"I want somebody to back me up, and act as lieutenant," thought
Lorraine.

It was at this juncture that she discovered the capacities of Claudia.

She had, so far, taken very little notice of the newcomer, except by
vaguely appreciating the fact of her extreme prettiness. Claudia had not
pushed herself, and the intimacy which now sprang up between the two
girls came of a mere chance. Miss Kingsley had asked the school to
collect fruit-stones and nuts, to be sent to headquarters for use in the
manufacture of gas-masks for the army. It was a point of patriotism for
everyone to bring as many as possible.

Lorraine, strolling out one Saturday on this errand, did not find it an
easy matter to fill her basket. The appeal was a universal one in the
town, and the Council School children had been on the common before her,
picking up the beech-mast and acorns. As for hazel-nuts, there seemed
not a solitary one left in the hedges. She was wandering disconsolately
along, foraging with small success, when she happened to meet Claudia.
Lorraine held out her quarter-filled basket for sympathy.

"That's all I've been able to find, and if there are any more to be had,
I'm sure I don't know where they are!"

"There are heaps of horse-chestnuts in the fields above our house,"
replied Claudia. "I'm going home now, and, if you care to come with me,
I'll help you to get some."

Lorraine jumped at the offer, and the girls set off together up the
road, chatting briskly.

The Castletons had only come lately to Porthkeverne. Mr. Castleton was
an artist, and, attracted by the quaint streets, picturesque harbour,
and the glorious cliffs and sea in the neighbourhood, he had taken Windy
Howe, an empty farmhouse on a hill some way above the town, converting a
big barn into a studio, and establishing himself there with easels,
paint-boxes, and a huge pile of immense canvases.

A critic had once described Mr. Castleton as a genius who had just
missed fire, and the simile was an apt one. His large pictures were
good, but not always good enough to hit the public taste. He was
constantly changing his style, and one year would astonish the
exhibitions by misty impressionism, and the next would return to
pre-Raphaelite methods. He had dabbled in sculpture, illustration,
frescoes, and miniature painting, and had published two volumes of minor
poems, which, unfortunately, had never commanded a good sale. He was a
handsome, interesting man, utterly u