'But, oh dear! oh dear!' sighed Val, as Gillian unpacked their
evening garments, 'Isn't there any nice place at all where one can
make a mess?'

'I don't know whether the aunts will ever let us make a mess,' said
Gillian; 'they don't look like it.'

At which Valetta's face puckered up in the way only too familiar to
her friends.

'Come, don't be silly, Val. You won't have much time, you know; you
will go to school, and get some friends to play with, and not want to
make messes here.'

'I hate friends!'

'Oh, Val!'

'All but Fly, and Mysie is gone to her. I want Mysie.'

So in truth did Gillian, almost as much as her mother. Her heart
sank as she thought of having Val and Fergus to save from scrapes
without Mysie's readiness and good humour. If Mysie were but there
she should be free for her 'great thing.' And oh! above all, Val's
hair---the brown bush that Val had a delusion that she 'did' herself,
but which her 'doing' left looking rather worse than it did before,
and which was not permitted in public to be in the convenient tail.
Gillian advanced on her with the brush, but she tossed it and
declared it all right!