.

"It's a boy's game, and the ball is so hard, it hurts my hands!"
objected Carmel.

"Didn't you play cricket at home?"

"Never!"

"Or tennis?"

"On a cinder court. The sun scorched up our grass court."

"What used you to do then, to amuse yourself?"

"We made paper dresses for the carnival, and sometimes we acted. We used
to have plays on the veranda, or in the garden. And we went on picnics
to the hills. It was beautiful there in spring, when the anemones were
out in the fields."

"We're to have a picnic next Saturday," announced Gowan; "I heard Miss
Walters telling Miss Herbert so."

It was perhaps with special reference to Carmel that Miss Walters had
arranged an outing for the school. It was bluebell time, and the woods
in the neighborhood would be a show. By permission of the owner, Sir
Ranald Joynson, they were to have access to large private grounds, and
to be allowed to ramble in his famous rhododendron gardens. None of the
girls had ever been there before, so it was a treat for all. Motor
wagonettes were to convey them all the six miles; they were to start
after an early lunch, and to take tea baskets with them. Even Carmel
cheered up at the pleasant prospect.

"You have a treat before you!" Dulcie assured her. "You may talk about
your Sicilian flowers, but just wait till you have seen an English wood
full of bluebells! There's nothing to beat it in the whole world. I've
often heard of Sir Ranald Joynson's grounds. We're in luck to get leave
to go in them, because I believe he's generally rather stingy about
allowing people there. I wonder how Miss Walters managed it."

"She's a clever woman," said Gowan. "She always seems to manage to get
what she wants. Some people do!"

"I wish _I_ did!" wailed Bertha. "I've wanted a principal part in the
French plays ever since I came to school, and Mademoiselle never will
give me one; I always have to be a servant, or an extra guest, and speak
about two lines!"

"Well, your French accent is so atrociously bad, I don't wonder!"
returned Gowan. "You certainly wouldn't be a credit to Mademoiselle in a
principal part. And you're very stiff and wooden in acting, too!"

"Thank you for your compliments!" sniffed Bertha, much offended.

"Oh, don't be sarkie! I must tell the truth. Cheer up! It's a picnic on
Saturday, not a French play!"

"Thank goodness it is!" rejoiced Dulcie. "I hate Mademoiselle's French
afternoons! I don't know which is worst; to have to