As Margaret advanced toward one of the closed doors, and had her hand on the knob, she suddenly sprang back in alarm, for the door had been thrown open and a young girl of their own age darted out, closing it behind her.

Then with flashing eyes, she asked, “Who are you and what right have you to be prowling about my great great grandfather’s house?”

“We have no right whatever,” Virginia said, “and we ask you to pardon us. We are five girls from Vine Haven Seminary, and although we really did want to see the outside of this most interesting old house, we entered it quite unintentionally.”

Here Betsy, no longer willing to be kept in the background, told of Barbara’s desire to slide down a cellar door, once again, as she had in the days of her childhood and of the resulting mishap.

“Of course we should have gone right back then,” Margaret began hesitatingly, “but—but—well, we didn’t.”

To the surprise of the five intruders, the girl, to whom they were endeavoring to apologize, flashed at them a radiant smile which was like sunshine bursting through a thunder cloud. “I’m powerfully glad you did intrude,” she said inconsistently. “I’ve been just ever and ever so eager to see some girls from the seminary. My mother and her sister used to go there when they were young and she often tells me about the good times they had. Mother went up to the seminary the year before she was married. That was when Mrs. Martin first started her school. But don’t stand out here in this cold hall. Come in by the fire. Mother-mine will be so glad to meet you.”

“And we will be glad to know your mother, but right at this very minute we ought to be hurrying back to the school. I’m so afraid that Micky O’Brien thinks that we must have returned some other way and that he has gone on without us,” Virginia explained.

Nor were they wrong, for the faithful Micky had delayed in front of the wood as long as he possibly could. His father turned often to beckon him to make haste, and when at last he obeyed. Mr. O’Brien shouted, “Aren’t ye after seein’ the storm clouds gatherin’? Snow’ll be fallin’ so thick, come any minute, the hosses won’t be seein’ to kape on the road even.”

Poor Micky had promised Betsy that he would tell no one, but the other girls in his sleigh were curious until one of their number said, “Why worry about them? Virginia Davis and Margaret Selover were with them. They’re both on the Honor Roll and so, of course, they had permission to do whatever it was that they did. My theory is that they decided to hike back to the school. We will probably find them there waiting for us.”

Micky overheard this conversation and how he did hope that it was true. Following his father’s lead, he urged his horses to a gallop, hoping that they would reach the seminary before the storm broke over them. It grew momentarily darker as the clouds lowered above them and the horses lagged as they drew their heavy loads up the gradual slope of the hill road. They were just turning in between the gates of the school drive when the snow began to fall. Faster and faster, thicker and thicker the big flakes rushed, hiding everything that was a few feet in front of the bus. Even the seminary did not loom up until they were nearly upon it.

Poor Micky knew not what to do. He, of course, was obliged to go to the stables with his team after the girls had been let out under the sheltering portico at the wide front porch. Luckily his father had made quick work of unharnessing and feeding his team, and he was in the warm rooms above the stable when Micky drove into the barn. The lad had lingered in front of the school as long as he could, hoping that Betsy or Babs would appear to assure him that they had reached home in safety, but they had not.

He was just wondering if he dared go into the kitchen and ask Delia, one of the maids who was kind to him, to obtain the information he desired, when he saw, through the storm, the figure of a girl wrapped in a long cloak and hood, hurrying toward the barn. It was Dicky Taylor. When she stepped within the light of the lantern, the boy saw that her startled eyes looked out of a face as white as the snow. “What is’t?” he whispered hoarsely. “Ain’t they come yet, Mis’ Clossen or the rest of them?”

Dicky shook her head. “No, I’m sure they haven’t. I was curious about it and so I went to their rooms just as soon as I reached the school, before I took off my cloak, but not one of them is to be found. I can’t bear to tell Mrs. Martin, for, if I do, Virginia and Margaret might lose their places on the Honor Roll. Is there any way for us to get them before supper, Micky? They won’t be missed until then.”

“I’m feer’d not,” he replied. “It’s mos’ five.” Then with sudden resolve, he turned his horses toward the door. “Gee, I’m glad I hain’t unhitched yet. We’ll take a chanct, Pa,” he shouted up the narrow stairway, “Gotta go to town on an errant.” He was gone, with Dicky at his side, before his father could question him further. The older man having removed his boots, had settled by the stove with his pipe. He decided that Mrs. Martin had sent the boy back on some forgotten errand and thought no more about it.

Meanwhile the girls about whom so much anxiety was being felt were talking with the young stranger who had appeared so unexpectedly.

“But there is only one way out of this old house,” Eleanor Burgess told the girls when Virginia protested that they would better hasten away and return some other day to meet Mrs. Burgess, “and that way lies through the South Wing, which mother and I are occupying.” As she spoke she again opened the door and the five girls caught glimpses of a pleasant fire-lighted apartment which seemed strangely out of keeping with the cold damp old house through which they had been groping until they had been suddenly confronted, not by the expected ghost, but by an inhabitant who was a girl of their own age.

Much mystified, they followed Eleanor and found themselves in a large living room which seemed to combine within its four walls all the requirements of a home, for one corner was lined with shelves on which were many books. There, too, was an old mahogany desk littered with papers and the pencil lying upon them seemed to have been hastily dropped by whoever had been writing. In still another corner, almost screened from their sight, was a small oil stove and a few kitchen utensils, while in the middle of the room, drawn close to the wide fireplace, on which a log was burning, stood a supper table set with two places. The only light in the big room came from two candles on this table, one behind the screen and the fire on the hearth.

Easy chairs and a bed couch covered with bright-colored pillows completed the furnishings. There was a charm about the room which delighted Virginia.

It was evident that someone was behind the kitchen screen, and, upon hearing her name spoken, that someone appeared, smiling a welcome to the unknown girls. A woman, neither old nor young, but with a weary expression on a pale, though truly beautiful face, advanced with her hand outheld.

“And who may these maidens be?” The question was smilingly directed to her daughter, whose flushed cheeks and bright eyes revealed that she was both excited and happy about something.

“Mother-mine, these are five girls from the seminary about which you have told me so often.” Then impulsively turning to the girl nearest, she said, “This is my lady-mother, Mrs. Burgess. Won’t you please tell her your names? I simply can’t remember them.”

“Gladly,” Margaret replied, then when the introductions were made, she looked anxiously at her foster sister, saying, “It is five now. What shall we do? Micky has of course driven past, and do see the snowstorm!”

She glanced at the window, against which sheets of hail and snow were beating.

“Mrs. Martin will indeed be anxious,” the mother said. “Otherwise I would suggest that you remain here and camp out with us.”

“Oh, how I wish you could,” Eleanor exclaimed. “We would spread blankets on the floor near the fire and pretend we were sleeping on the ground on a summer’s night, out under the stars.” At that moment the wind whistled dismally down the wide chimney and Virginia smiled. “We would have to have good imaginations to pretend that, I fear,” she commented.

“My little daughter has a very wonderful imagination,” the older woman said as she pointed toward the old mahogany desk. “Instead of moping because she is shut in with a weary invalid, as many girls would, she spends hours scribbling. What she is writing she will not tell, but I believe that it is a story.”

Virginia’s eyes brightened. “Oh, is it truly? Do you write stories?” Then when her question had been answered with a nod, she continued, “I have been made Editress of The Manuscript Magazine, much against my will, and I am searching for someone who can write an interesting story. If you love to write, then of course you write well. How I do wish you were a pupil at Vine Haven.”

“And I, too, wish that she were, Virginia,” the mother replied sadly, “but I have been obliged, through ill health, to give up my settlement work in Boston and come back to my great grandfather’s old home to recuperate. Our income at present is barely enough to provide our daily needs and the tuition at the seminary is high.”

A sudden memory brought a rush of gladness to the heart of Virginia. Only a few days before Mrs. Martin had asked if she knew of a really talented girl who would benefit by becoming the guest pupil and occupying the Tower Room left vacant by the departure of the former guest pupil. Surely nowhere could be found a girl more worthy of this privilege. But of her thoughts she said nothing just then. She must first consult Mrs. Martin. “Mrs. Burgess,” she said, “what would be your advice to us? Shall we start out in the storm, endeavor to walk into town and there hire a station wagon to take us up the hill, or—”

The query was interrupted by a jingling of sleigh-bells without. Micky had chanced to see the light from the kitchen candle glimmering through the storm and had driven toward it, finding a gate open on the side which the five girls had not visited, and so it happened, in another moment, he was pounding at the door, which, when opened, admitted a gust of sleety wind and revealed Dicky Taylor’s white, troubled face and that of the Irish boy.

“Do come in and get warm, both of you,” was Eleanor’s urgent invitation, but the boy shook his head. “We mustn’t stop. We’re afther wantin’ to get back before six.”

“I’m coming again tomorrow if possible,” Virginia said before she left.