But the programme of the proceedings which were to take place thereon only contained two items.

The first of these took most of the Wyndfell Hall house-party completely by surprise; for Bubbles and her aunt had kept their secret well.
Tables had been pushed aside, benches put end to end; the whole audience, with Lionel Varick's guests in front, were seated, when suddenly there leapt on to the platform the strangest and most fantastic-looking little figure imaginable! For a moment no one, except Bill Donnington, guessed who or what the figure was.

There came a great clapping of hands and stamping of feet--for, of course, it was Bubbles! Bubbles dressed up as a witch--red cloak, high peaked hat, short multi-coloured skirt, high boots and broom-stick--all complete! When the applause had died down, she recited a quaint little poem of her own composition, wishing all there present the best of luck in the coming year.

And then she executed a kind of fantastic _pas seul_, skimming hither and thither across the tiny stage.
Everyone watched her breathlessly: Donnington with mingled admiration, love, and jealous disapproval; James Tapster with a feeling that perhaps the time had come for him to allow himself to be "caught" at last; Helen Brabazon with wide-eyed, kindly envy of the other girl's cleverness; Varick with a queer feeling of growing suspicion and dislike.
Finally, Bubbles waved her broom-stick, and more than one of those present imagined that they saw the light, airy-looking little figure flying across the hall, and so out of a window--.
The whole performance did not last five minutes, and yet few of those who were present ever forgot it.

It was so strange, so uncanny, so vivid.