always wipe our boots."

"Oh, you two are perfect, of course!" said Brenda. "You never do
anything wrong! What about that French book which was lost last week?"

"It wasn't my fault or Gwennie's either," said Marian, rising and
putting an end to a conversation which threatened to become too
personal. "Somebody must have borrowed it without asking us. I'm going
in now to learn my verbs." And she departed, leaving the others
laughing, for poor Marian did not always succeed in living entirely
according to her excellent precepts and "Practice what you preach" is
a motto held in high estimation by schoolgirls.

Though ordinary lessons in the garden had proved a failure, Miss Kaye
made a new departure by arranging that Mr. Dawson, the drawing master,
should organize a sketching class, to include those of his pupils whom
he considered sufficiently advanced to benefit by outdoor instruction.
It was mostly composed of girls from the first and second classes, but
Marian, Linda, and Sylvia had done such good work in the studio that
Mr. Dawson decided he would allow them to commence drawing from nature,
and to their great delight they were permitted to join the party. They
felt almost like artists as they set off with camp stools, sketching
blocks, pencils, indiarubbers, paintboxes and water tins, and were
installed under their master's direction beneath the shade of a hedge
to make a valiant attempt at reproducing a picturesque gate and a
gnarled oak tree which overhung it. It was a great deal more difficult
than they had at first imagined. The bars of the gate were puzzling,
and the oak tree somehow refused to turn out a tree at all, and was
inclined to bear more resemblance to a lamp-post or a telegraph pole.

"It may be better when we get some colour on," said Sylvia hopefully.
"Everyone will know the brown part is meant for the trunk and the
green part for leaves."

"My gate looks as if I'd been playing naughts and crosses on my
paper," sighed Linda. "I've rubbed it out seven times, and I'm afraid
it's not straight now. The paper's quite spoilt. It'll be horrid when
I begin to paint."

"We can't expect to do very much the first time, I suppose," said
Marian. "My tree looks like a cabbage on a broomstick. I can lend you
my indiarubber if you want it to clean up with. It's a softer one than
yours. I want to get to the painting part and yet I'm afraid to
begin."

"So am I," said Linda. "I don't know what Mr. Dawson will