"No, indeed. I expect all the work will be much harder than anything I've ever done yet. It won't be all hockey and gymnasium, I can tell you. I'm afraid I shall find I'm behind most of the other girls."
"Oh, Patty, and you were always top at Miss Dawson's!"
"That's quite different. It's easy enough to be top when there are only four girls in a class, and two of them as stupid as the Simpsons. I may very likely turn out bottom at The Priory."
"You won't! You won't!" cried Milly. "I heard Miss Dawson tell Mother you were one of her best workers, and she knew you'd do well wherever you went. There, you needn't blush! It wasn't anything very particular, after all. If she'd been talking about me, I'd far rather she'd said I was a good runner, and could catch a ball without missing it every time it was thrown to me."
"She did say something about you, though: I heard her," volunteered Robin.
"Then you shouldn't have listened, and you've no need to tell. I hate tell-tales!" said Milly, forestalling his offered confidence. "If you've finished tea, you'd better go and feed the guinea-pigs. Patty, do come and help me to trace my map, it's the last evening but one that you'll be here; and I want you to show me how to do G.C.M., because I was looking out of the window this morning when Miss Dawson told us, and I can't work any of my sums until I know. Come into the summer-house, where we can get a little peace and quiet;" and hastily swallowing her last fragment of bread and butter, she caught up her school satchel, and beckoning persuasively to her sister, led the way downstairs, and out into the garden.
CHAPTER II
The Priory
As this story mostly concerns Patty, I should like to describe her exactly as she looked when she made her first start into that new, strange world where everything was going to be so different from the quiet home where she had spent the thirteen years of her life. She was not very tall nor very short, just an ordinary, healthy, well-grown girl, with a round, rather childish face, plump rosy cheeks, a nose that had not yet decided what shape it meant to be, a mouth that for beauty might certainly have been smaller, a frank pair of blue eyes, and hair that had been flaxen when she was younger, but now, to her mother's regret, was fast turning as brown as it could. No one could really call Patty pretty, but she had such a merry, pleasant, sunny, smiling look about her, that she always somehow made people feel like smiling too, and put them into a good temper in spite of themselves. She was neither dull nor particularly clever, only possessed of average abilities, able to remember lessons when she tried hard, and gifted with a certain capacity for plodding, but not in the least brilliant over anything she undertook. She was never likely to win fame, or set the Thames on fire, but she was one of those cosy, thoughtful, cheery, lovable home girls, who are often a great deal more pleasant to live with than some who have greater talents; and she had a magic way of making things go smoothly in the household, and dropping oil on all the little creaking hinges of life, without anybody quite discovering how it was done. Patty's father was a busy doctor in the small country town of Kirkstone. He was out nearly the whole day long, driving about in his high gig to visit people in distant farms and villages, and had very little time to give to his own family, so they were obliged to make the most of the few delightful half-hours he could manage to spare for them now and then. Patty, as his eldest daughter, held a special place in his heart. She was already quite a nice companion for him, and I think there was no greater treat for both than on those occasions when she was able to tuck herself into the gig by his side, ready to open gates, and hold the reins while he paid his visits. Patty loved those long drives along the quiet roads. She did not care whether the weather were wet or fine, hot or cold. It did not matter in the least if it snowed or hailed, provided her father was there to talk to, and they could indulge in those confidential chats that seemed to bring them so near together, and made her feel quite a little woman instead of only a girl of thirteen. It was not often, however, that Patty could be absent for the many hours of a doctor's country round. School and lessons claimed most of her time, and even on Saturdays she was so useful at home that they found it difficult to manage without her. Seven younger brothers and sisters all looked to Patty to settle their quarrels, hem their boat sails, dress their dolls, kiss their bumps and bruises better, sympathize with their small woes and troubles, tell them stories, invent new games, and generally take the lead in all the important matters of the nursery. She was her mother's right hand, and from the time she was old enough to feel herself a little older than the rest, she had helped to stitch on buttons, wash chubby faces, fasten tiny shoes, comb curly heads, keep small fingers out of mischief and small limbs from danger, and support the cause of law and order by an emphatic "don't" or "mustn't" when necessary. Patty often congratulated herself on the fact that she had taught five babies to walk. She was very proud of the family, beginning with Basil, who was only a year younger than herself, though not nearly so capable and reliable, and ending with the fat baby who had not yet found his feet, while in between came harum-scarum Milly, boisterous Robin and Wilfred, coaxing, bewitching little Kitty, and round-faced, stolid, three-year-old Rowland, whose name was generally corrupted to Roly-Poly, because it seemed so exactly to suit him.
It had never occurred to Patty that life could ever be very much different from what she was accustomed to. She had seldom been away from Kirkstone, only for short visits to relations or a seaside holiday, and all her horizon was bounded by her home. She went to a day school, where she was one of the elder girls, and felt obliged, even in the midst of her lessons, to keep an eye on Milly's behaviour, and to consider herself responsible for the good conduct of Robin, Wilfred, and Kitty, who were also Miss Dawson's pupils. It was quite anxious work for her to get them off in time in the mornings; to ensure that they did not leave their books at home, or forget their macintoshes on showery days, or lose their slates and pencils; to help to lace their boots, and put on their hats neatly; to make Milly and Kitty wear their gloves, and prevent Robin and Wilfred from filling their pockets with nut shells, stones, frogs, or other unsuitable articles which were apt to stray out in class and call down the vials of the mistress's wrath upon their heads. She saw that they learnt their home lessons, did their sums, practised their due portions upon the piano: and it took up so much of her own time, that she had to work hard to get in even the moderate amount of preparation that was deemed necessary at Miss Dawson's. It had meant a very great change, therefore, when her uncle had written offering to send Patty to Morton Priory with her cousin Muriel. It would have been quite impossible for Dr. Hirst, burdened as he was with a large family and a not too ample income, to place any of his children at expensive boarding schools. Basil, indeed, went by train daily to Winborough, ten miles off, where there was an excellent boys' college; but no better teaching than Miss Dawson could give seemed in store for Patty, until this sudden good fortune had been thrust upon her. Mr. Pearson, her uncle, was a wealthy man, who had only one daughter. It had occurred to him that it would be nice for the two girls to spend their schooldays together, and he had generously undertaken the full charges of his niece's education, declaring she should have exactly the same advantages as her cousin. He had been fond of his sister in their childhood, and thought how suitable it seemed for Muriel, who was three months younger than Patty, to have the latter for a companion during the years he wished her to remain at The Priory.