, of all people!"

"Poor child!" repeated Mrs. Arnold. ("Which of us does she mean?"
thought Ulyth.) "She's evidently raw material. Every diamond needs
polishing. What an opportunity for a Torch-bearer!"

Ulyth dropped her friend's arm suddenly. It was not at all the answer
she had expected. Moreover, at least a dozen girls had come running up
and were claiming their chief's attention. In a species of triumphant
procession Mrs. Arnold was escorted into the glade and installed on her
throne of state, a seat made of logs and decorated with ferns. Everyone
clustered round to welcome her, and for the moment she was the centre of
an enthusiastic crowd. Ulyth followed more slowly. She was feeling
disturbed and put out. What did Mrs. Arnold mean? Surely not----? A
sudden thought had flashed into her mind but she thrust it away
indignantly. Oh no, that was quite impossible! It was outrageous of
anybody to make the suggestion. And yet--and yet--the uneasy voice that
had been haunting her for the last four days began to speak with even
more vehemence. With a sigh of relief she heard the signal given for
"Attention", and cast the matter away from her for the moment. Every eye
was fixed on their leader. The ceremony was about to begin.

Mrs. Arnold rose, and in her clear, sweet voice proclaimed:

"The Guardian of the Fire calls on the Wood-gatherers to bring their
fuel."

At once a dozen girls came forward, each dragging a tolerably large
bundle of brushwood. They deposited these in a circle, saluted, and
retired.

"Fire-makers, do your work!" commanded the leader.

Eight girls responded, Ulyth among the number, and seizing the
brushwood, they built it deftly into a pile. All stood round, waiting in
silence while their chief struck a match and applied a light to some
dried leaves and bracken that had been placed beneath. The flame rose up
like a scarlet ribbon, and in a few moments the dry fuel was ablaze and
crackling. The gleam lighting up the glade displayed a picturesque
scene. The boles of the trees might have been the pillars in some
ancient temple, with the branches for roof. Close by the cascade of the
stream leapt white against a background of dim darkness. The harvest
moon, full and golden, was rising behind the crest of Cwm Dinas. An owl
flew hooting from the wood higher up the glen. Mrs. Arnold stood waiting
until the bonfire was well alight, then she turned to the expectant
girls.

"I've no need to tell most