“It’s rather sickening to have no end to the term,” groaned Marjorie.  “Our matches are all off, and no swimming display or sports.  It’s rough on Margaret and Kirsty particularly.  Do you realize that when we go back in September they’ll both have left?  All the prefects are leaving.”

“Oh, hard luck!  Who’ll take their places?”

“Some of our noble selves, I suppose, if we’re promoted to the Sixth.”

“Who’ll be General and Games Captain?”

“Ah!  Ask me a harder, my intelligent child.”

“I think I could put my finger on one of them, at any rate.”

“So could I, perhaps, but I don’t care to prophesy too soon,” sighed Bessie.

Whoever might be destined to wear future laurels at school, Winona, as Captain of the V.a. team, assumed direction of the games at the Camp.  Part of the pasture was sufficiently level to make quite a fair cricket pitch, while a piece in the opposite corner served as a tennis court.  An old man from the farm was bribed to come and cut the grass with a scythe, but as no lawn-mower or roller was available, the result was decidedly rough.  The tennis enthusiasts rigged up a tape in lieu of a net, and marked some courts with lime begged from the farmer.  Their games, owing to the general bumpiness of the ground, had at least the charm of variety and excitement, and four umpires had to keep careful and continual watch in order to decide whether the balls went over or under the tape, which indeed collapsed occasionally, as the poles were only sticks cut from the hedge.

If the tennis was funny, the cricket was even funnier.  Many of the girls could not use their left arms at all, consequently the batting was extraordinary, and sometimes the easiest catches were missed.  It was very amusing, however, and perhaps for that reason provided more entertainment than the most strict and orthodox play under the critical eye of Kirsty might have done.

Really the quarantine party had a most idyllic time.  In the warm June weather it was delightful to live out of doors.  There were rosy-violet dawns and golden-red sunsets, and clear starry nights when the planet Venus shone like a lamp in the dark blue of the sky, and owls would fly hooting from the woods, and bats come flitting round the shelter in search of moths.  One day, indeed, was wet, but the girls sat or lay on their beds, and read or talked, and played games, with intervals of exciting dashes in mackintoshes to fetch cans of water, or dishes from the larder.

On Sundays there was of course no church-going, but Miss Huntley read morning prayers, and in the evening they sang hymns, each girl in turn choosing the one she liked best.  “All things bright and beautiful,” “Nearer, my God, to Thee,” and “Now the day is over” were prime favorites, but perhaps the most popular of all was the ancient Hymn of St. Patrick, which Miss Huntley had copied from a book of Erse literature, and had adapted to an old Irish tune.  The girls learnt it easily, and its fifth century Celtic mysticism fascinated them.  They liked such bits as: