The Junior Reception was "on." In fact, it was to take place this very evening, and an air of subdued excitement hung over the whole school. All the other classes were invited, as well as the Faculty and many friends from outside; it was sure to be a delightful occasion. Peggy was fortunate enough to be one of the auxiliaries called in by the Snowy Owl to help in the decorations, and she counted it a high privilege, as indeed it was. As a general thing, there is more sympathy between juniors and freshmen than between any other two classes in school or college; various reasons may be assigned for this, but it remains the fact. Besides this, however, Peggy felt a very special bond with the "Jews," because her dearest friends were among them. This had come about partly from the accident of her coming late to school, and so being put into the junior corridor; but it was still more due to her making instant acquaintance, as we have seen, with the Fluffy Owl, and through her with the beloved and powerful Snowy. These two girls, through their wise and gentle ways, were a power for good in the whole school, and especially in their own class. They were queens of the steady and right-minded majority, while Grace Wolfe led the wilder and less disciplined spirits. The Owls went their quiet way, and troubled themselves little, less perhaps than they should have done, about the doings of the "Gang." They were busy with study, with basket-ball, with a hundred things; they could not always know (especially when pains were taken that they should not know) what tricks the Scapegoat and her wild mates were up to.

Both Owls had a real affection for Peggy, and though they knew nothing as yet of the recent escapade, they felt that it would be well to keep her rather under their wing, the more so that Grace had undoubtedly taken a fancy to the child, too.

"She's too fascinating!" said the Snowy. "We shall have the Innocent falling in love with her if we don't look out, and that would never do!"

"Never!" said the Fluffy, shaking her head wisely; but she added, in an undertone, "If only the mischief isn't done already!"

So the two asked Peggy to help them in the work of preparing the gymnasium for the great event, and she consented with delight. She was making plenty of friends in her own class, oh, yes; especially now that she and Rose Barclay had made it up. She was the one stay and comfort of poor little Lobelia Parkins, and was devotedly kind to that forlorn creature, taking her out to walk almost by main force, and presenting to all comers a front of such stalwart, not to say pugnacious, determination, that no one dared to molest the girl when Peggy was with her. Spite of all this, however, her heart remained in Corridor A, and she would have left the whole freshman class in the lurch at one whistle from the Owls—or, alas! from the Scapegoat.

But all this is by the way, and does not help us to get up the Junior Reception.

There had been an early morning expedition to the neighbouring woods (not, however, through the fire-escape), and Peggy and the Owls had returned each with a wheelbarrow-load of boughs and ground pine and all manner of pleasant woodland things. The leaves had turned, and were glowing with scarlet and gold and russet. These were put in water, lest they should begin to curl and wither before night; while the evergreens were heaped in a corner and left to their fate. Now it was afternoon, and the girls, released from their tasks, had flown to the scene of action. Already the gymnasium began to assume a festive appearance. Several garlands were in place, and on the floor sat six or eight juniors, busily weaving more. Ladders stood here and there. At the top of one stood the Snowy Owl, arranging a "trophy," as she called it, of brilliant leaves, on another, Peggy was valiantly hammering, as she arranged in festoons the long folds of green and white bunting that the Fluffy handed up to her. The Fluffy was a curious sight, being swathed in bunting from head to foot. When Peggy demanded "more slack," she simply turned around a few times and unrolled herself, thus presenting the appearance of an animated spool.

"It's effective," said Gertrude, surveying her from her perch, "but I can't say that it looks comfortable. How ever did you get yourself into such a snarl, Fluff?"

"Why, I was measuring it, don't you know?" said Bertha, "and it got all into a heap on the floor, and there was so much of it I didn't know what to do. So I began to roll it round and round myself, and the first thing I knew I was the cocoon-thing you see before you. I feel as if I ought to come out a butterfly, somehow."

"They are lovely colours!" said Peggy. "There's nothing so pretty as green and white. How do you choose your colours? We haven't chosen ours yet, but I suppose we shall soon."

"The Snowy chose them," said Bertha. "They were Sir Somebody-or-other's colours at the Siege of Acre. I wanted scarlet, because that was Launcelot's—"

"Fluffy! it was nothing of the kind!"

"Well, you know what I mean, Snowy; don't make a cannibal meal of me. Scarlet was Elaine's colour, and Launcelot wore it; that was what I meant."

"I thought—" said Peggy, timidly, "I thought she was the Lily Maid; I thought she wore white."

"Did, herself," said the Snowy, with her mouth full of tacks. "But she gave him a scarlet sleeve embroidered with pearls, and he wore it on his helmet, and that was what made Guinevere throw the diamonds into the river."

"Oh!" said Peggy, meekly. She had tried to read the "Idyls of the King," but could not make out much except the fighting parts.

"Never understood why they had sleeves so often," said Bertha, abstractedly bunching the green and white draperies. "Never could see how they got the sleeve on the helmet in any kind of shape. What sort of sleeves did they have then, anyhow? Why, they were those tight ones, weren't they, with a slashed cap at the top? Well, now, Snowy, that would look perfectly absurd on a helmet, you know it would."

The Snowy deigned no reply; or perhaps the tacks were in a perilous position at that moment. Bertha went on, thoughtfully:

"A balloon sleeve, now, would be more sensible; you could slip it over the helmet, and it would look like—like the shade of a piano lamp. But somehow, whenever I read about it, I see a small, tight, red sleeve, spread out like a red flannel bandage, as if the helmet had a sore throat—"

"Fluffy, you are talking absolute nonsense!" said Gertrude, regaining utterance. "And after all, they had gloves oftener than sleeves; not that that makes it much better. For my part, I always think of a glove with all the five fingers sticking up out of the middle of the crown, as if they had tried to be feathers and been nipped in the bud."

"Feathers don't bud!" said Bertha, handing up more slack.

"But the real thing," Gertrude went on, "the beautiful, graceful thing for the knight to wear, was the scarf. He could do anything he liked with that; tie it around his helmet, or across his breast,—that was the proper way of course,—or around his waist.

"A green scarf, that is what I would have! Very soft, so that it would go through a finger-ring, and yet wide enough to shake out into wonderful folds, you know, so that he could wrap himself up in it, and think of me, and—what's the matter, Peggy, why do you sigh?"

"Did I sigh?" said Peggy, looking confused. "It was nothing, Snowy. I was only thinking—thinking how stupid I was, and how Margaret would like all the things you talk about."

"Meaning sleeves?"

"No, oh, no! but about knights, and chivalry, and all that kind of thing. Margaret loves it so! She used to try to read Froissart to me, but it always put me to sleep. I suppose you like Froissart, Gertrude?"

She spoke so wistfully that Gertrude took the tacks out of her mouth (she should never have put them in; a junior should have known better!) that she might reply the better.

"Why, Peggy, yes, I do like Froissart, but it never troubles me when people don't care for my kind of books. You see, there are so many kinds, such an endless variety, and good in so many different ways. Now you, for example, would like the Jungle Books, and the 'Cruise of the Cachalot,' and all kinds of books of adventure."

"I don't know what is adventure if Froissart isn't," Bertha put in.

"Yes, but it's all too far away, too remote. I know how Peggy feels, because I have a cousin who is just that way. She used to think she should never read anything at all; then one day she got hold of Kipling, and the worlds opened, and the doors thereof. Just you come to me for the Jungle Books some day, Innocent, and you'll see. Look here, I want lots and lots, and again lots more leaves. Where are they all? I don't see any more, but there must be any quantity. I brought in a whole copse, myself."

"We put them all into the old swimming-tank, don't you remember? Oh, no; you went in before we had finished this morning. Well, they are there. Stay where you are, Snowy, and Peggy and I will get a couple of loads."

The two girls ran down-stairs to the lower floor. Part of this was taken up, as we have already seen, by dressing-rooms, but it was only a small part. The larger space was occupied by the great swimming-tank, five feet deep, and twenty by thirty feet in area. The tank was not used now, but the water was still connected, and could be turned on by special permission. Now, accordingly, the water in the bottom was about two feet deep, and the whole surface was a blaze of autumn colours, great branches of maple, oak, and ash covering it completely.

"Pretty, isn't it?" said Bertha. "Like a little sunset sea all alone by itself, without any sun to set. The next question is, how are we to get at them?"

"Oh, that's easy enough!" said Peggy. "I can reach them easily from the edge, and I'll hand them over to you."

Suiting the action to the word, she climbed up on the broad marble slab which formed the edge of the great tank.

Then, bending down, she brought up a great branch of golden maple, fresh and dripping. She shook it, and a diamond shower fell back on the dark space left vacant; then another branch floated quietly over and filled the space again.

"You'll be wet through!" said Bertha. "I don't suppose you care?"

"No, indeed! I'd rather be wet than not, when I'm doing things."

"I'll remember that," said Bertha, slyly, "and come round with a watering-can next time you are reciting your rhetoric. Give me some red now; oh, that is a beauty! There! that's enough for one load; unless you see just one more little one that is superlatively beautiful."

"That is just what I do see! Hold on a minute! this is such a beauty, you must have it, if I—oh!"

Peggy had been leaning as far as she could over the broad tank, fishing for the gay branch, which floated provokingly just out of reach. At last she touched it—grasped it—drew it toward her; when all in a moment she slipped on the marble, now wet and glossy with the falling drops, clutched the air—slipped again—and fell headlong into the tank, with a mighty splash.

Bertha shrieked. There was an answering shriek from above, and Gertrude, followed by all the other girls, came flying down the stairs.

"What has happened? What—where is Peggy?"

"In the tank!" cried Bertha. "Oh! dear me, what shall we do? Peggy, are you much hurt?"

"No; I—think not!" spluttered Peggy. "I came down on my nose, that's all. Feels as if it was broken, but I don't know—no! It doesn't crack when I wiggle it. It's bleeding a good deal, though. Perhaps I'd better stay in till it stops."

Bertha tried to climb up to the perch which Peggy had so suddenly left vacant, but in vain; her legs were far too short. Gertrude, however, came with a flying leap, and scrambled cat-like up the side of the tank. Looking down, with the kindest heart in the world, and a world of sympathy to fill it, she still could not help bursting into a peal of laughter. Peggy, sitting in the tank, crowned with gold and scarlet leaves, and dripping like Undine, was certainly a funny spectacle.

"Oh, do forgive me for laughing, Peggy dear!" cried Gertrude. "You—you do look funny, but I'm dreadfully sorry."

"Well, I'm laughing myself," said Peggy, "I don't see why you shouldn't. But did you ever hear of a water-nymph with a nosebleed? If I could only get at my pocket—"

"Here, take mine," and Gertrude dropped her handkerchief, which Peggy caught adroitly.

"My dear," Gertrude went on, "it seems so strange to have some one besides me falling about and dropping herself. I used to be the one, always. They called me 'Dropsy' at home; and I fell in here last year, Peggy, and I know exactly how it feels. Here! take my hand and scramble out."

Peggy, still sitting in the water, which covered her to the waist, looked about her thoughtfully. "It seems a pity, now I am here, not to have some good of it," she said, philosophically.

"If it were only a foot deeper, or I weren't bothered with all these petticoats, I might have a good swim. However, I suppose I may as well get out—if I can. Take care, Snowy—oh! take care!"

Alas! for the Snowy Owl! After all, she was still Gertrude Merryweather. The marble was wet—she bent down to take Peggy's hand—here was another tremendous splash, and two Undines sat in the tank, gazing speechless on each other. This was too much for the composure of any one. Both Peggy and Gertrude sat helpless, shaking with laughter, and absolutely unable to move. Bertha, outside, fairly went into hysterics, and laughed and screamed in one breath; while the other girls raised such a clamour of mingled mirth and terror that Emily Cortlandt, who had just come in to take a look at the decorations, came running down-stairs, dreading she knew not what.

One look over the edge of the tank, and Miss Cortlandt was not so very much better than the rest of them; but she recovered herself sooner. Wiping her eyes, she proceeded at once to the business of rescuing the two involuntary divers. It proved impossible for them to climb up, the sides being too slippery, and the flying leap being out of the question in two feet of water. She brought a short ladder, and in another moment first one nymph and then the other came up from their fountain, and dripped little rivers on the floor.

"Is either of you hurt?" asked Miss Cortlandt.

"Not I!" said Gertrude, ruefully. "I fell on top of poor Peggy, and she makes a perfect cushion. How are you, Peggy? Did I half kill you?"

"Not a bit! I think perhaps I've sprained my wrist a little, but that was when I went in myself. No, I'm all right; truly I am, Miss Cortlandt. I'll just go and change my clothes, and then come back and finish."

Emily Cortlandt did not come of amphibious stock. "You will do nothing of the kind!" she said. "You ought to go to bed, Peggy, and Gertrude, too; but I suppose you would think that a terrible piece of injustice."

"Yes, Miss Cortlandt, we should!" replied both girls, in a breath.

"And I know that you have both been brought up more or less like whales; so I'll let you off with camphor pills and peppermint drops. Those you must have. Run along and change everything—everything, mind!—and I'll come around in five minutes and dose you. Run, now; make it a race, and I'll add hot lemonade to the stakes,—first prize and booby prize!"

"Yes, Miss Cortlandt," cried the two Undines; and off they set in a shower of spray, with the other girls at their heels.