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sent out together, but each form would go in turn, separately, with its own teacher--an arrangement that all much preferred, as they could then ramble about in an informal manner, instead of keeping to the prim file which was the general rule.
    One Wednesday afternoon, at the end of May, it was the turn of the third class, and its six members were standing by the gate, impatiently awaiting the arrival of Miss Frazer, who, to do her justice, was not often at fault in the matter of punctuality.
    "I hope she isn't telling Miss Russell what bad marks I got this morning," said Effie Hargreaves dismally. "She threatened last week to report me if I had another cross for history, and I missed five times, and four times in literature, and all my problems were wrong in arithmetic too."
    "I believe they're planning to hire another piano," said Beryl Austen, "so that we can all get in the same amount of practising as we did at Winterburn Lodge."
    "Oh, what a shame! I'm sure half an hour a day is enough for anybody," came in a chorus from the others.
    "Especially now, when we haven't a music master," added Cicely.
    "That's the very reason," explained Beryl. "Miss Russell says she wants us to keep up what we've learnt, so that we won't seem to have fallen back when we begin with Mr. Nelson again."
    "Don't talk of Mr. Nelson! We shan't see him for ages."
    "You will, in September."
    "Well, it's not September yet, it's only May, and in the meantime we're learning from Miss Frazer. Here she is, by the by, hurrying down the drive as fast as she can."
    "I'm sorry to have kept you waiting, girls," said the teacher, "but Miss Russell has been giving me a commission to transact while we are out. She wants us to go to Monkend, a farm about a mile and a half from here."
    "A new walk?" asked Beryl.
    "Yes, we have never been there before, but I don't think we can miss the way."
    A perfectly fresh walk was a pleasant prospect. Everyone set off, therefore, in the best of spirits. It was a beautiful afternoon, one of those glorious days when summer seems to clasp hands with spring and join the delights of both seasons. The newly unfolded leaves were still a tender green, and the sycamores were covered with pendent blossoms, in the golden pollen of which the bees revelled like drunkards. The larches had opened all their tassels, and the young cones on the firs glowed with such a pink hue that they resembled candles on a Christmas tree. The hawthorns were almost over, but here and there a crab apple showed a mass of pink bloom, or a guelder rose made a white patch in the hedge; and all the stretches of grass by the roadsides were carpeted with bluebells and starry stitchwort.
    Miss Frazer was indulgent, and would wait for a few minutes while the girls gathered handfuls of flowers, or climbed up to the top of a bank to admire the view. She was as interested as they were in the finding of a robin's nest; and quite as excited when a hawk swooped suddenly into a bush, and flew away with a young thrush in its claws. The cuckoos were calling persistently from the woods, the larks were singing up in the air above, and all the hedgerows seemed to teem with busy bird life.
    Their way soon left the high road, and, striking across a field, led them through a copse where there was an interesting pond, swarming with tadpoles. The girls would have lingered here, trying to catch the funny, wriggling, little black objects, but Miss Frazer's patience gave way at last, and she hurried them on, declaring that if they were not quick they would never get to the farm and back before tea-time.
    Monkend was a quaint old house, built in the midst of cherry orchards. Its timbered walls were grey and weather-stained, and its tiled roof yellowed with lichens. By the side of the open barn door the cows were standing lowing to be milked, and the dairymaid, a rosy-faced young woman in a blue apron, was coming from the kitchen, singing as she swung her bright pails. She stopped in