves dismally. "She threatened last week to report me if I had another cross for history, and I missed five times, and four times in literature, and all my problems were wrong in arithmetic too."

"I believe they're planning to hire another piano," said Beryl Austen, "so that we can all get in the same amount of practising as we did at Winterburn Lodge."

"Oh, what a shame! I'm sure half an hour a day is enough for anybody," came in a chorus from the others.

"Especially now, when we haven't a music master," added Cicely.

"That's the very reason," explained Beryl. "Miss Russell says she wants us to keep up what we've learnt, so that we won't seem to have fallen back when we begin with Mr. Nelson again."

"Don't talk of Mr. Nelson! We shan't see him for ages."

"You will, in September."

"Well, it's not September yet, it's only May, and in the meantime we're learning from Miss Frazer. Here she is, by the by, hurrying down the drive as fast as she can."

"I'm sorry to have kept you waiting, girls," said the teacher, "but Miss Russell has been giving me a commission to transact while we are out. She wants us to go to Monkend, a farm about a mile and a half from here."

"A new walk?" asked Beryl.

"Yes, we have never been there before, but I don't think we can miss the way."

A perfectly fresh walk was a pleasant prospect. Everyone set off, therefore, in the best of spirits. It was a beautiful afternoon, one of those glorious days when summer seems to clasp hands with spring and join the delights of both seasons. The newly unfolded leaves were still a tender green, and the sycamores were covered with pendent blossoms, in the golden pollen of which the bees revelled like drunkards. The larches had opened all their tassels, and the young cones on the firs glowed with such a pink hue that they resembled candles on a Christmas tree. The hawthorns were almost over, but here and there a crab apple showed a mass of pink bloom, or a guelder rose made a white patch in the hedge; and all the stretches of grass by the roadsides were carpeted with bluebells and starry stitchwort.

Miss Frazer was indulgent, and would wait for a few minutes while the girls gathered handfuls of flowers, or climbed up to the top of a bank to admire the view. She was as interested as they were in the finding of a robin's nest; and quite as excited when a hawk swooped suddenly into a bush, and flew away with a young thrush in its claws. The cuckoos were calling persistently from the woods, the larks were singing up in the air above, and all the hedgerows seemed to teem with busy bird life.

Their way soon left the high road, and, striking across a field, led them through a copse where there was an interesting pond, swarming with tadpoles. The girls would have lingered here, trying to catch the funny, wriggling, little black objects, but Miss Frazer's patience gave way at last, and she hurried them on, declaring that if they were not quick they would never get to the farm and back before tea-time.

Monkend was a quaint old house, built in the midst of cherry orchards. Its timbered walls were grey and weather-stained, and its tiled roof yellowed with lichens. By the side of the open barn door the cows were standing lowing to be milked, and the dairymaid, a rosy-faced young woman in a blue apron, was coming from the kitchen, singing as she swung her bright pails. She stopped in astonishment at the unwonted sight of visitors to the farm, and ran to call her mistress to the scene.

"You may wait for me here, girls, while I do my business with Mrs. Brand," said Miss Frazer; "or if you like you may walk back to the stile, and I will overtake you in the wood."

Mrs. Brand insisted that Miss Frazer should come into the best parlour to transact her errand, so, left alone, the girls began slowly to retrace their steps towards the copse.

"I wonder how long she'll be," said Lindsay, who with Cicely had lingered a little behind.

"I believe she has to pay a bill and order more butter and eggs and things, so I don't expect we shall see her for five or ten minutes at least," replied Cicely.

"Then there'll be just time to run round the farm. I want to peep inside those barns, and see what is at the other side of those haystacks. It looks interesting. Come along! The dairymaid is busy milking, and won't see us, and I don't suppose it matters if she does. We'll soon run after the others."

Feeling rather adventurous, the pair fled away down the yard, and dived through an open doorway into the depths of a big barn. How fragrant it smelled—such a delicious, sweet scent was in the air! Surely it must come from that great heap of hay in the corner. The girls ran across, and jumping on to the pile, were soon burying each other with armfuls of the hay, and scooping out nests to sit in. It was dark inside the barn—the beautiful brown gloom that one sees only in old castles or churches, or ancient buildings, and is quite different from the black of ordinary darkness. Through the open door came just one shaft of sunshine, in which the specks of dust seemed to float and flutter like living things. Overhead the great beams of the roof were lost in dim obscurity; very old and rough they were, and covered with a mass of cobwebs, among which Cicely declared she could see bats hanging head downwards, with folded wings, though Lindsay said it was all her imagination.

It was so nice sitting perched on the hay that neither was in a hurry to move. I believe they quite forgot about the time, until at last they heard Miss Frazer's voice in the distance bidding good-bye to Mrs. Brand.

"We shall have to go," groaned Cicely. "What a nuisance! I could stay here for hours."

"So could I," said Lindsay, getting up with a yawn, and brushing loose stalks from her dress. "Let us jump down on the other side of the hay."

I do not know why it should have occurred to Lindsay to get off the stack by the back instead of the front. If they had gone out of the barn by the way they came, they could have overtaken Miss Frazer in a moment, and the adventure which followed would never have happened at all. As it was, fate decreed that Lindsay, in her flying leap through the dusk, should knock her shins against something decidedly hard. She stood rubbing them ruefully, and put out her hand to feel what had been the cause of her bruises. It was a ladder, standing against the wall, and through the gloom of the barn she could just distinguish its upper end, which seemed to communicate with a doorway in the angle of the roof. This looked attractive. She pointed it out at once to Cicely.

"Where does it lead, do you think?" asked the latter.

"To some granary above, I expect. I wonder what's up there! Shall we go and explore?"

Without even waiting for an answer, Lindsay had begun to ascend, and as she was six rungs up before Cicely ventured a half-hearted remonstrance, she did not see fit to come down again.

"Oh! we shan't be a minute," she declared. "Miss Frazer will wait for us in the wood, and we can run all the way from the farm."

Where Lindsay went Cicely always felt bound to follow; accordingly, she clambered up the ladder behind her friend, and in due course both arrived at the top. As Lindsay had supposed, they found a granary half-filled with sacks of corn and a pile of loose barley. A door at the farther end appeared to open on to a flight of steps leading outside, while opposite was a small lattice window overlooking the fields.

"There's really nothing to see," said Cicely. "It was hardly worth while coming, after all."

"We might go out through that door, instead of climbing down the ladder again," suggested Lindsay, beginning to walk round the sacks. "Why, look! Somebody has left his lunch here."

On the top of the barley was a tin can, and also a red cotton pocket-handkerchief, evidently containing slices of bread. From sheer idle curiosity Lindsay seized them, and showed them laughingly to Cicely.

"Will you have some afternoon tea?" she exclaimed in joke.

At that moment she was startled by a low growl behind her. From a corner of the room sprang a collie dog that, unobserved by them, had been lying among the sacks, and keeping a watch over its master's property.

Lindsay promptly replaced the tin and the handkerchief on the barley.

"Good dog! Poor fellow!" she said encouragingly, holding out her hand.

The dog, however, did not make the least response to her friendly advances. It came a little nearer, growling again, and showing its teeth in an ugly fashion.

"Come here, silly fellow! Does it think I want to steal something?" said Lindsay.

"I expect it does," replied Cicely, in rather a shaky voice. "Don't try to touch it! It'll certainly bite you."

Even Lindsay, fond of animals as she was, could not deny that the gleaming eyes and snarling mouth looked the reverse of friendly.

"Perhaps we'd better be going," she said, turning towards the door.

Directly she moved, the dog growled louder, and would have flown at her if she had not instantly stopped.

"What are we to do?" she exclaimed, looking at Cicely with a terrified face.

They were indeed in a most awkward and dangerous position. The dog, deeming itself guardian of the granary, and doubtless considering the two girls intruders for dishonest purposes, would let neither of them beat a retreat. It stood looking vigilantly from one to the other, snarling so fiercely if they stirred even an inch that they did not dare to put its intentions to the test. Oh! why had they come? If they had only gone back down the ladder before they had roused the dog, or if Lindsay had not been inquisitive enough to peep inside the handkerchief, they might have been across the yard and following Miss Frazer to the wood. How were they ever to escape? Would they be obliged to remain there until the dog's master returned?

"Perhaps Miss Frazer'll come to hunt for us," quavered Cicely, in a very small voice, and with a timid eye on the collie lest it should spring. Evidently it did not object to conversation, so long as they kept still, for though it looked at her it did not growl. That was one comfort, at any rate. The situation was terrible enough, but to endure it in silence would have been ten times worse.

"I don't believe anybody knows where we are," said Lindsay. "I wonder if the dairymaid noticed us go into the barn. They wouldn't dream of our climbing the ladder. They'd look all round the stackyard, and perhaps think we'd taken a short cut and gone home."

Would nobody ever arrive to release them? The minutes seemed long as hours, and they felt as if their trembling knees could scarcely support them. Cicely, from the place where she was standing, could fortunately look through the window and command a view of the field below. Though she gazed with as keen anxiety as Sister Anne in the story of Bluebeard, she did not see anybody hurrying to their rescue. The dog apparently grew a little tired, for it threw itself down on the floor, but without relaxing any of its former vigilance.

"I believe it's going to stop here all night," groaned Cicely, almost in tears.

The case was waxing desperate. So weary were the poor girls that they were ready to drop with fatigue. Unless something happened, and that speedily, there was bound to be a catastrophe. At the moment, however, when Cicely felt that she simply could not endure any longer, deliverance came. Through the little squares of the wooden lattice she saw a figure strolling leisurely across the field. It was Monica Courtenay, and she was walking in the direction of the farm. Cicely shouted at the very pitch of her voice:

"Monica! Monica! Help! Oh, do come!"

Monica stopped in much astonishment, and looked round as if to ask who was calling her by name; then, deciding that the screams came from the direction of the granary, she hurried as fast as she could up the steps, and opened the door. Her amazement was only equalled by her distress at the girls' plight.

She did her best to call off the dog, but as that proved impossible she ran to fetch the first person she could find. In less than a minute she had returned with Mr. Brand, whose stout boot and stick soon sent the collie yelping disconsolately into a corner, to realize that it had exceeded its duties.

"He's a good watchdog, is Pincher," said the farmer, "but he's been a bit too clever to-day. You silly hound! You ought to know better than to set on two young wenches. You may well slink off! You'd better keep out of reach of my stick, I can tell you!"

Lindsay and Cicely were much upset and shaken by their terrifying experience. They never forgot how kindly and considerately Monica behaved. She did not tell them it was their own fault, and that it served them right for prying into places where they had no business (as Mildred Roper or any of the other monitresses would certainly have done); she only sympathized in her gentle way, and offered to escort them to the Manor by a short cut, so that they should not be so very late after all.

"It was a lucky thing I happened to be taking a walk this way," she said. "It might have been hours before any of the farm people went into the granary. I wouldn't keep such a savage dog if it were mine."

As Lindsay supposed, Miss Frazer was not aware that she had left two of her pupils behind at Monkend, and imagined that the missing pair must have walked home in front of the others. Their absence had only just been discovered when they arrived to explain the cause. The teacher was hardly so tender with them as Monica, and they received more scolding than sympathy.

"Though it wasn't such a very dreadful crime to go into the barn," said Lindsay afterwards to her companion in misfortune. "Miss Frazer needn't say we are the two who are always in mischief, because it might have happened just as easily to any of the others. I saw Beryl and Effie peep into the cowhouse as they passed, though they didn't climb up a ladder. Wasn't Monica nice? I believe the old farmer would have been cross with us if she hadn't been there. He evidently knows her very well. So do all the people in the village. She seems to know each man, woman, and child there, and to be a favourite with everybody."