h grew on a little island in the midst. It made a rather shaky but
perfectly possible bridge, if not for Fauvette, at least for Raymonde.
The latter advanced upon it cautiously but courageously. She took
three steps, almost slipped, but regained her balance by a miracle,
grasped an overhanging bough of the alder, and set a firm foot on the
island. From here, by reaching a long arm, she could gather some fine
specimens of the bog bean. She pulled it up in handfuls, with trailing
oozy stalks. As she turned to grip the alder branch before venturing
back over her primitive bridge, her eye suddenly caught sight of a
large nest built at the extreme brink of the water. It held four
browny-speckled eggs, and an agitated moorhen, seeking cover among the
reeds, gave the clue to their parentage.

The school was making a collection of birds' eggs for its museum.
There were plenty of robins' and thrushes' and blackbirds', and all
the common varieties, but so far not a solitary specimen of a
moorhen's egg. Raymonde felt that even at the risk of betraying their
secret expedition she must secure some of these. She decided to go
halves, to take two and leave two in the nest to console the moorhen
when she came back. She wrapped them in some grass and packed them in
her handkerchief, which she slung round her neck for safety. Then
taking her bunch of bog bean she managed to scramble back to the
bank.

The girls were naturalists enough to remove their tree-trunk from the
island, lest it should tempt marauding boys to go across and discover
the moorhen's nest. They hoped the bird would return and sit again
when they were out of the way. Each carefully carrying one of the
precious eggs, they went on farther to explore the wood. They had only
walked a short distance when Fauvette stopped suddenly.

"What's that queer squeaking noise?" she asked.

"Do you hear it too?" confirmed Raymonde.

The girls glanced round, and then looked at each other blankly. There
was no doubt that the persistent chirruping and peeping came from the
eggs in their hands.

"Oh, good night! The wretched things are hatching out!" gasped
Raymonde.

They had indeed robbed the poor moorhen at the very moment when her
chicks were in the process of hatching. Already there was a chip in
the side of each egg, and a tiny bill began to protrude, the owner of
which was raising a shrill clamour of welcome to the world. The girls
laid them hastily down on the grass.

"T