The discomfited poetess folded up her effusion. The next line was:

"On dreamy track,"

and it was only the first verse.

"'Twill draw him back, On dreamy track."

she repeated in an injured voice.

"Never mind on what track--we must shunt him," said Ursula with decision. "Any more MSS.?" she inquired, scanning the a.s.sembled contributors.

There came a rustle of many pages.

Miss Margaret Smith submitted the story of "The First Ball-dress," which had a high moral; it was accepted, and was voted lovely. Miss Sarah Robbins contributed "The Vampire Schoolmistress," an awful tale of a teacher, whose pupils all died mysteriously--"sucked like oranges,"

Ursula suggested. One young lady gave an account of her trip to Paris, which contained vivid descriptions of bonnets and capes, and some obscure allusions to the galleries.

"My story is ent.i.tled 'The n.o.ble Heiress,'" said Miss Pinkett. In a lisping, fine voice the young lady read the story of a wealthy damsel, who lived in a beautiful house, exquisitely furnished.

As Portia was at Belmont, so was this heiress sought in marriage by many suitors. It was said that besides her wealth she possessed "love-powders;" for all who saw her loved her. But she was as sensible as she was rich and beautiful, and she kept her heart in check. It was only when the eldest son of a marquis came forward to woo her that she allowed herself to love. Wealth and n.o.bility, the sensible heiress felt, was the true marriage sung of by poets from all ages. The wedding presents were numerous--the author was lavish in descriptions of the diamonds, the rubies, the emeralds. The wedding-dress was a charming costume, which Miss Pinkett described with much fervor.

Meg, who had sat still all the time with her chin in her hands, like a surly little exile from the circle, looked as if the foolish tales irritated her. Suddenly, in a clear, abrupt voice she said:

"Shall I tell you my story?"

"Your story?" echoed the girls, amazed.

"Yes," said Ursula.

"Do!" exclaimed Gwendoline.

"It is the story of a toad," said Meg.

"Of a toad!" repeated Gwendoline in dismay.

"There was once upon a time a toad," Meg began, breathing heavily--taking no notice of the interruption.

"It was ugly, lonely, and always in danger of being kicked and crushed; but it had splendid eyes, like jewels. At night it liked to crawl out and look up at the beautiful stars. Every one who saw it," Meg went on with more concentration, "looked at it with disgust. The toad used to make its way to the edge of the still water and look at itself, and think 'how they hate me.' It envied the frogs which croaked and could jump, while it could only crawl.

"Down in the water below the ground lived the great mother of all the toads, and this little toad went down to find her, for it wished to ask her why it had ever been born? The mother of all the toads was immensely large. She had bigger and more beautiful eyes than any other toad. They were like soft precious stones, and round each eye was a circle of light like a ring of gold. The little toad sat before her and said:

"'Why have I been born? Why should I be crushed and beaten, and looked at with disgust? Why do the children put out their little red lips at me? They hate and fear me. Sometimes when they see me they step back and go headlong into the water. I have not even power to punish them.'

"And the mother of all the toads did not answer, she only blinked. She showed no sympathy at all, and never looked at the little toad.

"Once the toad thought it would do a kind thing. It lived near a garden, and in it there was a child who had a pet flower, and when the child went away the toad took care of the flower, brought water to it, scratched the earth, and took all the insects away.

"When the child returned the flower was more beautiful than before. But when it saw the toad, it stamped its little foot, crying 'Kill it! kill it!' and the gardener gave the poor toad a kick with his nailed boot on its tender side, and threw it, almost killed, into the water. So the little toad said 'I will never like anybody again, and I will never do a kind thing.'

"Its heart grew wicked." Meg put emphasis on this last word. "It had teeth to bite, it croaked its ugliest, and it had just one longing to see something uglier than itself. One day it saw this thing. It was a pug dog--petted, and fed, and caressed, and wearing a gold collar round its neck. The toad was glad there was something uglier than itself; it frightened the pug dog, and was comforted.

"One day as the little toad was crawling along it heard steps. 'I shall be killed it said,' and it tried to hurry away. But the steps came nearer and nearer. Suddenly the toad felt itself taken up gently, and it saw bending over it the face of a young man, and it was a kind face; and the young man put the little toad down in a sheltered spot, saying 'Remain there, out of harm's way, till I come back.' He went away." Here Meg's voice faltered.

"He did not know that there were dreadful thorns in that spot; but the little toad tried for the sake of that friend not to mind. It remained there, and it was always listening for the young man's steps coming back. That is all," said Meg in abrupt conclusion.

There was a silence.

Then Miss Pinkett said: "What a shocking story!"

"Shocking!" circled round the table.

"Were you the little toad?" asked Laura Harris.

"Yes!" said Meg curtly.

"I like that story," said Ursula, "and I shall draw such a toad."

CHAPTER IX.

DRIFTING AWAY.

It was the eve of the midsummer holidays; the examinations were over.

Miss Pinkett had come out victorious in music and geography, Ursula in drawing and artistic needlework. The Beauty had proved to be nowhere in the compet.i.tion. Meg had taken no prize, but she had been encouraged by kind reports from Signora Vallaria and Mr. Eyre. She had worked incessantly, and some of the teachers had recognized her zeal.

The tension of the past few weeks was relaxed, and Miss Reeves was giving the picnic that she usually organized for her pupils, in the Surrey woods, watered by a branch of the Thames. It was a perfect summer day, broadly golden, benignly calm.

The repast under the trees was over; the girls, tired of their games, sat about in groups discussing plans for the holidays. Meg sat apart. In the midst of the surrounding gayety the loneliness of her heart deepened. She was enduring the tantalizing pangs of picturing the happy hours from which she was excluded.

She heard of the dear little children who would come to the station to welcome these home-comers; of the lawn-tennis parties, the rides, the picnics which awaited them. One girl was going home for the wedding of her sister; another was promised a pony to ride out with her brother George. There were vivid descriptions going on all around her of the charms of holidays. Oh, the delights of not hearing the school-bell of a morning--of awaking at the appointed hour, and being able to turn round cosily for another sleep! All were going home; even the teachers looked forward to meeting relatives and friends. She alone was remaining--she alone of all the school had no home to go to. She rose and wandered away. Her desolate little heart could bear it no more: a bitter sense was growing there that no one cared for her--that if Mr. Standish cared for her he would have written.

Meg walked away, not minding where she went, willing only to be out of earshot of that joyous talk. She presently found herself by the river's bank; and there, moored among the reeds, was the longboat hired for the occasion, in which the girls had rowed each other in parties all the morning.

Ursula had pressed her to join the group of which she was a member, but Meg had refused. It had seemed to the child enough to lie among the ferns, inhaling the delicate, pungent perfumes, feeling the breath of the summer day on her cheek, surrendering herself to the strength and calm of nature's influence.

Meg now stepped into the boat and sat down. It was like being in a cradle, she thought, as the water softly rocked the craft. No one was near. Presently she perceived that the boat was sliding off--softly, softly the sh.o.r.e was receding; the banks and the long reeds were falling back.

Meg watched immobile. Bundles of oars lay at the bottom of the boat; which was also strewn with bunches of meadow-sweet, elder-blossoms, forget-me-nots, and other riverside trophies which the girls had plucked on their travels. Meg sat upright like a startled rabbit, wondering when the boat would stop. She wished that it would never stop--that it would carry her away, away, she knew not whither! She had heard the girls speak of the "weir." What was that? Was it some weird spot?--a strange island, perhaps, inhabited by some of the water-fowl of which she had read?

Then she perceived that the boat had swung itself round; it was drifting down with the current. The river was narrow, and there was not another boat within sight. Without oars, without sails, without guidance, the little craft was making its way, keeping right in the middle of the stream. For a moment Meg could not believe; then joy seized her--she was off on her travels!

Past pale-green willows that hung their branches down into the water, filling it with a twilight of green, sprinkling its surface with leaves as with a goblin fleet; past sunny, silent stretches of woodland and meadows where cows grazed and looked at her with h.o.r.n.y heads sharply outlined against the light; past banks full of flowers went Meg. The sun shone for her, the breeze stirred for her, the trees seemed to look at her. She felt like a little river-queen.

As she drifted along, the misery and loneliness at her heart dropped, like the leaves the breeze had shaken from the willows. She, the despised Meg, was free; all nature was her playfellow. From the banks the cuckoo cried like a friendly presence playing at "hide-and-seek"

with her. A kingfisher, with a breast like a jewel fashioned in the sky, skimmed past her where the solitude was shadiest. From the forked branches of a willow a water hen, sitting on its nest, peered at her with trustful eyes; a water rat from under the leaf of a water lily eyed her with pleasant sympathy, as if he understood the pleasures of a skiff on a summer day. The fishes leaped and made rippled circles around her.