She followed her like a pink-faced shadow, and was always at her elbow, sometimes at convenient and sometimes at embarrassing moments.

She fled now, like a messenger from Olympus, with the fixed determination of procuring string for her goddess from somewhere.

It was not an easy task, for string was a scarce commodity; what there was of it had mostly been already used, and what was left was jealously guarded by its proprietresses, who refused to part with it, even on the plea that it was for the head prefect.

Dorrie, however, was a young person of spirit and resource, and she did not mean to be done.

One of the trestles that supported the secondary exhibits of toys had rather come to grief, and had been patched up temporarily with stout twine.