Winona was gazing at the sheets of foolscap in the Principal’s hand.

“Those aren’t my papers,” she faltered.

“Certainly they are.  They’re marked with your number, 11.”

“But I wasn’t number 11, I was number 10.”

Miss Bishop stooped, opened a drawer in her bureau, and took out a book.

“Here it is in black and white,” she replied.  “No. 11, Winona Woodward.”

Winona’s shaking hands clutched the edge of the bureau.  In a flash the whole horrible truth was suddenly revealed to her.  Until that moment she had almost forgotten how she and the ruddy-haired girl had collided at the door of the examination-room, and dropped their cards.  In picking them up, they must have effected an exchange.  She remembered that she had been too agitated to notice her number until after the accident had happened.  She now related the circumstance as best she could.  Miss Bishop listened aghast.

“What number did you say you took in the examination-room?  Ten?  That is entered in my book as Marjorie Kaye.  I have the rest of the candidates’ papers in this bundle.  Let me see—­yes, here is No. 10.  Is this your handwriting?  Then I’m afraid there has been a terrible blunder, and the scholarship has been awarded to the wrong girl.”

The Principal’s consternation was equalled by Winona’s.  To the latter the ground seemed slipping from under her feet.  She tried to speak, but failed.  A great lump rose in her throat.  For a moment the room whirled round.

“This set of papers, No. 10, was marked so low as to be out of the running,” continued Miss Bishop.  “It is a most unfortunate mistake, and places the school in an extremely awkward position.  I must consult with the Governors at once.  Pending their decision, it will be better not to mention the matter to anybody.  You may go now.”

Winona managed somehow to get herself out of the study, to put on her hat and coat, and to walk home to Abbey Close.  Her aunt was still absent, for which she was intensely thankful, and ignoring the tea that was waiting on the dining-room table, she rushed upstairs to her bedroom.  Her one imperative need was to be alone.  She must face the situation squarely.  Her world had suddenly turned topsy-turvy; instead of being the winner of the County Scholarship, she was among the rejected candidates.  In her heart of hearts she had always marveled how her indifferent papers could have scored such a success.  She wondered this explanation had never occurred to her before.  All this time she had been wearing another girl’s laurels.  What was going to happen next?  She supposed the scholarship would be taken from her, and given to its rightful owner.  And herself?  She would probably be packed home, as Percy had prophesied, “like a whipped puppy.”  Possibly Aunt Harriet might offer to pay her fee as an ordinary pupil at the High School, but in either case the humiliation would be supreme.