“I could never get a College Scholarship, however I tried,” she thought, “but—­I won’t say it’s probable, but it’s just possible that I might do something some day in the way of winning matches.  Miss Bishop would be pleased at that!”

The early summer was delightful at Seaton.  The park opposite the school was full of tulips and hyacinths, and the long avenue of trees in the Abbey Close had burst into tender green foliage.  Winona studied her home lessons sitting by her open bedroom window with a leafy bower outside, and an accompaniment of jackdaws cawing in the old towers of the Minster.  She loved this window and the prospect from it.  There was a romantic, old-world flavor about the gray pile opposite, its carvings and cloisters and chiming bells seemed so peaceful and so far removed from modern trouble.  Sometimes indeed the whirr of a biplane would disturb the quiet as an airman flittered like a great dragon-fly over the city, reminding her that medieval times were past; while a bugle call from the neighboring barracks emphasized the fact that the world was at war.  Not that Winona was likely to forget that!  Every day in school the Peace Bell prayer was read at noon, and she might see regiments of recruits marching up or down the High Street on their way to their training grounds.  Nearly every girl in V.a. had some relation at the front, and though Winona could not boast of anybody nearer than a third cousin serving “somewhere in France,” she looked for news as eagerly as the rest.

“It must be glorious to get letters from the trenches,” she said half wistfully one day to Beatrice Howell, who was exulting over a pencil scrawl written by her brother in a dug-out.  “I half wish——­”

“No, you don’t!” snapped Beatrice.  “It’s a nightmare to have them in the firing line!  Be thankful your brother’s still safe at school.”

On the subject of Percy, Winona was far from easy.  He had let fall one or two hints during the Easter holidays which confirmed her previous suspicion that he had got into a wrong set at Longworth College.  He had written to her twice already this term, wanting to borrow money, and suggesting that, without mentioning his name, she should ask Miss Beach to lend it to her.  With such a request, however, Winona had utterly refused to comply.

“Aunt Harriet has been so decent to us I can’t begin to sponge on her,” she wrote back.  “Besides, she’d want to know what I wanted such a lot for, and then all the mischief would be out!”

Apparently Percy was offended, for his usual weekly letter did not appear.  Winona only laughed, expecting he would soon get over his fit of sulks.  She was utterly unprepared for the sequel.  One day she received a note from him written on Y.M.C.A. paper and headed “Horminster.”  It ran thus: 

“DEAR WIN,—­I’d got into such an altogether grizzly hole that there was only one way out, and I’ve taken it.  I am at present a member of His Majesty’s Forces, and if you want to write to me address:  Private P. D. Woodward, 17th Battalion, Royal Rytonshire Fusiliers, Horminster.