Miss Catteral so rarely scolded that Winona felt doubly humiliated.  It was all a part and parcel of the general ill-luck of the day.  She fetched her drawing-board, and went to the art class.  Here at least she would have peace for an hour, though every one of the sixty minutes was bringing her nearer to her dreaded interview.  At four o’clock, with a horrible sinking feeling in her heart, and a trembling sensation in her knees, she knocked at the door of the head-mistress’s study, and entered in response to the “Come in!” which followed.  Miss Bishop looked up from some papers, motioned her to a chair, and went on writing for several minutes.  To Winona it seemed worse than waiting at the dentist’s.  The suspense was ghastly.

At last the Principal paused, laid down her pen, and blotted her pages.

“Come here, Winona Woodward,” she said quietly.  “I wish to have a straight talk with you.”

Miss Bishop’s eyes were her most striking feature.  They were large and clear, but the pupils were unusually small, appearing mere black specks in the midst of a wide circle of blue.  This peculiarity gave her a particularly intense and penetrating expression.  Winona, standing at attention beside the desk, dropped her own eyes before the steady, searching gaze.

“Miss Huntley’s report of your work is not at all satisfactory,” began Miss Bishop.  “I have been watching your progress since you joined the school, and I cannot think you are trying your best.  At first, when you were totally new to your Form, I suspended judgment, but you have been here nearly half a term now—­quite long enough to accustom yourself to our methods.  I confess I am greatly disappointed.  I had hoped for better things from the holder of a County Scholarship.”

Winona remained silent.  She could think of nothing to say in self-defense.

“It must be sheer lack of grit and effort,” continued Miss Bishop.  “I cannot understand how a girl who did so remarkably well in the entrance examination can rest content with such a low record.  How long do you take over your preparation?”

“Until my aunt sends me to bed,” replied Winona, in a very subdued voice.  “I spend the whole evening at my lessons.”

Miss Bishop looked puzzled.

“Then the work must be too difficult for you.  If that is the case, I must remove you to V.b.”

V.b. was notorious in the school as a refuge for incompetence.  It was mainly composed of girls of sixteen and seventeen who could not reach the standard of the Sixth, and who went by the nickname of “owls” or “stupids.”  The prospect of being relegated to such an intellectual backwater spread palpable dismay over Winona’s face.  Miss Bishop smiled rather grimly.

“We can’t win honors without paying the price!  You must know that already by experience.  I conclude that you studied hard for the Scholarship examination?  Well, your Form work requires equally close application.  Here is Miss Huntley’s report:  ’French, weak; Latin, beneath criticism; mathematics, extremely bad.’  Yet in all these three subjects you gained a high percentage in the entrance examination.  I have your papers here—­yes, Latin 85, French 87, mathematics 92” (rapidly turning over the pages), “it is simply incredible how you have fallen off.”