For somehow, though she couldn’t exactly have explained her feelings on the matter, though she didn’t perhaps realize that she had had as yet any ideas as to what the school buildings would be like, now she knew that she had expected something far more modern and ordinary--nothing exactly beautiful like this. And yet there was a “something” in the bearing of all the girls--a “something” she had noticed more in the two seniors of the train, perhaps, than in the juniors, and most of all in Sybil--a “something” which was akin to the feeling that this old building gave. “No fuss,” it seemed to say as it stood there beautiful as though from unhurried age. “Easy does it.” Almost the first words she had heard Sybil utter had been just those. So many years it had taken for the beauty of the old house to grow. The age of hurry-scurry had never had a part in the making of this old mansion. It seemed to stand with gentle, kindly dignity, holding its memories, cherishing them as some treasure among the trees, which perhaps held older memories still. Betty felt a throb at her heart. It was _wonderful_ to come to school in a house like this. Her eyes were still fixed on the old building, lit up with the afternoon sun, as Miss Drury spoke. “Yes,” her voice was quiet and seemed to match with the scene, as though she, too, saw what Betty saw, and understood, for all her talk of camping and for all the modern breeziness of her manner. “This is St. Benedick’s. Miss Carey likes to keep the grounds just as they were. The playing-fields are right away from the house, though we use the grounds, of course, for Guide practices.” The procession of girls had wound by this time in orderly fashion along the drive, between the old-world garden lawns and beds, and through the great doors which seemed--so Betty thought--glad to open to them. Then, as she followed on herself, the very last of the line, she forgot the first impressions that the old house had given her. For Miss Drury was addressing an individual in a starched cap and apron who stood at the foot of the wide stairway. “The only new girl; Betty Carlyle, Nurse. I will hand her over to you while the others go straight to the cloakrooms.” Betty found herself, therefore, ascending the stairway step by step with a sudden longing for a twin on either side. The sense of dignity and mystery that the first sight of the old house had given her was gone now. There were echoing sounds of voices and laughter, greetings and meetings down below, in which she had no share. “Your room is number three, and you’ll share it with Mona and Geraldine and Irene,” Nurse was remarking in a tone which seemed as starchy as her uniform. “And so I trust you are not an untidy girl.”