"There," said Eleanor, "the first step is successfully accomplished, and we have taken formal possession of each other's names. Here comes the train. You were travelling first, weren't you? I was third. We had better both go third as far as the station just before Chailfield, and then I will take your ticket and get into a first and make my arrival in state. By the way, did you send a telegram to Mrs. Murray telling her you had missed an earlier train?"

"No," owned Margaret, conscience stricken, "I am afraid the idea that I should do so never occurred to me."

"Very careless of you," commented Eleanor. "Nobody may be at the station to meet me. I treated you much better, for I sent one to Mrs. Danvers. However, the porter will send one for me," and after asking Margaret for Mrs. Murray's address, and the porter for the time at which the train was due at Chailfield, she wrote out the following telegram: "Missed connection at Carden. Arriving Chailfield 7.56. Margaret." This she handed to the porter, asking him to send it off as soon as he had seen them into the train.

"I wonder," she added, as they stood waiting for the train to come in, "how soon we shall get accustomed to our new names. You will probably find that part easier than I shall, for the name of Margaret is quite strange to me, whereas you told me that you had had a great friend called Eleanor, so that the name will have a familiar ring to you at any rate. By the way, you never explained to me how you reconcile the two conflicting statements you made me, for after telling me that you had scarcely ever spoken to a girl in your life, you went on to say that your dearest friend was a namesake of mine."

The two girls had been fortunate enough to secure a carriage to themselves, for very few people were travelling by that slow train, and as soon as the door was shut upon them they settled themselves opposite one another, and Margaret proceeded to give the desired explanation. For, as Eleanor, who to Margaret's relief had now quite emerged from the dreamy mood into which the thought of her future fame had led her, remarked, that if their plans were not to topple ignominously about their ears at the very outset, it was absolutely essential that each should know as much about the other as possible.

And so, though rather reluctantly, Margaret spoke of her dream friend, and of how, since the days of her childhood, she had managed to keep her existence a secret even from her grandfather and her governess until ten days ago, when the former, overhearing her talking to herself in the wood, had suspected the presence of a stranger, and though that had been contrary to his most stringent rules, had not been a whit appeased when he learned that the person to whom his granddaughter was talking was an imaginary one.

Margaret need not have been afraid that Eleanor would pour ridicule on her shadowy friend; on the contrary, the latter was too touched by the picture of the lonely life the other must have led even to smile.

"It really is quite a coincidence that my name is Eleanor, too," she remarked thoughtfully, "and I am not altogether sure that the name is a fortunate one for you. You see, the first Eleanor ended by getting you into fairly hot water, and the second Eleanor, which is me, is in a fair way to do likewise. But I am glad you told me about the first Eleanor. As she played such an important part in your life it would never have done for me to have been in complete ignorance of her existence. Now this is how I propose we should employ the next half-hour or so. Have you got a sheet of paper and a pencil? No," as Margaret shook her head. "Well, I can supply you with both articles. Little did I think," she added, as she tore a couple of sheets out of her exercise book, and giving one to Margaret, kept the other for herself, "even in my wildest dreams that the innocent pages of my copy-book would ever be put to such a purpose as this. I am going to write down a list of the things about myself that you ought to know, and I want you to do the same about yourself. Little things which we would probably forget if we told them to one another, but which it may prove very useful to have jotted down so that we can refer to it in case of need. You might write down the date of your birthday, for instance, your grandfather's, if you know it, and give me a short description of your house, how many bedrooms it has, and so on, and how many servants, their names, the name of your clergyman, and the church, the doctor, any people you know by sight or by name; your governess's name, how long she was with you, why she left, and how you spent your days, and any little things of that sort. Do you understand?"

"Yes, I think I do," Margaret said, "for I can see how awkward it would be if Mrs. Murray asked you any of these things and you could not answer."

"And on my side," said Eleanor, "I shall write you a short description of the school, and the names and numbers of the girls, what classes I took, the names of the governesses, and a short description of Miss McDonald's appearance, what she usually wore, where she went for her holidays, and any little details of that sort."

For over half an hour the two girls scribbled away busily, and a good deal more paper had to be torn from the exercise-book before their literary labours were at an end.

Margaret, in addition to her own written hints for Eleanor's guidance, was able to give the latter a folded sheet of notepaper which her grandfather had ordered her to convey to Mrs. Murray. On one side of it was carefully written out a table of the hours of study which Margaret had been accustomed to observe hitherto, and on the other he had sketched a plan of the way in which he wished her days to be filled while she was with Mrs. Murray. Eleanor was pleased to observe that by far the greater part of the day was to be spent with Madame Martelli, and though the study of Italian occupied more time than singing, Eleanor was confident that she could soon alter that.

"But I am not at all sure," she said, with a slight grimace, as she read through the list of what Margaret had been used to do, "if I shall be able to maintain your character as easily as I thought. For you are a very learned person, Margaret, and if I am put through an examination as soon as I arrive, I don't know where I shall be. No," as Margaret opened her lips to protest, "I am not fishing. It is a fact that my education is miles behind yours, and I shouldn't be a bit surprised if Mrs. Murray found that out straightaway."

"She will only think that I—that you, I mean—have a very bad memory," Margaret said encouragingly. "Besides, she is deaf, and, from what grandfather said, not very fond of conversation. She will only expect you to say Yes and No to her, for she will know that that was all grandfather expected me to say to him."

"Is that all you were supposed to say to him," Eleanor asked in blank astonishment.

"That is all. Until about a year ago I thought grandchildren and sons and daughters never did say more than that to their parents; but, of course, I know now that they do."

"Well, I should imagine so," Eleanor remarked. "You have been brought up in the style of one hundred years ago, and yet, except for a certain quaintness in your speech, one would not think you very different from any girl brought up in the ordinary way."

"Is my speech quaint?" Margaret asked in dismay.

"It's nothing to worry about," Eleanor said consolingly. "Perhaps it is only because you don't talk a word of slang that your speech sounds a little odd."

"Slang!" said Margaret, only partly relieved. "Is that not what schoolboys talk?"

"Schoolboys and others," said Eleanor, with a laugh. "But don't worry," she added. "It is quite in keeping with your new character as a governess that you should not be slangy, so do not put yourself to the trouble of learning any."

"You have said several things that I did not understand," said Margaret thoughtfully, "were they slang?"

"Very probably; what were they?"

"Oh! I do not know that I can remember them quite all, but you said a minute ago that my education was miles behind yours; what did that mean?"

"Inferior to yours," Eleanor said promptly. "That's hardly slang. It explains itself really, and so you will find with most of the things I have said. But, perhaps, if you hear any expressions of that sort from the young Danvers and don't understand them, it will be better not to ask their meaning. You see, you are supposed to have lived in a girl's school for the last three years and to have all the slang vocabulary at your fingers' ends, so that if you go asking what every common or garden slang expression means you will give us both away with a pound of tea."

"I understand," said Margaret meekly, "and I will not ask." And she made good her promise by forbearing to inquire what "common" or "garden" meant when used in that connection, and what bearing a pound of tea had on the question.

"By the way," said Eleanor, "it has just occurred to me that we ought to keep any photographs we have of our parents safely locked away. I must be especially careful, for Mrs. Murray, as an old friend of your grandfather's, might, if she saw the photographs of my father and mother, recognise the fact that they were not yours."

"The only portraits I have of my father and my mother are contained in this locket," said Margaret, as she drew an old leather case from her bag and pressed the spring. Within lay a dull gold locket richly chased on one side, and having the monogram "M" beautifully worked in seed pearls on the other. Inside were two portraits painted on ivory, one of Margaret's father and one of her mother.

"My mother had these especially painted for me," Margaret said, "but I have never worn the locket. It is too big."

"Yes, it is too big to wear," Eleanor said; "but oh!" as she took the case from Margaret's hand, "what a beautiful string of pearls!"

The locket fitted into a bed on the velvet-lined case, and round it was a circular depression in which a row of pearls lay coiled.

"Yes, that is the chain to wear with the locket," Margaret said. "It is attached to it."

"If it wasn't I should wear the pearls by themselves," Eleanor said, examining them intently. "They are a perfectly lovely row, and must be worth a lot of money. You had better keep this very carefully locked up, Margaret," she said, snapping to the case and handing it back to its owner. "They are hardly the sort of things that a governess would be likely to possess."

"My bag has a very good key," Margaret answered, "so I should always keep it locked and wear the key on my watch-chain."

When Eleanor heard that Margaret had never been to London, and had only the very vaguest idea of what Hampstead, where she was supposed to have lived for the last six years, was like, she had given vent to a low whistle expressive of despair. And as their time together was now drawing short she felt that it would be better to give Margaret a verbal description of that suburb rather than attempt to write one out for her. So as hurriedly as she could she told Margaret as much about Hampstead as she could think of on the spur of the moment. Margaret listened attentively, and as she had naturally an excellent memory, which had been trained to a marvellous pitch of perfection by Miss Bidwell, she found no difficulty at all in committing to heart almost every word that Eleanor uttered on the subject.

The train was running now through exceedingly pretty scenery, but neither of the two girls had any attention to spare for it; every minute of their time was occupied in endeavouring to make themselves as perfect as possible in their new characters. But at last when a long, undulating range of distant blue hills turned themselves slowly into green downs, and instead of occupying the horizon only, filled the middle distance entirely, leaving a foreground of flat green fields between themselves and the train, Eleanor, glancing out of the window, gave it as her opinion that they must be fairly close to Chailfield now, and that at the next station she would change into a first-class carriage.

The rain had long since ceased, and the sun, as it sank towards the range of hills that rose against the western sky, was shining brilliantly out of a mass of gorgeously hued clouds. As it turned out, however, Eleanor had no chance to change into a first-class carriage, for as the train slowed down and ran into the little country station they were approaching, she saw that they had actually arrived at Chailfield.

Both girls gave a little gasp of dismay. Neither had realised that the moment for parting was so near, and now that it was actually upon them, both of them were conscious of a distinct feeling of nervousness which perceptibly increased, especially on Eleanor's part, when she saw that a lady who could be none other than Mrs. Murray had come down to meet the train, for outside the paling that separated the road from the platform a low pony-carriage drawn by two fat black ponies was waiting, and in it was seated a somewhat stout elderly lady wearing a very broad-brimmed mushroom hat. She was scanning the carriage windows as the train went slowly past her, but did not appear to see the two girls who, being in the front part, were carried some distance beyond her before the train came to a standstill.

Eleanor gathered up her umbrella and the basket containing the books, and stood up. A porter came to open the door.

"Any luggage, Miss?"

"Yes, one trunk labelled Anstruther," Eleanor said very distinctly.

"Very good, Miss; for Windy Gap, aren't you? The omnibus is waiting outside for your luggage, and Mrs. Murray has drove down to meet you."

Eleanor stepped out on to the platform feeling that the Rubicon was now crossed and that there was no drawing back for either of them. She lingered for a moment beside the door, which Margaret had very promptly shut upon her the moment she was out of the carriage.

"Don't be nervous," Margaret whispered encouragingly from the safe seclusion of her corner. "I am not."

"Of course you're not!" Eleanor retorted. "You haven't begun to play the impostor yet. I have, and I am not sure that I like it. Your turn to be nervous will come when you get to Seabourne. Well," pulling herself together as the porter came within earshot, "good-bye to you, Miss Carson, so glad to have met you. I hope your holidays will be very pleasant ones."

"I hope so too," said Margaret, with a little happy laugh of pure excitement. "Goodbye, Miss Anstruther, I hope you will get on nicely with all your lessons."

For some reason the train was late in starting on again, and Margaret was therefore able to see the meeting between Mrs. Murray and Eleanor, although she was not near enough to overhear what was said on either side. When Eleanor had given up her ticket and passed through the gate, she saw Mrs. Murray, who had not got out of the pony-carriage, lean forward and, taking hold of Eleanor's two hands, draw her under the shade of the enormous mushroom hat and kiss her affectionately. The hat got somewhat disarranged in the process, and Mrs. Murray righted it with a pleasant low laugh that came distinctly to Margaret's ears as she sat watching the little scene from the corner of the third-class carriage.

Then she seemed to be asking Eleanor some questions, which the latter answered readily through the ear-trumpet which Mrs. Murray held out to her. Once they looked in her direction, and a spasm of alarm shot through Margaret's mind. Surely, surely Eleanor was not abandoning their conspiracy at the very outset of its career. The trunk had already been hoisted on to the top of the somewhat dilapidated looking old bus that evidently plied between the distant village of Windy Gap and the station. Why, then, did the pony-carriage not drive on, or why did the train not start? Eleanor looked again towards the carriage in which Margaret sat in a perfect fever of impatience to be off, and then, after saying something to Mrs. Murray, to which the latter gave an affirmative nod, she left the carriage and came running up the platform. Margaret could have cried with disappointment. She had no doubt at all that Eleanor had already repented of her scheme, and was coming to say that it must be given up. Eleanor reached the door in a somewhat breathless condition, and Margaret resisting her first impulse to shut the window and to draw down the blind, and refuse to listen to a word she was going to say, put her head reluctantly out.

"I couldn't help coming to tell you that she is a perfectly sweet old lady," Eleanor panted. "And she gave me such a warm welcome that I feel an awful fraud, and——"

Margaret interrupted her with an exclamation that sounded almost like a wail of despair.

"And you have come to tell me that you want to change back into your own self?" she said.

"No, not much," Eleanor said hurriedly; "but the point is, do you? She seems to be perfectly charming, and I don't believe she would be very angry. And oh, Margaret! I feel as though I ought not to oust you from house and home in this way."

Margaret's brow cleared as though by magic. It was all right then. Strange though it undoubtedly appeared to her, Eleanor was not only willing but actually eager to go to Windy Gap, and it was only out of motives of unselfishness that she had offered to change into their proper selves.

Briefly, but with all the emphasis of which she was capable, Margaret assured her that such an act of unselfishness would not be appreciated in the least.

"Oh, very well," Eleanor said, much relieved, "and to tell you the truth I think Mrs. Murray would be rather surprised if I were suddenly to return to her and say that I was not Margaret Anstruther but that you were. She would probably end by thinking us both impostors. Well, I must go now; I only came back just to give you the chance of becoming yourself again if you had already repented. Look here, you must let me know how you get on. I shall be quite anxious to know. Will you write? Quick, tell me Mrs. Murray is beckoning."

"I could write, of course," Margaret said cautiously "but you must remember that Margaret Anstruther has never received a letter in her life and that Mrs. Murray might want to see it."

"I shall come in and see you then," Eleanor said.

"Oh, will you?" Margaret said with a smile. "Kindly remember, Miss Margaret Anstruther, that you never took a walk unaccompanied in your life. No, leave it to me, and I will try and come out to Windy Gap one day to see you, for I am free, free, free, and quite grown up, while you are a mere child in the nursery!"

And so, though rather against her will, Eleanor was obliged to leave the matter like that, and saying good-bye to Margaret for the second time she scurried away down the platform.

Margaret watched her step into the pony-carriage, tuck the dust wrap over her knees and over Mrs. Murray's, and then settle herself with an air of obvious enjoyment for her drive. From the window Margaret could see the long, white chalky road that they would traverse to reach Windy Gap, which place doubtless lay to the left beyond the high ridge which shut out all further view of the downs. The road wound its leisurely way between high hedges and green fields, was lost for awhile as it passed behind an outlying spur of the downs, and became visible again as, apparently repenting its former meanderings below, it sternly took the shortest and steepest way possible up the side of the hill, and finally disappeared over the brow. And it might have fallen to her lot to be sitting beside Mrs. Murray and in that little low pony-carriage, and to be driving along that monotonous road to the remote village on the downs instead of to be whirling past them as she did in a train on her way to a houseful of young people. Margaret could have hugged herself with pleasure as she thought of the exchange she had made.