For the Sake of the School, by Angela Brazil The Project Gutenberg eBook, For the Sake of the School, by Angela Brazil This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: For the Sake of the School Author: Angela Brazil Release Date: March 3, 2007 [eBook #20730] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 ***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FOR THE SAKE OF THE SCHOOL*** E-text prepared by Marc Hens, Suzanne Shell, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net/c/) Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustration. See 20730-h.htm or 20730-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/0/7/3/20730/20730-h/20730-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/0/7/3/20730/20730-h.zip) For the Sake of the School * * * * * BLACKIE & SON LIMITED 16/18 William IV Street, Charing Cross, LONDON, W.C.2 17 Stanhope Street, GLASGOW BLACKIE & SON (INDIA) LIMITED 103/5 Fort Street, BOMBAY BLACKIE & SON (CANADA) LIMITED TORONTO [Illustration: "I felt I must speak to you" Page 234 Frontispiece] * * * * * FOR THE SAKE OF THE SCHOOL by Angela Brazil Author of "The School on the Loch" "The School at the Turrets", &c. With Frontispiece Blackie & Son Limited London and Glasgow Printed in Great Britain by Blackie & Son, Ltd., Glasgow TO THE SCHOOLGIRL READERS WHO HAVE SENT ME SUCH NICE LETTERS Contents CHAP. Page I. THE WOODLANDS 11 II. A FRIEND FROM THE BUSH 24 III. ROUND THE CAMP-FIRE 36 IV. A BLACKBERRY FORAY 51 V. ON SUFFERANCE 66 VI. QUITS 76 VII. THE CUCKOO'S PROGRESS 87 VIII. THE "STUNT" 104 IX. A JANUARY PICNIC 117 X. TRESPASSERS BEWARE! 130 XI. RONA RECEIVES NEWS 142 XII. SENTRY DUTY 156 XIII. UNDER CANVAS 170 XIV. SUSANNAH MAUDE 183 XV. A POINT OF HONOUR 194 XVI. AMATEUR CONJURING 208 XVII. A STORM-CLOUD 221 XVIII. LIGHT 233 XIX. A SURPRISE 249 FOR THE SAKE OF THE SCHOOL CHAPTER I The Woodlands "Are they never going to turn up?" "It's almost four now!" "They'll be left till the six-thirty!" "Oh, don't alarm yourself! The valley train always waits for the express." "It's coming in now!" "Oh, good, so it is!" "Late by twenty minutes exactly!" "Stand back there!" yelled a porter, setting down a box with a slam, and motioning the excited, fluttering group of girls to a position of greater safety than the extreme edge of the platform. "Llangarmon Junction! Change for Glanafon and Graigwen!" Snorting and puffing, as if in agitated apology for the tardiness of its arrival, the train came steaming into the station, the drag of its brakes adding yet another item of noise to the prevailing babel. Intending passengers clutched bags and baskets; fathers of families gave a last eye to the luggage; mothers grasped children firmly by the hand; a distracted youth, seeking vainly for his portmanteau, upset a stack of bicycles with a crash; while above all the din and turmoil rose the strident, rasping voice of a book-stall boy, crying his selection of papers with ear-splitting zeal. From the windows of the in-coming express waved seventeen agitated pocket-handkerchiefs, and the signal was answered by a counter-display of cambric from the twenty girls hustled back by an inspector in the direction of the weighing-machine. "There's Helen!" "And Ruth, surely!" "Oh! where's Marjorie?" "There! Can't you see her, with Doris?" "That's Mamie, waving to me!" "What's become of Kathleen?" One moment more, and the neat school hats of the new-comers had swelled the group of similar school hats already collected on the platform; ecstatic greetings were exchanged, urgent questions asked and hasty answers given, and items of choice information poured forth with the utmost volubility of which the English tongue is capable. Urged by brief directions from a mistress in charge, the chattering crew surged towards a siding, and made for a particular corridor carriage marked "Reserved". Here handbags, umbrellas, wraps, and lunch-baskets were hastily stowed away in the racks, and, Miss Moseley having assured herself that not a single lamb of her flock was left behind, the grinning porter slammed the doors, the green flag waved, and the local train, long overdue, started with a jerk for the Craigwen Valley. Past the grey old castle that looked seawards over the estuary, past the little white town of Llangarmon, with its ancient walls and fortified gates, past the quay where the fishing smacks were lying idly at anchor and a pleasure-steamer was unloading its human cargo, past the long stretch of sandy common, where the white tents of the Territorials evoked an outcry of interest, then up alongside the broad tidal river towards where the mountains, faint and misty, rose shouldering one another till they merged into the white nebulous region of the cloud-flecked sky. Those lucky ones who had secured window seats on the river side of the carriage were loud in their acclamations of satisfaction as familiar objects in the landscape came into sight. "There's Cwm Dinas. I wish they could float a big Union Jack on the summit." "It would be a landmark all right." "Oh, the flag's up at Plas Cafn!" "We'll have one at school this term?" "Oh, I say! Move a scrap," pleaded Ulyth Stanton plaintively. "We only get fields and woods on our side. I can't see anything at all for your heads. You might move. What selfish pigs you are! Well, I don't care; I'm going to talk." "You have been talking already. You've never stopped, in fact," remarked Beth Broadway, proffering a swiftly disappearing packet of pear drops with a generosity born of the knowledge that all sweets would be confiscated on arrival at The Woodlands. "I know I have, but that was merely by the way. It wasn't anything very particular, and I've got something I want to tell you--something fearfully important. Absolutely super! D'you know, she's actually coming to school. Isn't it great? She's to be my room-mate. I'm just wild to see her. I hope her ship won't be stopped by storms." "By the Muses, whom are you talking about?" "'She' means the cat," sniggered Gertrude Oliver. "Why! can't you guess? What stupids you are! It's Rona, of course--Rona Mitchell from New Zealand." "You're ragging!" "It's a fact. It is indeed!" The incredulity on the countenances of her companions
