Most of the girls gave vent to startled exclamations, but Miss Baylis was speechless with rage. Electra turned and twisted in her frantic endeavors to discover the origin of the upheaval, and Petty made a mad scramble for her history book which the sudden jerk had sent flying out of her hands, the sentimental missive fluttering from its hiding place to drop at Beverly’s feet. Stooping hastily, Beverly caught it up unnoticed in the greater confusion, though she could not help seeing “Darling little sweetheart,” in a large immature hand at the heading. With a scarcely repressed laugh she hid it in her book, and turned to face the storm center, Miss Baylis.

“Who is responsible for this folly?” demanded the irate one.

There was no reply.

“I wish an answer,” reiterated Miss Baylis, turning to Beverly who sat near Petty. “Is this your idea of a joke?”

“Not exactly, Miss Baylis.”

“Are you guilty of this act?”

“No, Miss Baylis.”

“Do you know who is?”

“I could not tell if I did, Miss Baylis.”

“I shall force you to tell,” was the unguarded retort.

“It is rather hard to force an Ashby or a Seldon to do something they consider dishonorable, Miss Baylis,” was the quiet reply.

“You are insolent.”

“I did not intend to be.”

Of this Miss Baylis was quite well aware. She had begun to understand something of Beverly’s character and to learn something of the importance of this Woodbine family and their standing in the community. Consequently she turned her attention to Sally and asked:

“Is your sense of honor equally nice? Which of your classmates played this senseless trick?”

Sally remained silent.

“Did you hear my question?”

“I did, Miss Baylis.”

“Then why do you not answer me. If you are aware which girl did this silly thing why do you keep silent when you know I am sure to discover sooner or later?”

“Perhaps for the same reason Beverly has,” answered Sally. “But why don’t you ask me if I did it Miss Baylis? I’ve often done far worse, haven’t I?”

“You are rarely vulgar in your pranks,” was Miss Baylis’ amazing retort, which caused the class to gasp. What was back of this extraordinary hedging?

“Well I did do it, Miss Baylis, and I am perfectly willing to stand the punishment. Shall I go to Miss Woodhull’s office after class?”

“No, I wish to talk with you myself.”

Sally looked scornful. Well she knew that Miss Baylis had passed her vacation at Kittery Point where Uncle Tom Conant, a bachelor had also passed his. Uncle Tom was rich, good looking and dapper. A lady’s man who charmed every member of the fair sex with whom he was thrown, but with no more idea of matrimony than of murder in his heart. He was devoted to his brother’s children, as well as the fair sex in general and could no more help flattering every one of them than he could help petting the children who were always crowding about him. Some of his stories of Miss Baylis’ “shining up” to him had nearly convulsed his nieces. It was the memory of these which brought the smile to Sally’s lips at the lady’s last words. At that moment the last bell sounded and Miss Baylis was obliged to dismiss her class as quickly as possible. Miss Woodhull was very intolerant of tardiness at meals. Upon the instant the release bell sounded the classes must be dismissed and each girl must hurry to her room to make herself presentable at luncheon.

“Sally, you will come to me immediately after luncheon. I am deeply pained that you could be guilty of such deportment. I wish to talk seriously with you,” was Miss Baylis’ concluding admonition to the incorrigible one.

“Yes, Miss Baylis,” replied Sally, as she scrambled up her books and joined the girls all hurrying to their rooms.

Petty lingered to glance beneath chairs and desks for the lost letter. To her dismay it had vanished completely. She never suspected that Beverly running upstairs with the others, held it safe in her history. She would return it to Petty later. Just at present she was too much amused by Miss Baylis’ attitude toward Sally, who had told her of some of the funny scenes at Kittery Point, to think much about Petty’s love affairs, and before luncheon was over a diversion was created, which made her entirely forget it.

For some time, “Aunt Sally Jefferson,” the cook at Leslie Manor had been ailing, and had recently gone away to “res’ up.” Mrs. Bonnell knew well enough that it was useless to protest. These “res’in’ ups” were periodical. Usually she substituted a colored woman who lived at Luray, but Rebecca had taken a permanent situation and was not available.

Jefferson came to her rescue. He had a “lady frien’” who could cook nearly as well as his mother. Mrs. Bonnell was skeptical, but it was a case of “needs must when the de’il drives,” and Juno Daphne came as substitute cook. Then Mrs. Bonnell’s trials began. One morning girl after girl left her fried smelts untasted though ordinarily they were a rare delicacy in that part of the world.

Mrs. Bonnell investigated. What was the trouble? Had Juno prepared them properly?

“Yas’m I did. I just done fry ’em.”

“Did you clean and wash them carefully?” persisted Mrs. Bonnell.

“No’m. Dey’s such triflin’ fish I ain’ see no sense ’n botherin’ ter clean and wash ’em.”

The next morning such smelts as had been left uncooked for the previous breakfast, came to the table a truly tempting sight, but with the first mouthful a distinct murmur arose and Mrs. Bonnell exclaimed: “Mercy upon me! What has she done this time?”

Inquiries followed.

“Yas ma’am. I done wash ’em good dis time. I wash ’em wid dat sof’ soap what Aunt Sally done made befo’ she took sick!”

And then for more than a week all went serenely. Now dessert was being brought on. Mrs. Bonnell always served it. Wesley came in from the pantry bearing a large platter upon which rested a mold of pudding of the most amazing color mortal eye ever rested upon. It was a vivid beautiful sky-blue and Wesley disclosed every ivory in his ample mouth as he set the dish upon the table. Mrs. Bonnell had ordered corn-starch pudding with chocolate sauce. When she looked upon the viand before her she gave a little cry of dismay.

“Wesley what is it?”

“De Lawd on’y know, Miss. I sho’ don’. Dat Juno done sent it in.”

“Go at once and ask her what she used in making this pudding. I have never seen its equal.”

“Ner I,” chuckled Wesley as he hurried off. In five minutes he was back, his hand across his mouth and struggling manfully not to disgrace himself.

“Well?” queried Mrs. Bonnell, her lips twitching.

“She—she—” he strove to articulate. “She—she say she done got de-de-sta-sta-sta’ch in—de la’ndry, an’ she—she—taken dat fer ter be ec’nomical an’ save ’spence fer de school. It—it—wor lef’ over by Aunt Mandy f’om de washin’. She ain’ think,—ha—ha,—she ain’ think de bluin’ in it mak’ no diff’ence, he-he-he—. Please, ma’am, scuse me, I can’t stan’ fo’ no mo,” and Wesley beat a hasty retreat.

Juno Daphne departed that afternoon, Mrs. Bonnell wishing to avoid the services of a coroner.

As there was no study period on Friday evenings the girls were at liberty to amuse themselves as they chose. At least, within limitations, though they often miscalculated the limitations. The afternoon had been too dull and cold for much outdoor exercise, so they had spent it in the gymnasium practicing basket-ball. In March they would play a game with a team from a town a few miles from Leslie Manor.

Beverly, Sally and Aileen were all on the team, Beverly having made it through adaptability rather than knowledge, for she had never seen a basketball before coming to school, but being as quick as a cat had made good. Consequently the occupants of Suite 10 were glad to rest their weary bodies upon couch or easy chairs when dinner was over, and Sally was entertaining them with an account of her interview with Miss Baylis after luncheon.

“She makes me tired. If it had been you, Bev, she would have sent you down to Miss Woodhull’s office in jig time. But I’ve a good one for Uncle Tom,” and Sally laughed.

“I wouldn’t have cared if she had sent me. I’d rather come to an issue with the Empress anytime than with Miss Baylis. But the whole thing was funny as the mischief,” answered Beverly from her big wicker chair.

“Let’s make some fudge. I’ve got the needfuls, and it will sweeten our tempers. Such things make me cross for hours. We don’t indulge in petty squabbles at home. Mother would be disgusted if she knew of some of the things which take place here, and father would say there was something wrong with the gasoline. He’s just bought a new car so his metaphors are apt to be gasoliney,” laughed Aileen.

“What will you make the fudge in? You let Hope MacLeod have the chafing dish.”

Aileen looked daunted for a moment. Then her face lighted.

“I’ve a tin pail. I can make it in that.”

“But how? You can’t boil it without the lamp.”

“Can’t I? Just you watch me do it.” Aileen was resourceful. In a few minutes she had the mixture in her pail, and the pail swinging by a string over the gas jet. Leslie Manor was quite up-to-date. It had gas as well as electricity, though gas was not supposed to be used excepting in cases of emergency. Once or twice the electric current had failed.

Aileen had fastened the string from one side of the room to the other on a couple of picture hooks. A none too secure support. Then all three sat down to wait until the fudge gave signs of boiling and promptly became absorbed in a new interest, the Easter vacation.

In the midst of the conversation, Beverly paused. She had suddenly remembered Petty’s note.

“What’s the matter?” asked Sally.

“I’ve forgotten something,” she answered, scrambling from her chair and crossing to her desk for her history. She would take the note back to Petty. It was utter nonsense of course, but it was Petty’s and if she was pleased with such nonsense, she was welcome to it. She looked hurriedly through the book. The note was not in it. Where could she have dropped it? No, she had not dropped it, of that she was certain. She had taken pains to keep the book tightly closed. She meant to have given the note to Petty directly after luncheon. How provoking! Maybe Petty had seen her catch it up and had come for it herself. She would go and ask her. As she turned to make her intention known to the others there was a snap overhead. The heat had burned Aileen’s string before the fudge had begun to boil and pail and contents descended upon the study table with a rattle and splash, the hot mass scattering in every direction.

For the ensuing half hour the three girls had their hands full and Petty, notes, history examination and all minor affairs were forgotten.