"Very well. I'll put it away in my big cupboard until the spring. Here are some cough lozenges, and I shall rub your chest to-night with camphorated oil. Go and sit by the fire, and mind you don't get into draughts."
"I've got all my birthday letters to answer," replied Daisy, as she tripped gaily away. "I don't particularly want to go out again."
Miss Edith folded the coat neatly, placed a packet of camphor balls with it to keep away moths, and laid it with a pile of similar garments inside a large cupboard in the linen room. It never struck her to look in the pockets, so the letter so longed for and expected lay upstairs in the dark, and Gipsy waited and hoped, and hoped and waited, all in vain.
To forget her troubles she threw herself with enthusiasm into the working of the Dramatic Section of the Lower School Guild. The Juniors intended to act The Sleeping Beauty, and she had been chosen as the wicked fairy, a part which she rehearsed with much spirit. She was unwearied in her efforts at arranging costumes, constructing scenery, and coaching her fellow performers in their speeches. She soon had the whole play by heart, and could act prompter without the help of the book—a decided convenience to those whose memories were liable to fail them at critical moments.
Though the Guild comprised a number of separate societies, it lacked one feature which Gipsy considered it certainly ought to possess. Briarcroft had no school magazine, and not even among the Seniors had one ever been suggested.
"Yet it's really a most necessary thing," urged Gipsy. "How else can one give notice of coming events, and reports of what has taken place? It's such fun, too! Why shouldn't we steal a march on the Upper School and start one of our own?"
"There's the expense, my child, for one thing," replied Mary Parsons, who was treasurer of the United Guild. "The subscriptions don't go very far when we want to buy so many things with them. I'm sure they wouldn't run to printing."
"I never intended having it printed. I know that would be beyond us."
"Perhaps we could have it typed," suggested Fiona Campbell, whose father was a journalist. "Dad always sends his articles to a typing office, and it looks just as good as printing when it's done."
"I don't think the Guild could afford even that," said Mary. "The costumes for the play will about clear out the funds for this term, and next term, you know, we voted to buy a developing machine."