Delia Watts, walking one afternoon along the lemon pergola, came across a small group of Camellia Buds ensconced in a cozy corner at the foot of the steps by the fountain.

“Hello!  You’ve found a dandy place here.  You look so comfy.  May I join on?” she chirped.

“Sure_lee_!” said Jess cordially, pushing Irene farther along to make room.  “Come and squat down, dearie, and add your voice to the powwow.  We’re just discussing something fearfully urgent and important.  Do you know it’ll be Peachy’s birthday next week?”

“Of course I know.  Nobody could room with Peachy and not hear about that.  She’s the most excited girl on earth.  She’s been promised a gold wrist-watch and a morocco hand-bag, and I can’t tell you what else, and she’s just living till she gets them.  I wish it was my birthday.  I’m jealous!”

“Don’t be such a pig,” responded Jess.  “You got your fun in the holidays.  You can’t have things twice over.  What we were talking about was this the sorority ought to rally somehow and give Peachy a surprise.  Can’t we get up a special stunt?”

“Rather!  Put me on the committee, please!  Couldn’t we get leave for a dormitory tea?  I know Miss Rodgers rather frowned on them last term, but perhaps if we wheedled Miss Morley she’d say ‘yes.’  We’d promise to clear up and not make any mess, and to finish promptly before prep time.  That ought to content her.  What votes?”

Every hand ascended with enthusiasm.

“Good for you, Delia!” complimented Jess.  “We haven’t had a dormitory tea for just ages; not, in fact, since Aggie upset the spirit-lamp.  I think Miss Morley’s forgotten that now, though.  You must do the asking yourself.  You’re our champion wheedler.  If anybody can soften Miss Morley’s hard heart it will be you.  Tell her Peachy will be homesick, and we feel it’ll be our duty to cheer her up a little.”

“I’ll pitch it as strong as I can,” said Delia, “but of course it’s no use going too far.  Peachy doesn’t look a homesick subject in need of cheering.  I’m afraid Miss Morley may snort if I put it on that score.  I’d better just explain we want to have a stunt.  I believe she’ll catch on.  Leave it to me and I’ll try my best to manage her.”

“Right-o!  We give you carte blanche!”

“Then I’ll waddle off now.”

Delia’s success mostly depended upon tact.  She judged that if she asked Miss Morley, tired at the end of a busy morning, she would probably meet with a curt refusal, but that if she found her, seated in her own bed-sitting-room, soothed with afternoon tea and reading a delectable book, her sympathy would be much more readily aroused.  On this occasion Delia’s judgment was correct.  After a perfectly harmonious interview with the Principal she scurried back to her fellow Camellia Buds, her face one satisfied grin.

“She said, ‘Certainly, my dear!’ We may ask Elvira for a special teapot and a plate of bread and butter, and we may give Antonio three lira apiece to buy us cakes.  We may do what we like so long as the room is tidy again before prep.  She’ll send a prefect at 5.45 to inspect.  If the place is in a muddle it’ll be the last time, so we’d better be careful, for I could see she meant that.”

“We’re in luck!” cried Irene, giving a bounce of rapture.

“It’s great!”

“Yummy!”

“I thought you’d congratulate me,” smirked Delia.  “Now let’s get busy and decide what sort of a stunt we mean to have.  Is Peachy to know, or is it to be a surprise?”

“That’s the question!  She’ll have to be told and invited and all the rest of it, but she needn’t hear any details beforehand.  I vote we all arrange to come in fancy costume that would really be a stunt.”

“We shall have to tell Peachy that!”

“No, you mustn’t.  We’ll have a costume all ready prepared for her, like the wedding garment in the parable.  She’ll have nothing to do but slip it on.”

If Peachy was looking forward to her own birthday, her friends were anticipating the happy event with enthusiasm.  They had decided to hold the festivities in her dormitory, but had required her to give a solemn pledge not to enter the room after 2 p.m. so as to give them a free hand.  During the half-hour before drawing-class they met, and held a “Decoration Bee.”  Nine determined girls, who have prepared their materials, can work wonders in a short time, and in ten hurried minutes they accomplished a vast amount.

“Mary, lend a hand, and help me stand on the dressing table.”

“She won’t know the place when she sees it!”

“Aren’t we all busy bees!”

“It begins to look rather nice, doesn’t it?”

“Don’t tug this chain!  It’s tearing!  Now you’ve done it!”

“I flatter myself she’ll get the surprise of her life!”

“Ra-ther!”

With flags, paper chains, and garlands of flowers, the decorators contrived to make dormitory 13 look absolutely en fête.  They borrowed a table from another bedroom, placed the two together, covered them with a cloth, and spread forth the cakes which Antonio had been commissioned to buy.

“Elvira will fetch us the teapot and the bread and butter at four.  We can yank into our costumes in a few seconds, so we needn’t waste much time.  Don’t let Miss Darrer keep you dawdling about the studio,” urged Agnes.

“No fear of that.  The moment the bell goes it will be ‘down pencils.’  She can hold forth to the others to-day if she wants to talk after school.  By the by, everybody’s so jealous of us!”

“I know!  The seniors are grumbling like anything because they didn’t think of having a bedroom tea for Phyllis.  It’s their own fault.  They haven’t another birthday amongst them this term.  That’s the grievance.  And Miss Morley won’t give leave for a dormitory stunt unless it’s somebody’s birthday.  She’s firm on that point.  We’ve certainly all the luck.”

The Camellia Buds pursued their art studies that afternoon with a certain abstraction.  Peachy worked with her left wrist poised, so that she could obtain a perpetual view of the new gold watch that had arrived by post that morning; Delia frittered her time shamelessly; Esther was guilty of writing surreptitious messages to Joan upon the edges of her chalk copy of “Apollo”; and Irene, usually interested in her work, had a fit of the fidgets.  The moment the bell sounded and the class was dismissed they bundled their pencils into their boxes, and left the studio with almost indecent haste.

“Only an hour and a half altogether for our stunt doesn’t leave us much time to be polite,” remarked Aggie, smarting under a rebuke administered by Miss Darrer, who had restrained their stampede and insisted upon an orderly retreat.  “It’s all very well for people to saunter elegantly when they’ve nothing particular to do.  I dare say the Italians may look dignified, but we can’t stalk about as if we were perpetually carrying water-pots on our heads.”

“American girls have more energy than that.  I’m just ready to fly to bits,” declared Delia, prancing down the passage like a playful kitten.

“I give everybody five minutes to get on their costumes,” decreed Jess.  “Peachy must stay outside in the passage and wait.  I’ll tinkle my Swiss goat-bell when you’re all to come in.”

Peachy, pulling a long face of protest, took her stand obediently in the corridor, while her three roommates entered dormitory 13.  Their fancy dresses were lying ready on their beds, and they whisked into them with the utmost haste.

“There!  Is my cap on straight?  Jess, you look fine!  I guess we shan’t keep the crowd waiting.  We’d earn our livings as quick-change artistes any day.  Is that Elvira?  Oh, thanks!  Put the teapot down there, please.  What a huge plate of bread and butter.  We’ll never eat it!  Mary, if you’re ready you might be uncovering the grub.”

The girls had laid everything in preparation for their feast, and, to protect their dainties from flies, had put sheets of tissue paper over the table.  Mary lifted these deftly, but as she removed them her smug satisfaction changed to a howl of dismay.  Instead of the tempting dainties which they had placed there with their own hands stood a circle of bricks and stones.

For a moment all three gazed blankly at the awful sight.  Then they found speech.

“Our beautiful cakes!”

“Where are they?”

“Who’s done this?”

“Oh! the brutes!”

“Who’s been in?”

“How dare they?”

“Wherever have they put them?”

“Have they eaten them?”

“Oh!  What a shame!”

“What are we to do?”

It was indeed a desperate situation, for loud thumps at the door proclaimed the advent of the visitors, who seemed likely to be provided with a decidedly Barmecide feast.  Delia, however, had an inspiration.  She stooped on hands and knees and foraged under the beds, announcing by a jubilant screech that she had discovered the lost property.  It did not take long to move away the stones and to transfer the plates from the floor to the table, after which three much flustered hostesses opened the door and gushed a welcome to their guests.  It was rather a motley group who entered:  Irene as a nun in waterproof and hood; Agnes as a Red Cross Nurse; Esther a Turk, with a towel for a turban; Joan a sportsman in her gymnasium knickers; Sheila, in a tricolor cap, represented France; and Lorna was draped with the Union Jack; Jess with a plaid arranged as a kilt made a sturdy Highlander; Mary was an Irish colleen; while Delia, in a wrapper ornamental with fringes of tissue paper, stood for “Carnival.”  A white dressing jacket trimmed with green leaves, and a garland of flowers were waiting for Peachy, and when the latter was popped on her head she was promptly proclaimed “Queen o’ the May.”  Very much flattered by these preparations in her honor, the guest of the occasion took her place at the table.

“I’m absolutely astounded,” she announced.  “Where did you get all this spread?  You don’t mean to tell me Antonio was allowed to go and buy it!  It’s too topping for words!”

“We thought it had gone out of the window, a moment ago,” said Jess, explaining their horrible predicament as she wielded the teapot.

The Camellia Buds listened aghast.  Somebody had evidently been playing a shameful trick upon them.

“It’s Mabel!”

“Or Bertha!”

“No, no!  They’d have taken the cakes quite away instead of only hiding them!”

“Then it must be Winnie or Ruth!”

“Quite likely.  They knew we were having the party.”

“The wretches!”

“We’ll pay them out afterwards!”

“What a mean thing to do!”

“They were honest, at any rate, and didn’t take so much as a biscuit.”

“They’d have heard about it if they had!”

“‘All’s well that ends well!’”

“And we’d better clear the dishes while we can.  Have another piece of iced sandwich, Mary!”

“No, thanks!  I really don’t want any more.”

The Camellia Buds, having disposed of the feast, and having yet half an hour of the birthday party left on their hands, decided to hold what they called a “Mixed Recitation Stunt.”  They sat in a circle on the floor and counted out till the lot fell upon one of them, whose pleasing duty it became to act entertainer for the next five minutes, when she was entitled to hand the part on to somebody else.  Fate, aided perhaps by a little gentle maneuvering, gave the first turn to Jess.

“I adore poetry, but I never can remember it by heart,” she protested, “so don’t expect me to ‘speak a piece,’ please.  No, I’m not trying to get out of it.  I’ll do my bit the same as everybody else.  Stop giggling and listen, because I’m going to tell you something spooky.  It’s a real Highland story.  It happened to an aunt of mine.  Are you ready?  Well then be quiet, because I’m going to begin: 

“I have an aunt who lives in the Highlands.  Her name is Jessie M’Gregor.  Yes, I’m named after her!  Some of her family had had the gift of second sight, but not all of them.  Her grandmother had it very strongly, and used to foretell the strangest things, and they always came true.  Aunt Jessie was a seventh child.  That’s always supposed to give people the power of seeing visions.  If she’d been the seventh child of a seventh child then she’d have been a ‘spey wife’ and foreseen the future, but she wasn’t that exactly.  She came very near to it once, though, and that’s what I want to tell you about.  Uncle Gordon was going to London, and, the day before he started, Auntie was sitting alone in the garden.  She hadn’t been very well, so she was just leaning back in a deck-chair resting.  She wasn’t asleep; she was looking at the view and thinking how lovely it all was.  She could see right across the moor and down the valley where the river ran; the heather was in blossom and it was a glorious sight.  Suddenly it seemed as if everything became blurred and dark, as if a mist were before her eyes.  A patch cleared through the midst of this and she could see the valley below as if she were looking through an enormous telescope.  The river had burst its banks, and was flowing all over the line, and through the flood came the train, and dashed into the water.  She saw this vision only for a moment, then it passed.  She rubbed her eyes and wondered if it was a dream.  She decided it was a warning.  She’s very superstitious.  Most Highland people are.  She didn’t want Uncle Gordon to go next day by the little train that ran down the valley, but she knew if she told him her ‘vision’ he would only laugh at her.  So she pretended she wanted to do some shopping at Aberfylde, a town fifteen miles away, where the local railway joins the main line.  She told Uncle Gordon that if they motored there together she could see him off on the London express, and then have a day’s shopping.  So he agreed, and they went in the car.  There was a tremendous storm in the night, and it was still raining when they started.  Auntie spent the day in Aberfylde and motored back, and when she reached home she noticed the valley had turned into a lake.  The terrific rain had swollen all the streams and made the river burst its banks, and the line was flooded, and it was impossible for the train to run.  So her ‘vision’ really did come true after all.  She’s ever so proud of it, and wrote it all down so that she shouldn’t forget it.  That’s my story.  Now it’s somebody else’s stunt.  Let’s count out again.”

Fortune cast the lot this time on Agnes, who wrinkled up her forehead and protested she didn’t know anything to tell, but, when urged, remembered something she had heard during the summer holidays.

“It’s true too!” she assured them.  “We were staying at Tarana.  We had a villa there.  Water was very scarce, and we used to have two barrels of it brought every day on donkeyback by a woman whose business it was to act as carrier.  Her name was Luigia, and she was very picturesque looking, and had the most beautiful dark eyes, though she always looked fearfully sad.  Daddy is fond of sketching, and he painted a picture of her standing with her donkey under the vines.  We guessed somehow that she had a history, and we asked Sareda, our cook, about her.  Sareda knew everybody in the place.  She was a dear old gossip.  She got quite excited over Luigia’s story.  She said it had been the talk of Tarana at the time.  Luigia used to be a lovely girl when she was young, and she was quite wealthy for a peasant, because she owned a little lemon grove on the hillside.  She inherited it from her father, who was dead.  Of course, because she was beautiful and a village heiress, she soon found a sweetheart, and became engaged to Francesco, a fisherman who lived down on the Marina.  Everything was going on very happily, and the wedding was fixed, when suddenly it was found there was something wrong with Luigia’s glorious eyes.  She went to a doctor in Naples, and he told her that unless a certain operation were performed she would go blind.  If she went to Paris, to a specialist whom he named, her sight might be saved.  Poor Luigia sold her lemon grove in a hurry, to get the necessary money, and packed up and started for Paris immediately.  She was away six months, and she came back penniless, but seeing as well as ever.  She trudged all the way from Liparo to Tarana, along the coast road, because she could not afford to take the train.  When she walked into her own village, the first thing she saw was a wedding party leaving the church.  She stopped to watch, and as the procession passed her who should the gayly-dressed bridegroom prove to be but her own faithless sweetheart Francesco.  She screamed and fainted, and some kindly neighbors took her in and cared for her.  She got work afterwards in the village, but she did not find a husband, because her lemon grove was sold, and these peasants will not marry a wife without a dowry.  No wonder she looked so sad.  We were always frightfully sorry for her.”

Sheila, who was the next entertainer, recited a ballad; and Delia also “spoke a piece,” an amusing episode of child life, which she rendered with much humor.  The next turn was Irene’s, and the girls, who were in a mood for listening, clamored for a story.

“I haven’t any first-hand or original adventures,” she declared.  “My aunts never have psychic experiences, and the people who brought us things to the door in London weren’t interesting in the least.  If you like romance, though, I remember a tale in a little old, old book that belonged to my great grandmother.  It was supposed to be true, and I dare say it may have really happened, more than a hundred years ago, just as ‘The Babes in the Wood’ really happened in Norfolk in Elizabethan times.  It’s about a girl named Mary Howard.  Her father and mother died when she was only four years old, and she was left an orphan.  She was heiress to a very great property, and her uncle, Mr. John Howard, was made her guardian.  She also had another uncle, Mr. Dallas, her mother’s brother, but he lived in Calcutta and she had never seen him.  Mr. John Howard wished to get hold of Mary’s estates for himself, so he laid a careful plot.  First, he sent all the servants away, including her nurse, Betty Morris, who was devoted to her.  Betty offered to stay on without wages, but when this was refused she became suspicious, and wrote a letter to Mr. Dallas warning him to look after his sister’s child.  But it took many months in those days for a letter to get to Calcutta, and meantime Mr. Howard was pursuing a wicked scheme.  Soon afterwards Betty heard that her charge had been stolen by gypsies for the sake of her amber beads, and could not be found anywhere.  What had really happened was worse even than Betty had feared.  Mr. Howard had hired a sailor, who was in desperate need of money, and bribed him to decoy the child away, take her to the seaside and there drown her.  Robert, the sailor, fulfilled the first part of his bargain but not the second.  He carried little Mary into a remote part of Wales, but he did not do her any harm.  Instead, he became extremely fond of her and determined to save her from her uncle.  So he bought a passage in a vessel bound for New Zealand and took her to sea with him, pretending she was his daughter.  She was a sweet, gentle little creature, and soon became a favorite on board.

“Among the crew was a Maori boy named Duaterra, whose father was a great chief in New Zealand.  The Captain, for some offense, ordered this boy to be flogged, and Duaterra could not forgive the indignity.  He planned a terrible revenge.  When they reached New Zealand he persuaded the Captain and crew to land in his father’s territory; then, summoning his savage friends he ordered a general massacre and killed them all, saving only Robert and little Mary.  Robert had been good to him and had given him tobacco, and Duaterra adored Mary, and called her his Mocking Bird.  The Maoris plundered and burnt the ship after they had murdered the crew, but they were kind to Robert and Mary, and built a native house for them.  Here they lived for four years, for they had no opportunity to escape.  Robert married the chief’s daughter and settled down as a member of the tribe, but he became very anxious about little Mary.  He knew that Duaterra looked upon her as his prospective bride, and he could not bear to think of the lovely child ever becoming the wife of a savage.

“One day a marvelous opportunity occurred for sending Mary home.  A ship put in to obtain fresh water, and on the vessel happened to be an old friend of Robert’s, named John Morris, actually the brother of Betty Morris, Mary’s former nurse.  Robert told John the whole story and begged him to take the little girl to England, and deliver her into Betty’s hands.  He paid for her passage with the money which Mr. Howard had given him as a bribe, and which, as he could not use money in New Zealand, he had kept buried in the ground.  Mary was carried on board ship when she was fast asleep at night, and poor Robert cried like a child at parting from her.  John Morris proved a faithful friend.  He took Mary to London, and sent a message to his sister Betty who was then living in Devonshire.  When she arrived she was able to identify her nursling, and to tell John that Mr. Dallas had arrived from Calcutta and had offered a large reward for the recovery of his niece.  So Mary was placed under the guardianship of her mother’s brother, who took good care both of her and her estates, and the wicked uncle was so overcome with shame, when the story of his crime got about, that he went crazy and ended his days in a lunatic asylum.”

“And the best place for him, too!” commented Jess.  “He must have been a brute.  I dare say things like that really did happen before there were daily papers to publish photos of lost children, and when the Maoris in New Zealand were still savages.  Look here, my hearties!  Do you realize it’s 5.35?  We’ve got exactly ten minutes to clear up before Rachel arrives on the rampage.”

“Gracious!  Help me out of these duds!  Rachel would never let me hear the end of it if she caught me as a May Queen.  I know her sarcastic tongue,” squealed Peachy.  “Thanks just fifty thousand times for my birthday party.  It’s been absolutely prime, and I’ve never enjoyed anything as much for years.  Sorry to send you others into the cold, cold world, but I’m afraid you’ll have to scoot and change.”