alf your spare
time."

"What I was doing is my own concern, and no business of yours."

"Now you're riled," said the Cuckoo, sitting down easily on her bed. "I
didn't mean any harm. I always seem sticking my foot into it somehow."

Ulyth sighed. Nobody in the school realized how much she had to put up
with from her irrepressible room-mate, whose hearty voice, extraordinary
expressions, and broad notions of fun grated upon her sensitive nature.
Rona did not appreciate in the least the heroic sacrifice that Ulyth was
making. It had never occurred to her that she might be placed in another
dormitory, and that she only remained on sufferance in No. 3. She
admired Ulyth immensely, and was quite prepared to take her as a model,
but at present the copy was very far indeed from the original. The
mistresses had instituted a vigorous crusade against Rona's loud voice
and unconventional English, and she was really making an effort to
improve; but the habits of years are not effaced in a few weeks, and she
still scandalized the authorities considerably. Ulyth could tolerate her
when she kept to her own side of the bedroom, but to have meddlesome
fingers interfering with her private possessions was the last straw to
her burden of endurance.

"Do you understand?" she repeated emphatically. "You're not to touch my
papers at all!"

"All serene! I won't lay a finger on them--honest--sure!" returned the
Cuckoo, chanting her words to the air of "Swanee River", and drumming an
accompaniment on the bedpost. "What d'you think Stephanie called me just
now? She said I was an unlicked cub."

"Oh, surely she didn't! Are you certain?"

"Heard her myself. She said it to my face and tittered. You bet I'll pay
her out somehow. Miss Stephanie Radford needs taking down a peg. Oh,
don't alarm yourself, I'll do it neatly! There'll be no clumsy bungling
about it. Well, if you won't go down and play basket-ball I shall. It's
more fun than sitting up here."

As the door banged behind Rona, Ulyth heaved an ecstatic "Thank
goodness!" She sat for a few moments trying to regain her composure
before she recommenced the writing at which she had been interrupted.
The manuscript on which she was engaged was very precious. She had set
herself no less a task than to write a book. The subject had come to her
suddenly one morning as she lay awake in bed, and she regarded it as an
inspiration. She would make a story about The Woodlands, and bring in
all the g