The two boys scrambled down the boulders and assisted Hilaria—­the hem of whose white tarlatan skirts showed already the worse for her walk—­over the hummocky patch of rocks and gorse that fringed the hollow.  Laughing rather ruefully, she flung herself down, scattering her bonnet, shawl, and bag over the turf in the impetuous movement.  The lowest rim of the crinoline promptly stood straight up from the ground like a hoop, displaying her long legs and the multitudinous petticoats lying limply upon them, and she was forced to adopt a change of position.  Finally she settled herself with her feet tucked in under her and the obnoxious garment swelling out all round, as though she had just flopped down and made what the children call a “cheese.”

“I say, where’s the magazine?” asked Ishmael.

“In my bag; but you’re not to ‘look on.’  Here are some jumbles, but we must keep the others’ share for them.  Did you get them all, Ishmael?” For some reason best known to herself, she called him by his Christian name and Killigrew by his nickname of “Bunny,” though she addressed the other boys in mannish fashion of surnames only.

“I told Polkinghorne minor and told him to let the others know.”

“Did you remember to tell him we didn’t want Doughty?”

“I think so ... at least I didn’t say to ask him to come,” confessed Ishmael, who had the worst head in the world for a message.

“Here they are,” announced Killigrew; “I think there’re only four of them ...”  He screwed up his eyes to gaze, for he was short-sighted.  Ishmael gave a glance.

“There’s five ...” he said apologetically; “I’m afraid he’s there.  I can see Polkinghorne and Carminow and Polkinghorne minor and Moss minor and—­yes, it’s Doughty.  I hope you don’t mind fearfully, Hilaria?”

She threw a queer little look at him.  “It’s not for me,” she said slowly; “it’s only that I don’t think he likes you, Ishmael.  He tried to tell me something funny about you the other day.  He comes to papa for extra coaching in French, you know, and I had to give him tea....”

“About me—?” Ishmael stared blankly, then, more from some premonition than anything else, grew slowly and burningly red.  The colour ebbed away, leaving him pale.  “What was it?” he asked.

“Nothing.  At least, I honestly don’t know what.  Papa shut him up.  He said to him he was no gentleman to say such things before a jeune fille—­” She broke off, feeling she had hardly improved matters.  A deadly suspicion that had once before knocked on Ishmael’s heart and been refused more than a second’s glance for sheer incredibility pounded at him again, making the blood sing in his ears.  Nothing heard at school or from the Parson—­who had long perturbed himself as to the right moment for explanations—­had started those first warning notes, but words freely bandied across his head at home as a little boy, and then meaningless to him—­words that had