had made his last rounds and put out the lights; but although
there was no moon the starlight on the snow made the campus silvery in
spots. But the leafless trees, and the buildings about the open space,
cast deep shadows.

There was a light shining in a study window of the West Dormitory and
that light was in the room occupied by the Triumvirate--Ruth Fielding,
Helen Cameron and Mercy Curtis. The two latter were abed, but awake
and wondering why Ruth had not returned, and what Miss Scrimp had meant
by coming to the door and telling them to leave the light burning.

The clocks had long since struck eleven and it was close to midnight.
The night was still, for there was no wind. It was possible that very
few of either the scholars, teachers, or servants at Briarwood were
awake. But almost directly under the light in the Triumvirate's room
another light burned--in the study of the French teacher. She seldom
retired early; that is one reason why those girls who considered Miss
Picolet their enemy believed she was always on the watch.

Three figures came out of the basement door under the tower of
Briarwood Hall--a lady much bundled up, a girl ditto, and the old
Irishman, Tony Foyle.

"Sure, ma'am, jest as I told ye this afternoon, the big felly that
sassed me last fall, tryin' ter git in ter play his harp, and with his
other vagabonds, was hanging around again to-day. I hear him an' his
rapscallion companions is in Lumberton. They've been playing about
here and there, for a month back. And now I see him comin' along with
his harp on his back--bad 'cess to him! P'raps they're walkin' across
to Sivin Oaks, an' are takin' in Briarwood as a 'cross-cut'."

"Hush!" whispered the Preceptress. "Isn't that somebody over
yonder--by the fountain?"

They were all three silent, keeping close in the shadow. Some object
_did_ seem to be moving in the shadow of the fountain. Suddenly there
sounded on the still night air the reverberating note of a harp--a
crash of sound following the flourish of a practised hand across the
wires.

"Bless us and save us!" muttered Tony. "'Tis the marble harp. 'Tis a
banshee playin'."

"Be still!" commanded Mrs. Tellingham. "It is nothing of the kind, you
very well know, Tony. Ah!"

She had looked instantly toward the illuminated window of the French
teacher's study at the other side of the campus. The shade had snapped
up to the top of the casement, and the shadow of Miss Picole