words, but they sounded unreal to me, and as if uttered by another. I
spoke them again, holding out my arms and crying aloud. All my heart
seemed to go out in the cry, but only the hollow winds answered me as
they piped mournfully through the yellowing leaves, a throng of which
went rustling down the walk as though stirred by the footsteps of a
ghost. Then my eyes grew blind with tears and I wept silently for a time
as if my heart would break.

But tears were a forbidden luxury at Park Hill, and when, a little later
on, I heard Chirper calling me by name, I made haste to dry my eyes and
compose my features. She scanned me narrowly as I ran up to her. "You
dear, soft-hearted little thing!" she said. And with that she stooped
suddenly and gave me a hearty kiss, that might have been heard a dozen
yards away. I was about to fling my arms round her neck, but she stopped
me, saying, "That will do, dear. Mrs. Whitehead is waiting for us at the
door."

Mrs. Whitehead was watching us through the glass door which led into the
playground. "The coach will be here in half-an-hour, Miss Hope," she
said; "so that you have not much time for your preparations."

I stood like one stunned for a moment or two. Then I said: "If you
please, Mrs. Whitehead, may I see Miss Chinfeather before I go?"

Her thin, straight lips quivered slightly, but in her eyes I read only
cold disapproval of my request. "Really," she said, "what a singular
child you must be. I scarcely know what to say."

"Oh, if you please!" I urged. "Miss Chinfeather was always kind to me. I
remember her as long as I can remember anything. To see her once