it." (Here Wendy fixed
a reproachful gaze on Geraldine, who coloured slightly.) "You've
deliberately disobeyed orders, and you will be confined to 'bounds' for
a fortnight. It's absolutely essential in our country rambles that
discipline should be kept up, and any girl who breaks rules will stay at
home next time. You deserve to walk back with bare feet, but Miss
Beverley will give you your boots. Put them on at once!"

It was horrible to have to sit down upon the heather and pull on
stockings and boots under the critical supervision of twenty-two pairs
of eyes. Diana's lace broke, and Wendy's fingers seemed all thumbs. Miss
Todd superintended till the last knot had been awkwardly tied, then she
gave the signal for marching. Considerably crestfallen, the delinquents
dropped towards the rear.

"Did Geraldine sneak?" whispered Wendy to Violet.

"No, it wasn't exactly her fault--it was Spot really. He routed out the
boots, and began barking and worrying them, and Miss Beverley rushed up
to see what he'd got--she thought he'd caught an otter or a water-rat.
When she saw it was boots--well----"

"She knew she'd caught us," finished Diana.

"She took the boots straight to Miss Todd, and Toddlekins blew her
whistle and counted us over like sheep to find who was missing. Then she
asked who'd seen you last, and if anyone had given you leave to wade.
She dragged it all out of Geraldine. I don't think Gerry would have told
on her own."

"Spot!" said Diana, turning reproachful eyes on that panting specimen of
the canine race. "I used to think you a dinky little dog, but I'm out of
friends with you now. It's a real mean trick you've played us. Oh! you
needn't come jumping up on me and licking my hand. What possessed you to
unearth those boots? 'Bounds' for a whole fortnight! And I wanted to go
to Glenbury on Wednesday. It's too disgusting for words! Vi, d'you think
if I looked an absolute hallowed saint all Sunday, and Monday, and
Tuesday, Miss Todd would let me go to Glenbury? My name's down for the
exeat, you know."

Violet regarded Diana for a moment or two as if making mental
calculations.

"You couldn't do it," she decided at last. "You couldn't look the least
tiny, weeny atom like a saint if you tried till doomsday. Saints ought
to be thin and wan, with straight noses and fair hair parted in the
middle. You're rosy and substantial, and your nose isn't straight, and
your hair's too brown, and as for your eyes--they've