ed the Cuckoo a trifle
defiantly.

"I do," said Ulyth emphatically.

"Not really?"

"Indeed I do. I care very much. You came over here to be my friend, and
there are many things I want in a friend."

"I didn't know you cared," replied Rona in a softened voice. "No one
ever did before--except Dad, when he said I was a savage."

"Don't you want to show him what you can grow into?" asked Ulyth
eagerly. "Think how surprised and pleased he'll be when he sees you
again!"

"There's something in that."

"There's a great deal in it. I know I often make myself do things I
don't want because of Mother; she's such a darling, and----" She stopped
short, realizing too late the mistake she was making.

"I can't remember Mother," answered Rona, turning away with a suggestive
cough. "It's all very well for you."

Ulyth could have bitten her tongue out. She said no more, for she knew
her room-mate well enough by this time to have learnt that sympathy must
be offered with the utmost discretion. The poor Cuckoo was only too well
aware of the deficiencies in her home and upbringing, but the least hint
of them from others immediately put her on the defensive. In her own way
she was very proud, and though there was a vast difference between
Stephanie's stinging remarks and Ulyth's well-meant kindness, anything
that savoured of compassion wounded her dignity.

The conversation brought urgently to Ulyth a question which had been
disturbing her, and which she had persistently tried to banish from her
thoughts. Where was Rona going to spend Christmas? So far as anyone knew
she had not a friend or relation in the British Isles. Miss Bowes and
Miss Teddington always went away for the holidays, and The Woodlands was
left in the charge of servants. Rona could not stay at the school,
surely? Had Miss Bowes made any arrangement for her? Ulyth vacillated
for at least five minutes, then took out her writing-case and began a
letter home.

"BEST-BELOVED MOTHERKINS,

"I am such a nasty, horrid, selfish thing! In every one of your letters
you have hinted and hinted and hinted that we should ask Rona for
Christmas. You wouldn't say it outright until you were sure I wanted it.
That was just the rub. I didn't want it. I'm afraid even now I don't
quite. I've had her all the term, and I thought it would be so blissful
to be without her for four whole weeks, and have you and Father and
Oswald and Dorothy and Peter just to myself. But oh, Motherkins