“Not bad. In fact, jolly good! One more go,” and the schoolgirl began to dance again across her clay pipes, deftly crossing her feet and placing heel and toe in the angles. The Abbey ruins lay peaceful in the afternoon sun. She had laid her pipes neatly in front of the chapter-house doorway, where the westering light shone upon her. Whistling a little tune, a version of “Greensleeves,” she was absorbed in her practice of the difficult step, her mop of dark hair waving wildly as she hopped round and over her pipes. She was nearly sixteen, ex-May-Queen at the big school in Wycombe; her name was Joan Fraser, but she was known as Marigold, from her choice of flower and colour as Queen, or as Littlejan, to distinguish her from her godmother, an older Joan, the owner of the Abbey. The bell pealed at the gate, and Littlejan snatched up her pipes. “Tourists! I’m off. I’d love to stay and help Mrs. Watson; she’s getting past the job. I’m sure she pants and wheezes when she goes up the dormitory steps! But she might be hurt, if I offered.” She paused in the shadow of an ancient arch and watched the old woman, as she went to open the gate. “Aunt Joan’s too kind to turn her off, but she’ll have to do it soon. I’d better disappear; those people will be coming. Oh well! I’ve worked off some of the excitement—and I didn’t break my lovely pipes!”