“Pass in:  as quickly as you can, please!” commanded the teacher, motioning her onward.

As Winona entered, she gave one hasty comprehensive glance round the room, taking in a general impression of books, busts and pictures, then focussed her attention on the figure that sat at the desk.  It was only at a later date that she grasped any details of Miss Bishop’s personality; at that first meeting she realized nothing but the pair of compelling blue eyes that drew her forward like a magnet.

“Your name?”

“Winona Woodward.”

“Age?”

“Fifteen.”

“Residence?”

“Highfield, Ashbourne, near Great Marston.”

“How long have you lived in the county of Rytonshire?”

“Ever since I was born.”

Miss Bishop hastily ticked off these replies on a page of her ledger, and handed Winona a card.

“This will admit you to the examination room.  Remember that instead of putting your name at the head of your papers, you are to write the number given you on your card.  Any candidate writing her own name will be disqualified.  Next girl!”

It was all over in two minutes.  Winona seemed hardly to have entered the room before she was out again.

“Move on, please!” said the teacher, marshaling the little crowd round the door.  “Will those who have seen Miss Bishop kindly go along the corridor.”

Several girls who had been standing in a knot made a sudden bolt, and pushed their fellows forward.  Somebody jogged Winona’s elbow.  Her card slid from her grasp and fell on to the ground.  As she bent in the crush to pick it up, the ruddy-haired girl stooped on a like errand.

“Dropped mine too!  Clumsy, isn’t it?” she laughed.  “Hope we’ve got our own!  What was your number?”

“I hadn’t time to look.”

“Well, I’m sure mine was eleven, so that’s all right.  I wish you luck!  Won’t we just be glad when it’s over, rather!”

At the further end of the corridor was a door with a notice pinned on to it.  “Examination for County Scholarships.”  A mistress stood there, and scrutinized each girl’s card as she entered, directing her to a seat in the room marked with the corresponding number.  Winona walked rather solemnly to the desk labeled 10.  The great ordeal was at last about to begin.  She wondered what would be the end of it.  Little thrills of nervousness seemed running down her back like drops from a shower-bath.  Her hands were trembling.  With a great effort she pulled herself together.

“It’s no use funking!” she thought.  “I’ll make as good a shot as I can at things, and if I fail—­well, I shall have plenty of companions in misfortune, at any rate!”

A pile of foolscap paper with red-ruled margins, a clean sheet of white blotting paper, and a penholder with a new nib lay ready.  Each of the other twenty victims was surveying a supply of similar material.  On the blackboard was chalked the word “Silence.”