en she had
finished it resembled a stormy sky--a groundwork of blue-black, blotted
writing, lit by innumerable dashes of red. Cecilia put down her red
pencil.

"It's hopeless, Avice. You haven't tried a bit. And you know it isn't
hard--you did a far more difficult piece of translation without a
mistake last Friday."

"Yes, but the pantomime was coming off on Saturday," said Wilfred, with
a grin. "Jolly little chance of tickets from Bob if she didn't!"

"You shut up!" said Avice.

"Be quiet, both of you," Cecilia ordered, a spot of red in each pale
cheek. "Remember, there will be other Saturdays. Bob will do nothing for
you if I can't give him a decent report of you." It was the threat she
hated using, but without it she was helpless. And the red-haired pair
before her knew to a fraction the extent of her helplessness.

For the moment the threat was effective. Avice went back to her seat,
taking with her the excited-looking French exercise, while Wilfred
sullenly recommenced a dispirited attack upon the African coastline.
Cecilia leaned back in her chair, and took up a half-knitted sock--to
drop it hastily, as a long-drawn howl came from a low chair by the
window.

"Whatever is the matter, Queenie?"

"I per-ricked my finger," sobbed the youngest Miss Rainham. She stood
up, tears raining down her plump cheeks. No one, Cecilia thought, ever
cried so easily, so copiously, and so frequently as Queenie. As she
stood holding out a very grubby forefinger, on which appeared a minute
spot of blood, great tears fell in splashes on the dark green linoleum,
while others ran down her face to join them, and others trembled on her
lower eyelids, propelled from some artesian fount within.

"Oh, dry up, Queenie!" said Wilfred irritably. "Anyone 'ud think you'd
cut your silly finger off!"

"Well--it'th bleed-in'!" wailed Queenie. She dabbed the injured member
with the pillow case she was hemming, adding a scarlet touch in pleasant
contrast to its prevailing grime.

"Well--you're too big a girl to cry for a prick," said Cecilia wearily.
"People who are nearly seven really don't cry except for something
awfully bad."

"There--I'll tell the mater you said awfully!" Avice jeered. "Who bites
our heads off for using slang, I'd like to know?"

"You wouldn't have much head left if I bit for every slang word you
use," retorted her half-sister. "Do get on with your French, Avice--it's
nearly half-past twelve, and you know Eliza will