Every morning Hilda called for Cricket on her way to school. If Cricket had gone off earlier, having been sent on some errand, as often happened, she left a little red stone on the gate-post, as a sign to her little friend that she had gone. If Hilda came by early and couldn’t stop, as seldom happened, she picked up the little red stone from its hiding-place, and left it for Cricket to see.
But, usually, Hilda turned in at the gates promptly at twenty minutes of nine, and walked up the long avenue, around to the side piazza. Then she would open the door, and call gently up the side staircase, “Ready, Cricket?”
A voice from above would answer, promptly, “I’m coming. Have you got your sums?” and Cricket would come out of her room at the head of the stairs, giving a last, smoothing touch to her kinky hair.
Then she would plunge down stairs, usually arriving at the bottom by way of the bannisters, provided she did not trip at the top and come down head-foremost. Next would follow a wild search for her hat, until she remembered she had left it last night in the grape arbour; then her sacque must be found, and that was probably hanging on some tree,—where she had taken it off to climb better. Strange to say, her books were generally at hand, for heedless Cricket loved to study.
Hilda always carried her school-books in a neat little bag, for she said that a strap bent the edges of the books. Cricket strapped hers as tightly as possible, for she liked to swing them by the long end as she walked along. Besides, they made a splendid thing to throw at a stray cat,—which she never hit.
By the time she was fairly ready, Eunice would appear, fresh and sweet and unhurried. Then Hilda and Eunice would walk quietly down the piazza steps, while Cricket would say, “Want to see me jump off the piazza as far as that stone?” Off she would shoot through the air, and, alighting, would race down the avenue, to wait panting at the gate till Hilda and Eunice should come up. Then for two minutes, perhaps, they would keep side by side, while they talked over those dreadful decimals, which they hated so.
Hilda and Eunice kept straight along the shady path, but Cricket was seldom known to walk. She ran, she skipped, she danced, she went backward, and varied the way still further by betaking herself to the stone fences, wherever they were smooth enough on top.
When they arrived at school Hilda was orderly, cool and sweet, and as trim as if she had just left her mother’s hands; Cricket had riotous looking clothes, hot, tumbled curls, hat hanging off her head, but was always dimpling and smiling, and serenely sure that every one would greet her with a shout.
Eunice sat with her particular friend, Edith Craig, but Cricket and Hilda shared the same desk, to the distraction of the long-suffering teacher. She was always threatening to separate them, but her heart would melt, at the last minute, at their beseeching looks and penitent vows to be good and study hard, and never whisper any more. They usually did have their lessons, as it happened, for they were both bright, and both fond of study.
Hilda was not altogether a favourite, for she was apt to be both selfish and exacting, often a little jealous, and always determined to be first in everything. She was quick in all her studies but her arithmetic, and here Cricket excelled, greatly to Hilda’s disgust. Many a time she slyly rubbed out Cricket’s just completed work, and the surprised child would presently whisper, “Did you ever! I’ve gone and rubbed out my to-morrow’s examples by mistake. Did you ever see such a goose?” and by the time she had done them again, Hilda would have been able to make up her work.