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The Project Gutenberg EBook of Grace Harlowe's Second Year at Overton
College, by Jessie Graham Flower
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Title: Grace Harlowe's Second Year at Overton College

Author: Jessie Graham Flower

Release Date: November, 2004 [EBook #6858]
[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule]
[This file was first posted on February 2, 2003]
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Edition: 10

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GRACE HARLOWE'S SECOND YEAR ***




Produced by Avinash Kothare, Tom Allen, Charles Franks
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.






GRACE HARLOWE'S SECOND YEAR

AT

OVERTON COLLEGE

By

JESSIE GRAHAM FLOWER, A. M.




CONTENTS


CHAPTER.

  I.     OVERTON CLAIMS HER OWN.
  II.    THE UNFORESEEN.
  III.   MRS. ELWOOD TO THE RESCUE.
  IV.    THE BELATED FRESHMAN.
  V.     THE ANARCHIST CHOOSES HER ROOMMATE.
  VI.    ELFREDA MAKES A RASH PROMISE.
  VII.   GIRLS AND THEIR IDEALS.
  VIII.  THE INVITATION.
  IX.    ANTICIPATION.
  X.     AN OFFENDED FRESHMAN.
  XI.    THE FINGER OF SUSPICION.
  XII.   THE SUMMONS.
  XIII.  GRACE HOLDS COURT.
  XIV.   GRACE MAKES A RESOLUTION.
  XV.    THE QUALITY OF MERCY.
  XVI.   A DISGRUNTLED REFORMER.
  XVII.  MAKING OTHER GIRLS HAPPY.
  XVIII. MRS. GRAY'S CHRISTMAS CHILDREN.
  XIX.   ARLINE'S PLAN.
  XX.    A WELCOME GUEST.
  XXI.   A GIFT TO SEMPER FIDELIS.
  XXII.  CAMPUS CONFIDENCES.
  XXIII. A FAULT CONFESSED.
  XXIV.  CONCLUSION.




GRACE HARLOWE'S SECOND YEAR

AT OVERTON COLLEGE




CHAPTER I

OVERTON CLAIMS HER OWN


"Oh, there goes Grace Harlowe! Grace! Grace! Wait a minute!" A
curly-haired little girl hastily deposited her suit case, golf bag, two
magazines and a box of candy on the nearest bench and ran toward a
quartette of girls who had just left the train that stood puffing
noisily in front of the station at Overton.

The tall, gray-eyed young woman in blue turned at the call, and,
running back, met the other half way. "Why, Arline!" she exclaimed.
"I didn't see you when I got off the train." The two girls exchanged
affectionate greetings; then Arline was passed on to Miriam Nesbit,
Anne Pierson and J. Elfreda Briggs, who, with Grace Harlowe, had come
back to Overton College to begin their second year's course of study.

Those who have followed the fortunes of Grace Harlowe and her
friends through their four years of high school life are familiar
with what happened during "GRACE HARLOWE'S PLEBE YEAR AT HIGH
SCHOOL," the story of her freshman year. "GRACE HARLOWE'S SOPHOMORE
YEAR AT HIGH SCHOOL" gave a faithful account of the doings of Grace
and her three friends, Nora O'Malley, Anne Pierson and Jessica
Bright, during their sophomore days. "GRACE HARLOWE'S JUNIOR YEAR AT
HIGH SCHOOL" and "GRACE HARLOWE'S SENIOR YEAR AT HIGH SCHOOL" told
of her third and fourth years in Oakdale High School and of how
completely Grace lived up to the high standard of honor she had set
for herself.

After their graduation from high school the four devoted chums spent
a summer in Europe; then came the inevitable separation. Nora and
Jessica had elected to go to an eastern conservatory of music, while
Anne and Grace had chosen Overton College. Miriam Nesbit, a member
of the Phi Sigma Tau, had also decided for Overton, and what befell
the three friends as Overton College freshmen has been narrated in
"GRACE HARLOWE'S FIRST YEAR AT OVERTON COLLEGE."

Now September had rolled around again and the station platform of
the town of Overton was dotted with groups of students laden with
suit cases, golf bags and the paraphernalia belonging peculiarly to
the college girl. Overton College was about to claim its own. The
joyous greetings called out by happy voices testified to the fact
that the next best thing to leaving college to go home was leaving
home to come back to college.

"Where is Ruth?" was Grace's first question as she surveyed Arline
with smiling, affectionate eyes.

"She'll be here directly," answered Arline. "She is looking after
the trunks. She is the most indefatigable little laborer I ever saw.
From the time we began to get ready to come back to Overton she
refused positively to allow me to lift my finger. She is always
hunting something to do. She says she has acquired the work habit so
strongly that she can't break herself of it, and I believe her,"
finished Arline with a sigh of resignation. "Here she comes now."

An instant later the demure young woman seen approaching was
surrounded by laughing girls.

"Stop working and speak to your little friends," laughed Miriam
Nesbit. "We've just heard bad reports of you."

"I know what you've heard!" exclaimed Ruth, her plain little face
alight with happiness. "Arline has been grumbling. You haven't any
idea what a fault-finding person she is. She lectures me all the time."

"For working," added Arline. "Ruth will have work enough and to
spare this year. Can you blame me for trying to make her take life
easy for a few days?"

"Blame you?" repeated Elfreda. "I would have lectured her night and
day, and tied her up to keep her from work, if necessary."

"Now you see just how much sympathy these worthy sophomores have for
you," declared Arline.

"Do you know whether 19-- is all here yet?" asked Anne.

"I don't know a single thing more about it than do you girls,"
returned Arline. "Suppose we go directly to our houses, and then meet
at Vinton's for dinner tonight. I don't yearn for a Morton House
dinner. The meals there won't be strictly up to the mark for another
week yet. When the house is full again, the standard of Morton House
cooking will rise in a day, but until then--let us thank our stars
for Vinton's. Are you going to take the automobile bus? We shall save
time."

"We might as well ride," replied Grace, looking inquiringly at her
friends. "My luggage is heavy and the sooner I arrive at Wayne Hall
the better pleased I shall be."

"Are you to have the same rooms as last year?" asked Ruth Denton.

"I suppose so, unless something unforeseen has happened."

"Will there be any vacancies at your house this year?" inquired
Arline.

"Four, I believe," replied Anne Pierson. "Were you thinking of
changing? We'd be glad to have you with us."

"I'd love to come, but Morton House is like home to me. Mrs. Kane
calls me the Morton House Mascot, and declares her house would go to
rack and ruin without me. She only says that in fun, of course."

"I think you'd make an ideal mascot for the sophomore basketball
team this year," laughed Grace. "Will you accept the honor?"

"With both hands," declared Arline. "Now, we had better start, or
we'll never get back to Vinton's. Ruth, you have my permission to
walk with Anne as far as your corner. It's five o'clock now. Shall
we agree to meet at Vinton's at half-past six? That will give us an
hour and a half to get the soot off our faces, and if the expressman
should experience a change of heart and deliver our trunks we might
possibly appear in fresh gowns. The possibility is very remote,
however. I know, because I had to wait four days for mine last year.
It was sent to the wrong house, and traveled gaily about the campus,
stopping for a brief season at three different houses before it
landed on Morton House steps. I hung out of the window for a whole
morning watching for it. Then, when it did come, I fairly had to fly
downstairs and out on the front porch to claim it, or they would have
hustled it off again."

"That's why I appointed myself chief trunk tender," said Ruth slyly.
"That trunk story is not new to me. This time your trunk will be
waiting on the front porch for you, Arline."

"If it is, then I'll forgive you your other sins," retorted Arline.
"That is, if you promise to come and room with me. Isn't she
provoking, girls? I have a whole room to myself and she won't come.
Father wishes her to be with me, too."

"I'd love to be with Arline," returned Ruth bravely, "but I can't
afford it, and I can't accept help from any one. I must work out my
own problem in my own way. You understand, don't you?" She looked
appealingly from one to the other of her friends, who nodded
sympathetically.

"She's a courageous Ruth, isn't she?" smiled Arline, patting Ruth on
the shoulder.

At Ruth's corner they said good-bye to her. Then hailing a bus the
five girls climbed into it.

"So far we haven't seen any of our old friends," remarked Grace as
they drove along Maple Avenue. "I suppose they haven't arrived yet.
We are here early this year."

"I'd rather be early than late," rejoined Miriam. "Last year we were
late. Don't you remember? There were dozens of girls at the station
when we arrived. Arline and Ruth are the first real friends we have
seen so far. Where are Mabel Ashe and Frances Marlton, Emma Dean and
Gertrude Wells, not to mention Virginia Gaines?"

"If I'm not mistaken," said Elfreda slowly, her brows drawing
together in an ominous frown, "there are two people just ahead of us
whom we have reason to remember."

Almost at the moment of her declaration the girls had espied two
young women loitering along the walk ahead of them whose very backs
were too familiar to be mistaken.

"It's Miss Wicks and Miss Hampton, isn't it?" asked Anne.

Grace nodded. They were now too close to the young women for further
speech. A moment more and the bus containing the five girls had
passed the loitering pair. Neither side had made the slightest sign
of recognition. A sudden silence fell upon the little company in the
bus.

"It is too bad to begin one's sophomore year by cutting two Overton
girls, isn't it?" said Grace, in a rueful tone.

"Overton girls!" sniffed Elfreda. "I consider neither Miss Wicks nor
Miss Hampton real Overton girls."

"They should be by this time," reminded Miriam Nesbit mischievously.
"They have been here a year longer than we have."

"Years don't count," retorted Elfreda. "It's having the true Overton
spirit that counts. You girls understand what I mean, even if Miriam
tries to pretend she doesn't."

"Of course we understand, Elfreda," soothed Anne. "Miriam was merely
trying to tease you."

"Don't you suppose I know that?" returned Elfreda. "I know, too,
that you don't wish me to say anything against those two girls. All
right, I won't, but I warn you, I'll keep on thinking uncomplimentary
things about them. Last June, after that ghost party, I promised
Grace I would never try to get even with Alberta Wicks and Mary
Hampton, but I didn't promise to like them, and if they attempt to
interfere with me this year, they'll be sorry."

"Oh, there's the campus!" exclaimed Arline as, turning into College
Street, the long green slope, broken at intervals by magnificent old
trees, burst upon their view. "Hello, Overton Hall!" she cried,
waving her hand to that stately building. "Doesn't the campus look
like green plush, though! I love every inch of it, don't you?" She
looked at her companions and, seeing the light from her face
reflected on theirs, needed no verbal answer to her question. A
moment later she signaled to the driver to stop the bus. "I shall
have to leave you here," she said. "I'll see you at Vinton's at
six-thirty."

Grace handed out her luggage to her, saying: "You have so much to
carry, Arline. Shall I help you?"

"Mercy, no," laughed Arline. "'Every woman her own porter,' is my
motto." Opening her suit case she stuffed the candy and magazines
into it, snapping it shut with a triumphant click. Then with it in
one hand, her golf bag in the other, she set off across the campus
at a swinging pace.

"She's little, but she has plenty of independence and energy,"
laughed Miriam. "Hurrah, girls, there's Wayne Hall just ahead of us."

It was only a short ride from the spot where Arline had left them to
Wayne Hall. Grace sprang from the bus almost before it stopped, and
ran up the stone walk, her three friends following. Before she had
time to ring the door bell, however, the door opened and Emma Dean
rushed out to greet them. "Welcome to old Wayne," she cried, shaking
hands all around. "I heard Mrs. Elwood say this morning you would be
here late this afternoon. I've been over to Morton House, consoling
a homesick cousin who is sure she is going to hate college. I've been
out since before luncheon. Had it at Martell's with my dolorous,
misanthropic relative. I tried to get her in here, but everything was
taken. We are to have four freshmen, you know."

"I knew there were four places last June, but am rather surprised
that no sophomores applied for rooms. Have you seen the new girls?"

Emma shook her head. "They hadn't arrived when I left this morning.
I don't know whether they are here now or not. I'm to have one of
them. Virginia Gaines has gone to Livingstone Hall. She has a friend
there. Two of the new girls will have her room. Florence Ransom will
have to take the fourth."

"Where's Mrs. Elwood?" asked Miriam.

"She went over to see her sister this afternoon. She's likely to
return at any minute," answered Emma.

"Do you think we ought to wait for her?" Grace asked anxiously.

"Hardly," said Anne, picking up her bag, which she had deposited on
the floor.

"Come on, I'll lead the way," volunteered Elfreda, starting up the
stairs.

"Won't Mrs. Elwood be surprised when she comes home? She'll find us
not only here, but settled," laughed Grace.

But it was Grace rather than Mrs. Elwood who was destined to receive
the surprise.




CHAPTER II

THE UNFORESEEN


Following Elfreda, the girls ran upstairs as fast as their weight of
bags and suit cases would permit. Miriam pushed open her door, which
stood slightly ajar, with the end of her suit case. "Any one at
home?" she inquired saucily as she stepped inside.

"Looks like the same old room," remarked Elfreda. "No, it isn't,
either. We have a new chair. We needed it, too. You may sit in it
occasionally, if you're good, Miriam."

"Thank you," replied Miriam. "For that gracious permission you shall
have one piece of candy out of a five-pound box I have in my trunk."

"Not even that," declared Elfreda positively. "I said good-bye to
candy last July. I've lost ten pounds since I went home from school,
and I'm going to haunt the gymnasium every spare moment that I have.
I hope I shall lose ten more; then I'll be down to one hundred and
forty pounds and--" Elfreda stopped.

"And what?" queried Miriam.

"I can make the basketball team," finished Elfreda. "What is going
on in the hall, I wonder?" Stepping to the door she called, "What's
the matter, Grace? Can't you get into your room?"

"Evidently not," laughed Grace. "It is locked. I suppose Mrs. Elwood
locked it to prevent the new girls from straying in and taking
possession."

"H-m-m!" ejaculated Elfreda, walking over to the door and examining
the keyhole. "Your supposition is all wrong, Grace. The door is
locked from the inside. The key is in it."

"Then what--" began Grace.

"Yes, what?" quizzed Elfreda dryly.

"'There was a door to which I had no key,'" quoted Miriam, as she
joined the group.

"Don't tease, Miriam," returned Grace, "even through the medium of
Omar Khayyam. The key is a reality, but there is some one on the
other side of that door who doesn't belong there. Whether she is not
aware that she is a trespasser I do not know. However, we shall soon
learn." Grace rapped determinedly on one of the upper panels of the
door.

"I'll help you," volunteered Elfreda.

"And I," agreed Anne.

"My services are needed, too," said Miriam Nesbit.

Four fists pounded energetically on the door. There was an
exclamation, the sound of hasty steps, the turning of a key in the
lock, and the door was flung open. Facing them stood a young woman
no taller than Anne, whose heavy eyebrows met in a straight line, and
who looked ready for battle at the first word.

"Will you kindly explain the reason for this tumult?" she asked in
a freezing voice.

"We were rather noisy," admitted Grace, "but we did not understand
why the door should be locked from the inside."

"Is it necessary that you should know?" asked the black-browed girl
severely.

Grace's clear-cut face flushed. "I think we are talking at cross
purposes," she said quietly. "The room you are using belongs to my
friend Anne Pierson and to me. During our freshman year it was ours,
and when we left here last June it was with the understanding that
we should have it again on our return to Overton."

"I know nothing of any such arrangement," returned the other girl
crossly. "The room pleases me, consequently I shall retain it. Kindly
refrain from disturbing me further." With this significant remark the
door was slammed in the faces of the astonished girls. A second later
the click of the key in the lock told them that force alone could
effect an entrance to the room.

"Open that door at once," stormed Elfreda, beating an angry tattoo
on the panel with her clenched fist.

From the other side of the door came no sound.

"Never mind, Elfreda," said Grace, fighting down her anger. "Mrs.
Elwood will be here soon. There is some misunderstanding about the
rooms. I am sure of it."

"See here, Grace Harlowe, you are not going to give up your room to
that beetle-browed anarchist, are you?" demanded Elfreda wrathfully.

A peal of laughter went up from three young throats.

"You are the funniest girl I ever knew, J. Elfreda Briggs," remarked
Miriam Nesbit between laughs. "That new girl looks exactly like an
anarchist--that is, like pictures of them I've seen in the newspapers."

"That's why I thought of it, too," grinned Elfreda. "I once saw a
picture of an anarchist who blew up a public building and he might
have been this young person's brother. She looks exactly like him."

"Stop talking about anarchists and talk about rooms," said Anne. "I
must find some place to put my luggage. Besides, time is flying.
Remember, we are to be at Vinton's at half-past six."

"I should say time _was_ flying!" exclaimed Grace, casting a hurried
glance at her watch. "It's ten minutes to six now. It will take us
fifteen minutes to walk to Vinton's. That leaves twenty-five minutes
in which to get ready."

"There is no hope that the trunks will arrive in time for us to
dress," said Miriam positively. "Come into our room and we'll wash
the dust from our hands and faces and do our hair over again."

"All right," agreed Grace, casting a longing glance at the closed
door. "We'll have to put our bags in your room, too. I don't wish to
leave them in the hall for unwary students to stumble over."

"Bring them along," returned Miriam. "No one shall accuse us of
inhospitality."

"I wish Mrs. Elwood were here." Grace looked worried. "We mustn't
stay at Vinton's later than half-past seven o'clock. There are so
many little things to be attended to, as well as the important
question of our room."

Arriving at Vinton's at exactly half-past six o'clock, they found
Arline Thayer and Ruth Denton waiting for them at a table on which
were covers laid for six.

"We've been waiting for ages!" exclaimed Arline.

"But you said half-past six, and it is only one minute past that
now," reminded Grace, showing Arline her watch.

"Of course, you are on time," laughed the little girl. "I should
have explained that I'm hungry. That is why I speak in ages instead
of minutes."

"Your explanation is accepted," proclaimed Elfreda, screwing her
face into a startling resemblance to a fussy instructor in freshman
trigonometry and using his exact words.

The ready laughter proclaimed instant recognition of the unfortunate
professor.

"You can look like any one you choose, can't you, Elfreda?" said
Arline admiringly. "I think your imitations of people are wonderful."

"Nothing very startling about them," remarked the stout girl
lightly. "I'd give all my ability to make faces to be able to sing
even 'America' through once and keep on the key. I can't sing and
never could. When I was a little girl in school the teachers never
would let me sing with the rest of the children, because I led them
all off the key. It was very nice at the beginning of the term, and
I sang with the other children anywhere from once to half a dozen
times, never longer than that. I had the strongest voice in the room
and whatever note I sang the rest of the children sang. It was
dreadful," finished Elfreda reminiscently.

"It must have been," agreed Miriam Nesbit. "Can you remember how you
looked when you were little, Elfreda?"

"I don't have to tax my brain to remember," answered Elfreda. "Ma
has photographs of me at every age from six months up to date. To
satisfy your curiosity, however," her face hardened until it took on
the stony expression of the new student who had locked Grace out of
her room, "I will state that--"

"The Anarchist! the Anarchist!" exclaimed Ruth and Miriam together.

"What are you two talking about?" asked Ruth Denton.

"About the Anarchist," teased Miriam. "Wait until you see her."

"You have seen her," laughed Grace. "Elfreda just imitated her to
perfection." Thereupon Grace related their recent unpleasant
experience to Arline and Ruth.

"What are you going to do about it?" asked Arline.

"We will see Mrs. Elwood as soon as we return to Wayne Hall, and ask
her to gently, but firmly, request the Anarchist to move elsewhere."

"Why do you call her the Anarchist?" asked Arline.

"Elfreda, please repeat your imitation," requested Miriam, her black
eyes sparkling with fun.

Elfreda complied obediently.

"You understand now, don't you?" laughed Grace.

"I should be very stupid if I didn't," declared Arline.

"Of course she's dark, with eyebrows an inch wide. You can't expect
me to give an imitation of anything like that," apologized Elfreda.

"I think I should recognize her on sight," smiled Ruth Denton.

"We are miles off our original subject," remarked Grace. "Elfreda
hasn't told us how she looked as a child."

"All right. I'll tell you now," volunteered J. Elfreda graciously.
"I had round, staring blue eyes and a fat face. I wore my hair down
my back in curls--that is, when it was done up on curlers the night
before--and it was almost tow color. I had red cheeks and was ashamed
of them, and my stocky, square-shouldered figure was anything but
sylphlike. I was not beautiful, but I was very well satisfied with
myself, and to call me 'Fatty' was to offer me deadly insult. That
is about as much as I can remember," finished the stout girl.

"Really, Elfreda, while you were describing yourself I could fairly
see you," smiled Arline.

"Now it's your turn," reminded Elfreda. "I imagine you were a
cunning little girl."

Arline flushed at the implied compliment. "Father used to call me
'Daffydowndilly,'" she began. "My hair was much lighter than it is
now, but it has always been curly. I am afraid I used to be very
vain, for I loved to stand and smile at myself in the mirror simply
because I liked my yellow curls and was fascinated with my own smile.
No one told me I was vain, for Mother died when I was a baby, and
even my governess laughed to see me worship my own reflection. When
I was twelve years old, Father engaged a governess who was different
from the others. She was a widow and had to support herself. She was
highly educated and one of the sweetest women I have ever known. When
she took charge of me I was a vain, stupid little tyrant, but she
soon made me over. She remained with me until I entered a prep
school, then an uncle whom she had never seen died and left her some
money. She's coming to Overton to see me some day. Overton is her
Alma Mater, too."

"You are next, Grace," nodded Ruth.

"There isn't much to tell about me," began Grace. "I was the tomboy
of Oakdale. I loved to climb trees and play baseball and marbles. I
was thin as a lath and like live wire. My face was rather thin, too,
and I remember I cried a whole afternoon because a little girl at
school called me 'saucer-eyes.' There wasn't a suspicion of curl in
my hair, and I wore it in two braids. I never thought much about
myself, because I was always too busy. I was forever falling in with
suspicious looking characters and bringing them home to be fed.
Mother used to throw up her hands in despair at the acquaintances I
made. Then, too, I had a propensity for bestowing my personal
possessions on those who, in my opinion, needed them. Mother and I
were not always of the same opinion. I wore my everyday coat to
church for a whole winter as a punishment for having given away my
best one without consulting her. With me it was a case of act first
and think afterward. I don't believe I was particularly mischievous,
but I had a habit of diving into things that kept Mother in a state
of constant apprehension. Father used to laugh at my pranks and tell
Mother not to worry about me. He used to declare that no matter into
what I plunged I would land right side up with care. I was never at
the head of my classes in school, but I was never at the foot of
them. I was what one might call a happy medium. My little-girl life
was a very happy one, and full to the brim with all sorts of pleasant
happenings."

"I never heard you say so much about yourself before, Grace,"
observed Elfreda.

"I'm usually too much interested in other people's affairs to think
of my own," laughed Grace. "I have never heard Anne say much about
her childhood, either. She must have had all sorts of interesting
experiences."

"Mine was more exciting than pleasant," returned Anne. "Practically
speaking, I was brought up in the theatre and knew a great deal more
about things theatrical than I did about dolls and childish games.
I was a solemn looking little thing and wore my hair bobbed and tied
up with a ribbon. I never cried about the things that most children
cry over, but I would stand in the wings and weep by the hour over
the pathetic parts of the different plays we put on. Father was a
character man in a stock company. We lived in New York City and I
used to frequently go to the theatre with him. My father wished me
to become a professional, but my mother was opposed to it. When I was
sixteen I played in a company for a short time. Then mother and
sister and I went to Oakdale to live, and the nicest part of my life
began. There I met Grace and Miriam and two other girls who are among
my dearest friends. Nothing very exciting has ever happened to me,
and even though I have appeared before the public I haven't as much
to tell as the rest of you have."

"But countless things must have happened to you in the theatre,"
persisted Arline, looking curiously at Anne.

"Not so many as you might imagine," replied Anne. Then she said
quickly, "Miriam must have been an interesting little girl."

"I was a very haughty young person," answered Miriam. "In the
Oakdale Grammar School I was known as the Princess. Do you remember
that, Grace?"

Grace nodded. "Miriam used to order the girls in her room about as
though they were her subjects," she declared. "She had two long black
braids of hair and her cheeks were always pink. She was the tallest
girl in her room and the teachers used to say she was the prettiest."

"I was a regular tyrant," went on Miriam. "I had a frightful temper.
I was a snob, too, and looked upon girls whose parents were poor with
the utmost contempt."

"Miriam Nesbit, you can't be describing yourself!" exclaimed Arline
incredulously.

"Ask Grace if I am not giving an accurate description of the Miriam
Nesbit of those days," challenged Miriam.

"It isn't fair to ask me," fenced Grace. "You always invited me to
your parties."

"There, you can draw your own conclusions," retorted Miriam
triumphantly. "I don't object to telling about my past shortcomings
as I have at last outgrown a few of my disagreeable traits."

"Were you and Grace friends then?" asked Arline.

"We played together and went to each other's houses, but we were
never very chummy," explained Grace. "We were both too headstrong and
too fond of our own way to be close friends. It was after we entered
high school that we began to find out that we liked each other,
wasn't it, Miriam?"

"Yes," returned Miriam, looking affectionately at her friend. In two
sentences Grace had effectually bridged a yawning gap in Miriam's
early high school days of which the latter was heartily ashamed.

"Every one has told a tale but Ruth," declared Elfreda. "Now, Ruth,
what have you to say for yourself?"

"Not much," said Ruth, shaking her head. "So far, my life has been
too gray to warrant recording. That is, up to the time I came to
Overton," she added, smiling gratefully on the little circle. "My
freshman year was a very happy one, thanks to you girls."

"But when you were a child you must have had a few good times that
stand out in your memory," persisted Elfreda.

Ruth's face took on a hunted expression. Her mouth set in hard
lines. "No," she said shortly. "There was nothing worth remembering.
Perhaps I'll tell you some day, but not now. Please don't think me
hateful and disobliging, but I don't wish to talk of myself."

Arline Thayer eyed Ruth with displeasure. "I don't see why you
should say that, Ruth. We have all talked of ourselves," she said
coldly.

Ruth flushed deeply. She felt the note of censure in Arline's voice.

"I think we had better go," announced Grace, consulting her watch.
"It is now half-past seven. We ought to be at Wayne Hall by eight
o'clock. You know the Herculean labor I have before me."

"Herculean labor is a good name for our coming task," chuckled Anne.
"The Anarchist will make Wayne Hall resound with her vengeful cries
when she is thrust out of the room with all her possessions."

Jesting light-heartedly over the coming encounter, the diners
strolled out of Vinton's and down College Street in the direction of
the campus. Arline was the first to leave them. Her good night to the
four girls from Wayne Hall was cordial in the extreme, but to Ruth
she was almost distant. A little later on they said good night to
Ruth, who looked ready to cry.

"Cheer up," comforted Grace, who was walking with Ruth. "Arline will
be all right to-morrow."

"I hope so," responded Ruth mournfully. "I did not mean to make her
angry, only there are some things of which I cannot speak to any one."

"I understand," rejoined Grace, wondering what Ruth's secret cross
was. "Good night, Ruth."

Elfreda, Miriam and Anne bade Ruth goodnight in turn.

"Now, for the tug of war," declared Elfreda as they hurried up the
steps of Wayne Hall. "On to the battlefield and down with the
Anarchist!"




CHAPTER III

MRS. ELWOOD TO THE RESCUE


As Grace approached the curtained archway that divided the living-room
from the hall she could not help wishing that she might have settled
the affair without Mrs. Elwood's assistance. She was not afraid to
approach Mrs. Elwood, who was the soul of good nature, but Grace
disliked the idea of the scene that she felt sure would follow. The
young woman now occupying the room that she and Anne had
re-engaged for their sophomore year would contest their right to occupy
it. Mrs. Elwood would be obliged to set her foot down firmly. It
would all be extremely disagreeable. Grace reflected. Then the memory
of the Anarchist's glaring incivility returned, and without further
hesitation Grace walked into the living-room, followed by her
companions.

Mrs. Elwood, who was sitting in her favorite chair reading a
magazine, looked up absently, then, staring incredulously at the
newcomers, trotted across the room, both hands outstretched in
welcome. "Why, Miss Harlowe and Miss Nesbit, I had given you up for
to-night. Here are Miss Pierson and Miss Briggs, too. I'm so glad to
see you. When did you arrive? I thought there was no train from the
north before nine o'clock."

"Didn't Miss Dean tell you we had arrived?" asked Grace, as Mrs.
Elwood shook hands in turn with each girl.

"I haven't seen Miss Dean. She went out before I came home," replied
Mrs. Elwood.

"Wait until we catch the faithless Emma," threatened Anne. "She
promised to be our herald. We arrived here at a little after five
o'clock. We did not stay here long, for Miss Thayer, of Morton House,
invited us to dinner at Vinton's."

"How do you like the way I fixed your room this year?" asked Mrs.
Elwood.

"We haven't been in it yet," answered Grace. "That is, we went only
as far as the door."

"Oh, then you must see it at once," said Mrs. Elwood briskly. "I
have had it repapered. There is a new rug on the floor, too, and I
have put a new Morris chair in and taken out one of the cane-seated
chairs."

"No wonder the Anarchist refuses to vacate," muttered Elfreda.

"What did you say, my dear?" remarked Mrs. Elwood amiably.

"Oh, I was just talking nonsense," averred Elfreda solemnly.

"I won't keep you girls out of your rooms any longer. I know you
must be tired from your long journey. Come upstairs at once."

Mrs. Elwood had already crossed the room and was out in the hall,
her foot on the first step of the stairs. The girls exchanged
glances. There was a half smothered chuckle from Elfreda, then Grace
hurried after their good-natured landlady. "Wait a minute, Mrs.
Elwood," began Grace, "I have something to tell you before you go
upstairs. This afternoon, when we arrived, we went directly to our
rooms. The door of our room was locked, however. We knocked
repeatedly, and it was at last opened by a young woman who said the
room was hers and refused to allow us to enter it."

During this brief recital Mrs. Elwood looked first amazed, then
incredulous. Her final expression was one of lively displeasure, and
with the exclamation, "I might have known it!" she marched upstairs
with the air of a grenadier, the girls filing in her wake. Pausing
before the door she listened intently. The sound of some one moving
within could be heard distinctly. Mrs. Elwood rapped sharply on the
door. The footsteps halted; after a few seconds the sound began again.

"She thinks we have come back," whispered Elfreda.

"So we have," smiled Grace, "with reinforcements."

Her smile was reflected on the faces of her friends. Mrs. Elwood,
however, did not smile. Two red spots burned high on her cheeks, her
little blue eyes snapped. Again she knocked, this time accompanying
the action with: "Open this door, instantly. Mrs. Elwood wishes to
speak with you."

"Do not imagine that you can gain entrance to this room through any
such pretense," announced a contemptuous voice from the other side
of the door. "I believe I stated that I did not wish to be disturbed."

"And I state that you must open the door," commanded Mrs. Elwood.
"You are not addressing one of the students. This is Mrs. Elwood."

A grating of the key in the lock followed, then the door was
cautiously opened far enough to allow a scowling head to be thrust
out. The instant the Anarchist's narrowed eyes rested on Mrs. Elwood
her belligerent manner changed. She swung the door wide, remarking
in cold apology; "Pray, pardon me, Mrs. Elwood. I believed that a number
of rude, ill-bred young women whom I had the misfortune to encounter
earlier in the day were renewing their attempts to annoy me."

"There are no such young women at Wayne Hall," retorted Mrs. Elwood,
who was thoroughly angry. "The majority of the young women here were
with me last year, and not one of them answers your description.
Really, Miss Atkins, you must know that you are trespassing. This
room belongs to Miss Harlowe and Miss Pierson. It was theirs last
year and they arranged with me last June to occupy it again during
their sophomore year. How you happened to be here is more than I can
say. I believe I gave you the room at the end of the hall."

"The room to which you assigned me did not meet with my approval,"
was the calm reply. "I prefer this room."

"You can't have it," returned Mrs. Elwood decisively.

"But I insist upon remaining where I am," persisted the intruder.
"If necessary, I will allow Miss Harlowe or her roommate to occupy
the other half of the room."

"I have told you that you can not have the room," exclaimed Mrs.
Elwood, eyeing her obstinate antagonist with growing disfavor. "If
you do not wish to take the room at the end of the hall, then I have
nothing else in the house to offer you. No doubt you can find board
to suit you in some other house."

"I wish to stay here," returned the Anarchist stubbornly. "Let Miss
Harlowe have the room at the end of the hall."

Sheer exasperation held Mrs. Elwood silent for a moment. The
Anarchist peered defiantly at her from under her bushy eyebrows. She
made no move toward vacating the room of which she had so coolly
taken possession.

"We'll go for our bags and suit cases, Mrs. Elwood," suggested Grace
wickedly. "We left them in Miriam's room."

"Very well," returned the intrepid landlady. "Your room will be
ready for you when you return."

"That is what I call a stroke of genius on your part, Grace,"
remarked Miriam, as they entered her room. "Mrs. Elwood can deal with
the Anarchist more summarily without an audience."

"It must be very humiliating for that Miss Atkins," mused Anne, "but
it's her own fault."

"Of course it's her own fault," emphasized Elfreda. "She doesn't
appear to know when the pleasure of her company is requested
elsewhere."

"Shall we go now?" asked Anne, lifting her heavy suit case
preparatory to moving.

"Not yet," counseled Grace. "We must give her time enough to get out
of sight before we appear."

Elfreda boldly took up her station at the door and reported
faithfully the enemy's movements. After a twenty minutes' wait, the
stout girl closed the door with a bang, exclaiming triumphantly:
"She's gone! She just paraded down the hall carrying her goods and
chattels. Mrs. Elwood stalked behind carrying a hat box. She looked
like an avenging angel. Hurry up, now, and move in before the
Anarchist changes her mind and comes back to take possession all over
again."

Grace and Anne lost no time in taking Elfreda's advice. Five minutes
later they were back in their old room. "Stay here a while, girls,"
invited Grace. Miriam and Elfreda had assisted their friends with
their luggage.

"How nice your room looks," praised Miriam. "I like that wall paper.
It is so dainty. Your favorite blue, too, Grace. I wonder if Mrs.
Elwood knew that blue was your color?"

"I suppose so," returned Grace. "Two-thirds of my clothes are blue,
you know. I must run downstairs and thank her for championing our
cause. I won't be gone five minutes."

"We must go," declared Miriam. "We are going to begin unpacking to-night."

Running lightly down the stairs, Grace thrust her head between the
portieres that separated the living-room from the hall. Mrs. Elwood
sat reading her magazine as placidly as though nothing had happened
within the last hour to disturb her equanimity.

"Thank you ever so much, Mrs. Elwood," said Grace gratefully,
walking up to the dignified matron and shyly offering her hand.

"Nonsense, child!" was the reply. "You have nothing for which to
thank me. You don't suppose I would allow a new boarder to infringe
upon the rights of my old girls, do you?"

"No," admitted Grace. "I'm sorry that things had to happen that
way," she added regretfully.

"Don't you worry about it any more, Miss Harlowe," comforted the
older woman. "It's nothing you are to blame for. You had the first
right to the room. I gave this girl Miss Gaines's old room. Her
roommate is to be a freshman, too. She hasn't arrived yet. Miss
Atkins decided to pick out her own room, I imagine. Evidently she
took a fancy to yours. As soon as you girls had gone, she gave me one
awful look, gathered up her belongings, and went to the other room
without another word. I picked up two or three things she dropped and
carried them down for her. I wouldn't be sorry if she went to some
other house to board. She looks like a trouble maker."

Grace was of the same opinion, but did not say so. Always eager to
excuse other people's shortcomings, she found it hard to account for
the feeling of strong dislike that had risen within her during her
first encounter with the young woman Elfreda had laughingly named the
Anarchist. She had hoped that the four freshmen at Wayne Hall would
be girls whom it would be a pleasure to know. She had looked forward
to meeting these newcomers and to assisting them in whatever way she
could best give help. Now at least one of her castles in the air had
been built in vain.

"Perhaps we may like Miss Atkins after we know her better," she
said, trying hard to keep the doubt she felt out of her voice.

Mrs. Elwood shook her head. "I hope she will improve on
acquaintance, but I doubt it. It isn't my principle, my dear, to
speak slightingly of any student in my house, but I am certain that
this is not the last time I shall have to lay down the law of Wayne
Hall to Miss Atkins."

At this plain speaking Grace flushed but said nothing. She
understood that Mrs. Elwood's words had been spoken in confidence.

"I'm so glad to see you again, Mrs. Elwood," she smiled, bent on
changing the subject.

"And I to see you, my dear," was the hearty response. "I have missed
my Oakdale girls this summer."

After a few moments' conversation Grace said good night and went
slowly upstairs. In spite of her satisfaction at being back at
Overton she could not repress a sigh of regret over the recent
unpleasantness.

"The unforeseen always happens," she reflected, pausing for a moment
on the top step. "I hope the Anarchist will 'stay put' this time."
She laughed softly at the idea of the Anarchist standing stiff and
stationary in her new room. Then the ridiculous side of the encounter
dawning on her, she sat down on the stairs and gave way to sudden
silent laughter.

"What did Mrs. Elwood say?" asked Anne as Grace entered the room.

"I am afraid Mrs. Elwood is not, and never will be, an admirer of
the Anarchist," said Grace. "Seriously speaking, she is half inclined
to ask her to leave Wayne Hall. She believes she will have further
trouble with her. Perhaps we should have waited. We might have tried,
later, to gain possession of our room," added Grace doubtfully.

Anne shook her head. "We would be waiting still, if we had attempted
to settle matters without Mrs. Elwood."

"But it seems too bad to begin one's sophomore year so unpleasantly.
All summer I had been planning how helpful I would try to be to
entering freshmen, and this is the way my splendid visions have
materialized." Grace eyed Anne rather dejectedly.

"Never mind," soothed Anne. "By to-morrow this little unpleasantness
will have completely blown over. Perhaps the Anarchist," Anne smiled
over the title Elfreda had bestowed upon the disturbing freshman,
"will discover that she can make friends more quickly by being
pleasant. She may reform over night. Stranger things have happened."

"But nothing of that sort will happen in her case," declared Grace.
"You said just a moment ago if it hadn't been for Mrs. Elwood we
would still be out in the hall clamoring for a room, didn't you!"

"I did," smiled Anne.

"That was equivalent to accusing the Anarchist of stubbornness,
wasn't it?"

"It was."

"Very well. If she is half as stubborn as I believe her to be, she
won't be different to-night, to-morrow or for a long time afterward."




CHAPTER IV

THE BELATED FRESHMAN


"The first thing I shall do this morning after breakfast is to
unpack," announced Grace Harlowe with decision, as she gave her hair
a last pat preparatory to going downstairs to breakfast. "Last year
I was so excited over what studies I intended to take and meeting new
girls that I unpacked by fits and starts. It was weeks before I knew
where to find things. But I've reformed, now. I'm going to put every
last article in place before I set foot outside Wayne Hall. Do you
wish the chiffonier or the bureau this year, Anne, for your things?"

"The chiffonier, I think," replied Anne, after due reflection. "I
haven't as much to stow away as you have. It will do nicely for me."

"There goes the breakfast bell!" exclaimed Grace. "Come along, Anne,
I'm hungry. Besides, I'd like the same seat at the table that I had
last year."

Outside their door they were joined by Miriam and Elfreda, and the
four friends stopped to talk before going downstairs.

"Were you haunted by nightmares in which glowering Anarchists
pranced about?" asked Miriam, her eyes twinkling.

"No," replied Grace. "I slept too soundly even to dream."

"I dreamed that I went into the registrar's office to get my chapel
card," began Elfreda impressively. "When she handed it to me it was
three times larger than the others. On it in big red letters was
printed, 'The Anarchist, Her Card.' I thought I handed it back to her
and tried to explain that I wasn't an anarchist because I had neither
bushy eyebrows nor a scowl. She just sat and glared at me, saying
over and over, 'Look in your mirror, look in your mirror,' until I
grew so angry I threw the card at her. It hit her and she fell
backward. That frightened me, although it seemed so strange that a
little, light piece of pasteboard could strike with such force. I
tried to lift her, but she grew heavier and heavier. Then--"

"Yes, 'then,'" interposed Miriam, "I awoke in time to save myself
from landing on the floor with a thump. Elfreda mistook me for the
registrar. She was walking in her sleep."

"Of course I didn't mean to," apologized Elfreda, "You know that,
don't you, Miriam? I can't help walking in my sleep. I've done it
ever since I was a little girl."

"I forgive you, but you must promise not to dream," laughed Miriam.
"Otherwise I am likely to find myself out the window or being dropped
gently downstairs while you dream gaily on, regardless of what
happens to your long-suffering roommate."

As they entered the dining room several girls already seated at the
table welcomed them with joyful salutations. It was at least ten
minutes before any one settled down to breakfast. Grace observed with
secret relief that Miss Atkins was not at the table. The three
freshmen who were to fill the last available places in Wayne Hall had
not yet arrived. During breakfast a ceaseless stream of merry chatter
flowed on. Everyone wished to tell her neighbor about her vacation,
of what she intended to take during the fall term, or of how
impossible it was to get hold of her trunk. Then there was the usual
amount of wondering as to why the four freshmen hadn't appeared.

"One of them is here--that is, she's in the house," remarked Elfreda
laconically.

"She is!" exclaimed Emma Dean, opening her eyes. "I didn't see her
yesterday."

"You were consoling your homesick cousin, so how could you know what
went on here?" reminded Grace. It had been decided that nothing
should be said regarding the events of the previous day.

"So I was," said Emma. "She made me think of Longfellow's 'Rainy
Day.' She looked so 'dark and dreary.'"

"What a unique comparison," chirped a wide-awake sophomore. "That
will be so appropriate for the freshman grind book."

"It is our turn this year," exulted Elfreda. "I shall be on the
lookout for good material, too. I know one freshman who will be a
candidate for honors."

"Who?" inquired Emma Dean curiously.

Grace looked appealingly at the stout girl. A slight shake of the
head reassured her. Elfreda abandoned her intention of mentioning
names, and parried Emma's question so cleverly that the latter became
interested in something else and forgot that she had asked it.

The instant she had finished her breakfast, Grace reannounced her
intention of unpacking her trunk and rose to leave the table. Anne
followed her, a curious smile on her face. The majority of the girls
rose from the table at the same time, or immediately after, and went
their various ways.

"Now," declared Grace energetically, "I am going to begin my labor."

"What did you say you were going to do?" asked Anne innocently.

"Unpack my trunk. I--why--I--haven't any trunk to unpack!" exclaimed
Grace in bewilderment. Then catching sight of Anne's mirthful face,
she sprang forward, caught Anne by the shoulders and shook her
playfully. "Anne Pierson, you bad child, you heard me make all my
plans for unpacking, yet you wouldn't remind me that my trunk was
still at the station."

"I couldn't resist keeping still and allowing you to plan,"
confessed Anne. "What a joke that would be for the grind book!"

"Yes, wouldn't it though?" agreed Grace sarcastically. "However, we
are not freshmen, and as my roommate I strictly forbid you to publish
my stupidity broadcast. Having the unpacking fever in my veins, I
shall console myself with unpacking my bag and suit case. I'll keep
on wishing for my trunk and perhaps it will come." Grace walked to
the window. She leaned out, peering anxiously down the road. Then,
with a cry of delight, she exclaimed: "Come here, Anne."

Anne walked obediently to the window.

"'Tell me, Sister Anne, do you see anything?'" quoted Grace.

"You are saved, Fatima," returned Anne dramatically. "It is an
express wagon."

Grace darted out of her door and down the stairs, meeting the
expressman on the veranda, her trunk on his shoulder. Anne, having
notified Elfreda and Miriam that the trunks had arrived, went
downstairs to look after hers.

"Now I can carry out my plan, after all," declared Grace, with great
satisfaction. "'He who laughs last, laughs best,' you know," she
added slyly.

"Before unpacking, first find your trunk," retorted Anne.

"Thank goodness, we don't have to think about entrance examinations
this year," said Grace, as she knelt before her trunk, fitting the
key to the lock.

"Yes, it does make considerable difference," returned Anne. "We
shall have more time to ourselves. Besides, we won't have to worry
our heads off the first week about whether we survived or perished."

The sound of an automobile horn caused Grace to run to the window.
"It's the bus!" she cried. "Three strange girls are getting out of
it. Evidently our freshmen have arrived. That tall girl looks
interesting. One of them is as stout as Elfreda. The little girl is
cunning. I think I like her the best of the three. Oh dear!" she
exclaimed ruefully, hastily drawing back from the window, "she looked
straight up and saw me standing here. What will she think of me?"

"You shouldn't be so curious," teased Anne.

"I know it," admitted Grace. "I'm not over curious as a rule. I hope
the tall girl is to room with the Anarchist. She looks capable of
keeping her in order."

"That task will, no doubt, be handed over to you," said Anne, who
had been making rapid progress in unpacking, while Grace had been
occupied in looking over the newcomers. "You'd better get your
unpacking done, so that you'll be ready for it--the task, I mean."

Grace sat down before her trunk with a little impatient sigh. For
the space of an hour the two girls worked rapidly, almost in silence.
Both trunks had been emptied and the greater part of their contents
stored away when the sound of an angry, protesting voice outside the
door caused them to look at each other wonderingly.

"What can have happened?" asked Anne.

Even as Anne spoke a never-to-be-forgotten voice said impressively,
"What you prefer is immaterial to me, I prefer to room alone." The
emphatic closing of a door followed. There was a sound of hurrying
footsteps on the stairs, then all was still.




CHAPTER V

THE ANARCHIST CHOOSES HER ROOMMATE


"It's the Anarchist, of course," said Anne, turning to Grace.

"I wonder who she left roomless in the hall this time," speculated
Grace. "Shall we go and see?"

"Do you think we had better?" hesitated Anne.

"Yes," returned Grace boldly. "To a certain extent we are
responsible for the welfare of the freshmen." Opening the door, she
looked up and down the hall. Then, with a sudden air of resolution,
she walked downstairs. On the oak seat in the hall, looking
disconsolately about her, sat the "cunning" freshman that Grace had
admired. At sight of Grace she sprang toward the sophomore with an
eager, "Won't you please tell me where I can find Mrs. Elwood?"

"I believe she has gone to market," replied Grace. "She usually goes
at this time every morning. Can I help you in any way?"

"No-o," replied the other girl doubtfully. "I wished to see Mrs.
Elwood, because--" Her lip quivered. A big tear rolled down her
cheek. "Oh, I hate college," she muttered in a choking voice. "I wish
I hadn't come here. I'd go back to the station and take the next
train west, if I hadn't promised my brother that I'd stay. I hate the
east and everything in it. I know I'm going to be unhappy here."

With the smile that few people could resist, Grace sat down on the
seat beside the tearful little stranger. "I think I know what is
troubling you," she said gently. "I could not help overhearing Miss
Atkins a few moments ago. I also heard you running downstairs, so I
came down, too, to ask you if there was anything I could do for you."

"You are very kind," faltered the stranger. "I must wait to see Mrs.
Elwood, but will you tell me your name, please?"

"Oh, I beg your pardon for not introducing myself," responded Grace
contritely. "I am Grace Harlowe of the sophomore class."

"My name is Mildred Taylor," responded the newcomer. "I came from
the station in the bus a few minutes ago. There were two other
freshmen with me. They seem to be more fortunate than I. The maid
showed us to our rooms. I supposed, of course, that I would have to
room with another girl, but I didn't think--" she paused.

"I know," sympathized Grace. "I heard what was said to you; at least
a part of it. Won't you come upstairs to our room and meet my
roommate, Miss Pierson?"

"It is very thoughtful in you to take so much trouble for me,"
replied the freshman gratefully.

"That is part of our plan here at Overton," laughed Grace. "When I
was a lonely, bewildered freshman, several of the upper class girls
made it their business to look out for my comfort. Now it is my turn
to pass that kindness along."

"What a nice way to look at things!" exclaimed Mildred Taylor. "If
I thought the rest of the girls in the college were going to be like
you, I'd be ready to love Overton."

"Oh, you will love Overton," was Grace's quick reply. "You can't
help yourself."

Anne received the forlorn newcomer with a sweet courtesy that quite
charmed her. "We are in the midst of our unpacking," she explained.
"Our trunks came only a little while ago. Won't you take off your hat
and coat?"

"Anne, I will leave Miss Taylor in your care," declared Grace.
"Please excuse me, I'll be back directly," she nodded encouragingly
to their guest.

At the door of Miriam's room Grace knocked softly, then in answer to
the impatient, "Come in," entered to find Elfreda standing in the
midst of an extended circle formed by her possessions.

"Isn't this enough to discourage the most valiant heart?" she
declared, with a comprehensive sweep of her arm over the scattered
contents of her trunk. "But I am going to clear everything away. I
promised Miriam that my half of the room should be kept 'decently and
in order' all year. It is one of my sophomore obligations."

Grace listened in amusement to the stout girl's earnest assertion.
"I haven't finished unpacking either," she said. "I came for advice.
The freshman who was to occupy the other half of Miss Atkins's room
has arrived, and Miss Atkins won't let her into the room. I just
brought her upstairs to my room.

"Last night I talked with Mrs. Elwood. She isn't particularly
anxious to have Miss Atkins in the house. When Miss Taylor, that is
the name of the freshman who just came, tells her about what happened
she will ask Miss Atkins to leave Wayne Hall. This girl has brought
with her to Overton the worst possible spirit in which to begin her
freshman year. Of course, we don't know whether she is rich or poor,
or whether her success or failure in college means anything to any
one besides herself. We can not know under what circumstances she has
been brought up. Perhaps she has some one at home who is straining
every nerve to send her to college. Perhaps there is a father,
mother, sister or brother who has made untold sacrifices to give her
a college education. Perhaps there has been no lack of money, only
a desire on the part of parents or a guardian to get rid of her by
sending her off to school. I believe we ought to try to help this
girl in spite of her rudeness to us. Will you go with me to her room?
I want to talk to her. We may find her in a better humor than she was
in last night. While Anne entertains Miss Taylor you and I will
venture into the domain of the Anarchist."

"I'll go," agreed Elfreda, secretly flattered because Grace had
chosen her.

Grace led the way down the hall to the end room. A sulky voice
responded to her knock, and throwing open the door the two girls
stepped inside. The belligerent freshman sat bolt upright in a Morris
chair, forbidding and implacable.

"How do you do?" said Grace politely. "I hope we are not intruding."

The young woman merely scowled by way of answer.

"I wonder how I'd better begin," pondered Grace, looking squarely
into the hostile eyes.

Elfreda stood calmly surveying the scowling girl. "You might ask us
to sit down," she observed impertinently.

The young woman glanced at the stout girl with an expression of
angry amazement. Elfreda's rudeness was equal to her own.

"I beg your pardon," she said satirically. "Won't you be seated?"

"Oh, no, I just wanted to hear you say it," flung back Elfreda.

Ignoring this retort, Miss Atkins turned to Grace. "What do you
wish?" she asked with cold precision.

"I am sorry to be obliged to tell you that if you do not allow Miss
Taylor to occupy her half of the room, you are likely to be asked to
leave Wayne Hall," said Grace gravely. "Mrs. Elwood was displeased
over what happened last night, and I know that when she learns of
what has happened to-day she will not overlook it. We do not wish to
see you leave Wayne Hall, and besides, the various college houses are
filling fast. You might have difficulty in securing a desirable room
elsewhere."

"Is there any reason why I should not occupy this room alone?"

"None whatever, if you arranged for a single beforehand," interposed
Elfreda shrewdly. "If you did, I can't see why Mrs. Elwood consented
to take Miss Taylor."

"I did not arrange for a single room," was the stiff response.

"Then you haven't any case, have you?" queried Elfreda cheerfully.
"Now, see here. I am going to tell you a few things. You are
beginning all wrong. It is just what I did last year, and I had a
pretty disagreeable time, you may rest assured. The best thing you
can do is to tell Miss Taylor to come and claim her half of the room
before anything happens to you. If you leave Wayne Hall, sooner or
later the whole college will hear of it and it won't help you to be
popular, either. It is easy enough to do as you please regardless of
whether or not it pleases others, but you are bound to pay for the
privilege. If you don't believe me, just wait and see."

A flush mounted to the defiant stranger's cheeks.

"Public opinion is usually a matter of small importance to me," she
said, but her tone of lofty indifference was not convincing. "There
is, however, a certain amount of wisdom in what you have just said.
I should not care to appear ridiculous in the eyes of the really
important students at Overton. You may inform Miss Taylor that I have
altered my decision. I shall raise no further objections to her as
a roommate."

With a pompous gesture of dismissal this self-centered young woman
rose and walked majestically to the window. Turning her back squarely
upon Grace and Elfreda, she appeared to be deeply absorbed in
watching what went on in the street, and, divided between vexation
and laughter, the two girls left the room. Elfreda hurried back to
her unpacking and Grace to her own room.

"It is all right, Miss Taylor. Your roommate is prepared to receive
you," Grace announced.

"I shall be glad to have some place I can call all my own," sighed
the little girl, "but I know I shall never like her," she added
resentfully.

"On the contrary, you may learn to like her very much," returned
Grace. "Now I'll help you with your things." Picking up Miss Taylor's
heavy suit case, Grace escorted her to the door of the end room.

"How did it happen?" greeted Anne, when five minutes later Grace
returned alone, smiling and triumphant.

"Don't ask me," laughed Grace. "Ask Elfreda. She wrought the miracle."

"What did she do?" asked Anne.

"She won the day, or rather the half of the room, by plain
speaking." Grace recounted to Anne what had taken place in the
belligerent young woman's room. "She made more impression on the
Anarchist in five minutes than I could have made in a week," finished
Grace.

"Elfreda has a remarkable personality," was Anne's thoughtful
answer. "Her very frankness makes an impression where diplomacy
counts for little. However, I am not surprised that history repeated
itself so soon. I hope this is the last time we shall be obliged to
thwart the Anarchist and administer justice to the oppressed.

"I don't envy Miss Taylor," said Anne. "I wish every girl in college
had as nice a roommate as I have."

"Beware of flatterers," laughed Grace.

"And also of Anarchists," added Anne.

"But of the two," smiled Grace, "I prefer flatterers, especially if
they happen to occupy the other half of my room."




CHAPTER VI

ELFREDA MAKES A RASH PROMISE


"How does it feel to be a senior, Mabel?" questioned Miriam Nesbit,
glancing smilingly over where Mabel Ashe, gowned smartly in white,
her brown eyes dancing with interest in what went on about her, sat
eating her dessert, and obligingly trying to answer half a dozen
questions at once.

The seven other girls at the table looked expectantly at the pretty
senior, who was their hostess at a dinner given by her at Martell's
that Saturday evening.

"Oh, just the same as it did last year," she replied lightly. "I
feel vastly older and a shade more responsible. To tell you the
truth, I hate to think about it. I don't know how I am ever going to
get along without Overton. I think I shall have to disguise myself
and come back next year as a freshman; then I could do the whole four
years over again."

"The question is, What are we going to do next year without you?"
remarked Grace mournfully.

"Let us forget all about it," advised Mabel. "I refuse to have any
weeps at my dinner. You may shed your tears in private, but not here."

"What are you going to do when you finish college?" asked Miriam
Nesbit.

"You girls will laugh when I tell you," replied Mabel solemnly, "but
really and truly there is only one thing I care to do. I have warned
Father that I intend to be self-supporting, but I haven't dared to
tell him how I propose to earn my living."

"What are you going to do? Tell us, Mabel. We won't tell."

"Frances knows already. She thinks it would be fine, don't you,
Frances?"

Frances nodded emphatically.

"I hope to become a newspaper woman," solemnly announced Mabel.

"A newspaper woman!" cried Constance Fuller. "Why, I think that
would be dreadful!"

"I don't," stoutly averred Mabel. "I'd love to be a reporter and go
poking into all sorts of places. After a while I'd be sent out to
write up murder trials and political happenings and, oh, lots of big
stories." Mabel beamed on her amazed audience.

"I never would have believed it of you, but I'm sure you could do
it," predicted Leona Rowe confidently.

"Good for you!" cried Mabel, leaning across the table to shake hands
with Leona. "I have one loyal supporter at least."

Mabel's declaration having brought to the minds of the little
company the fact that sooner or later the choice of an after-college
occupation would be necessary, a brisk discussion began as to what
each girl intended to do. Aside from Anne, who had fully determined
to stick to her profession, and Constance, who was specializing in
English, with the intention of one day returning to Overton as an
instructor, no one at the table had a very definite idea of her
future usefulness.

"We seem to be a rather purposeless lot," remarked Miriam Nesbit.
"The trouble with most of us is that we are not obliged to think
about earning our own living after we leave college. We look forward
to being ornaments in our own particular social set, but nothing
more. I'm not sure, yet, what I am going to do with my education. I
intend to put it to some practical use, though."

"So am I," agreed Grace. "We'll just have to keep on doing our best
and find ourselves."

"I suppose that is the real purpose of going to college," said Anne
thoughtfully.

"I think we are all growing too serious," laughed Mabel. "By the
way, Grace," she went on, "who is that curious looking little
freshman with the perpetual scowl that lives at Wayne Hall!"

The four Wayne Hall girls exchanged significant glances.

"Stop exchanging eye messages and tell me," ordered Mabel.

"Her name is Atkins," returned Grace briefly. Then a peculiar look
in her eyes caused Mabel to say hastily, "I just wondered who she
was," and changed the subject.

As they left Martell's, walking two by two, Mabel fell into step
with Grace. Slipping her arm through that of the Oakdale girl, she
said in a low tone, "Come over to see me to-morrow evening. I have
something to say to you. I almost said it before the girls; then I
caught your warning look in time. Come to dinner to-morrow night and
stay all evening. I promise faithfully to make you study."

"I have a theme to do," replied Grace dubiously. "Do you think there
would be any prospect of my getting it done?"

"Oceans of it," assured Mabel glibly. "I'll be as still as a mouse
while you do it. If you need a subject perhaps I can furnish the
inspiration. As long as I intend to become a newspaper woman I might
as well begin to sprout a few ideas."

"All right, I'll come," laughed Grace. "Did I tell you I was taking
chemistry this year? I find it very absorbing."

"I liked it, too," agreed Mabel. "I am more interested in
psychology, though I like my essay and short story work best of all.
I'm going in for interpretative reading, too. All that sort of thing
will help me in my work when I leave here."

"I wish I knew what I wanted to do," sighed Grace. "I'd love to
begin to plan about it now."

"It will dawn upon you suddenly some day," prophesied Mabel, "and
you will wonder why you never thought of it before."

The diners strolled along together as far as the campus. There,
Constance Fuller, Mabel, Frances and Helen Burton left the quartette
from Wayne Hall.

"It's early yet," said Elfreda, consulting her watch.

"What time is it, Elfreda?" asked Grace.

"Half-past eight," answered the stout girl. "We have plenty of time
to study. I, for one, need it. My subjects are all frightfully hard.
I tried to pick out easy ones, but did you ever notice that the
schedule is so arranged that you can't possibly pick out two easy
subjects and recite them both in the same term? One always conflicts
with the other."

"Long experience, crafty faculty," laughed Miriam. "They know our
weaknesses and how to deal with them."

"The last time we were out to dinner in a body we talked about the
past. This time it was the future," remarked Elfreda. "That reminds
me, what has become of Arline and Ruth? I haven't seen either of them
this week except at a distance."

"Arline and Ruth haven't been on friendly terms since the night of
Arline's dinner at Vinton's," Grace remarked soberly. "It isn't
Ruth's fault. She is heartbroken over the estrangement. This is the
first difference she and Arline have ever had."

"Such a ridiculous thing to quarrel over," sniffed Elfreda. "I could
see that night that Arline was cross because Ruth didn't want to talk
about herself."

"I hope they will be friends again before the reception," said
Grace. "It would be awkward for all of us if they are not."

"Oh, dear," sighed Anne, sitting down on the top step of the
veranda. "I'm too lazy to look at my books to-night." The four girls
had reached Wayne Hall and the beauty of the autumn night made them
reluctant to go into the house, where an evening of hard study
awaited them. "I'd like to stay out here for hours and look at the
stars."

"And have stiff neck and a cold of the fond, clinging type,
tomorrow," jeered Elfreda.

"How disgustingly practical you are, Elfreda!" exclaimed Miriam.

"I'm only warning her," persisted Elfreda.

"It doesn't seem as though we'd been back at Overton for three
weeks, does it?" asked Grace.

"It seems longer than that to me," said Miriam Nesbit. "The freshman
dance happened ages ago, according to my reckoning, and nothing,
absolutely nothing, has happened since."

"Never mind, it won't be long until the sophomore reception,"
comforted Grace. "I never suspected that you had such a rabid craving
for excitement, Miriam."

"The freshman dance was a tame affair," averred Miriam. "I think our
class was more interesting in its infancy than is this year's class."

"I think so, too," agreed Grace. "Still, we don't know what genius
lies hidden in the bosoms of 19--'s freshmen."

"This year we shall be the hostesses," exulted Elfreda. "Who are you
girls going to invite?"

"I'll ask Miss Taylor," volunteered Anne.

"I'll ask Miss Wilton," said Miriam.

"That's two from Wayne Hall," counted Anne. "There are two freshmen
left."

"One of us could invite that nice tall girl, Miss Evans," planned
Grace. "That leaves only one girl uninvited." She hesitated. Her
three friends read the meaning of the hesitation. Elfreda sprang
loyally into the breach.

"I'll ask Miss Atkins," she declared stoutly. "You notice, don't
you, that I am not addressing her by her pet name? I'll conduct her
to the reception and back, if she'll accept my manly arm, and buy her
flowers into the bargain. So go ahead and invite Miss Evans, Grace."

"J. Elfreda Briggs, you can never manage that Miss Atkins,"
protested Miriam. "In the first place, she won't accept you as an
escort, and if she should happen to do so, it will be a sorry evening
for you."

"I'll take the risk," replied Elfreda confidently. "I managed her
once before, didn't I? You girls go ahead and invite the others.
Leave Miss Atkins to me. I'll escort her in triumph to the reception,
or perish gallantly in the attempt."

"Do you really believe she will accept your invitation, Elfreda?"
asked Grace doubtfully.

"I can tell you better after I have asked her," was Elfreda's
flippant retort. "I have an idea that she will feel dreadfully hurt
if no one asks her to go."

"Hurt!" exclaimed three voices in unison.

"Yes, hurt," repeated Elfreda. "The Anarchist isn't half so savage
as she pretends to be. That blood-thirsty manner of hers isn't real.
She puts it on to hide something else."

"But what is it she wishes to hide?" asked Miriam. "Your deductions
are quite beyond us."

"If I knew I'd tell you. I don't pretend to understand her, but I
can see that she isn't as fierce as she seems. Time and I will solve
the riddle, and when we do you'll be the first to hear of it."




CHAPTER VII

GIRLS AND THEIR IDEALS


Directly after her last class the next day, Grace hurried to her
room to change her gown. She looked forward with eager pleasure to
her evening with Mabel Ashe. She was deeply attached to the pretty
senior, who was the best-liked girl in college, and Grace could not
help feeling a trifle proud of Mabel's frank enjoyment of her
society. Anne, knowing Grace was to be away, had accepted an
invitation to go down to Ruth Denton's little room, help her cook
supper, and spend the evening with her.

"Oh, dear," sighed Grace, as she tried vainly to reach the two hooks
of her dark blue charmeuse gown that seemed only a sixteenth of an
inch out of reach, "I wish Anne were here. I can touch these two
hooks with the ends of my fingers but I can't fasten them. I'll have
to ask Mabel to hook me up when I get to Holland House." Giving up
in disgust, Grace slipped into her long, blue serge coat, carefully
adjusted her new fall hat that she had just received from home, and
catching up her gloves ran downstairs.

Mabel Ashe's graceful, welcoming figure leaning over the baluster
waiting for her was the first thing that attracted her attention as
she stepped inside the hall at Holland House.

"Come right up," invited Mabel. "We'll have a little while together
before dinner. Did you bring your notebook?"

"Yes," replied Grace. "Remember, you are to help me choose a subject
for my theme. You volunteered, you know."

"Not until after dinner, though, if you don't mind. Sit down here
and be comfy. This is my pet chair, but I insist on letting you have
it because you are company." She gently pushed Grace into a roomy
leather-covered armchair. Seating herself opposite Grace, Mabel fixed
her brown eyes almost gravely on her. "Now, Grace," she said
earnestly, "please tell me about this Miss Atkins of Wayne Hall."

"There isn't much to tell," replied Grace. "Did you ever see her?"

"Once."

"We had a little trouble with her our very first day back,"
continued Grace. "She took possession of our room and refused to give
it up. Then when Mrs. Elwood came to our rescue, she went to the room
that had been assigned to her like a lamb. She felt anything but
lamblike toward me, you may believe, and when later Mrs. Elwood
brought up her new roommate, she refused to allow her to enter."

"Refused to allow her to enter," repeated Mabel wonderingly. "What
sort of girl is she, Grace?"

"I don't know," answered Grace doubtfully. "She is an enigma. She
speaks the most precise English, with absolutely no trace of slang.
But she looks as though the whole world were her natural enemy.
Elfreda named her the Anarchist. I am rather ashamed to say we call
her that behind her back."

Mabel smiled slightly, then asked, "What did the girl do--the one
she wouldn't room with, I mean?"

"She went downstairs to wait for Mrs. Elwood. The reason I know all
about it is because I happened to hear her tell Miss Taylor, that's
the freshman's name, that she would have to go elsewhere. I knew Mrs.
Elwood was out, so I went down to see if there were anything I could
do for her, and she told me all about it. I knew Mrs. Elwood would
be out of patience with Miss Atkins and ask her to leave Wayne Hall."
Grace paused.

"What happened next?" asked Mabel interestedly.

"I told Miss Taylor I would try to fix things for her. I went
upstairs and plotted with Elfreda. Then she and I bearded the dragon
in her den. After I had finished telling her that it would be better
to take little Miss Taylor without further bickering, Elfreda rose
to the occasion and gave her a much-needed lecture. She is very shrewd,
I think. She evidently realized she had gone too far. She objected
to Miss Taylor because it is her nature to object to everything. When
she saw that we had taken up the cudgels in Miss Taylor's behalf, and
that she was likely to get into hot water, she decided to accept her
as a roommate without further opposition. That's the whole story."

"She must be eccentric and very disagreeable," commented Mabel.
"What made you go to such pains to save her from the wrath of Mrs.
Elwood?"

"I suppose I felt sorry for her," confessed Grace. "She is beginning
her freshman year in the worst possible spirit. But as I said to the
girls not long ago, we do not know what lies back of her disagreeable
manner. Why are you so interested in hearing about her, Mabel?"

"She is making herself the subject of considerable censure among the
juniors and seniors by snubbing the girls of her own class and calmly
announcing that she wishes to make only powerful and influential
friends in college," returned Mabel. "You know, of course, the
attitude of the old students toward freshmen. This Miss Atkins is
either laboring under the impression that she is an exception to
tradition, or else she has no sense of the fitness of things. At
first, I am sorry to say, a few of the seniors looked upon her as a
joke, but the reaction has set in, and, like Humpty Dumpty, she is
going to take a great fall. When she does, all the king's horses and
all the king's men won't be of any assistance to her in getting her
back from where she tumbled. I don't believe she realizes that she
is making herself ridiculous.

"I was at Vinton's last Saturday afternoon. Jessie Meredith invited
another senior and me to luncheon there. Imagine our surprise when
a prim, precise little figure marched up to our table and seated
herself as calmly as though she were the president of the senior
class. There is room for four at those tables, you know, and we had
not reserved ours. Still, there were plenty of other tables at which
she might have seated herself. It was rather embarrassing for all of
us, but it was worse when she tried to break into the conversation.
She insisted on expounding her views on whatever we discussed. We
were compelled to cut short our luncheon and flee to Martell's for
our dessert. We escaped at the moment the waitress was serving her
luncheon, so she couldn't very well rise and pursue us. If I had been
alone, I might have stayed, but Jessie was disgusted, and I was
Jessie's guest."

Grace had listened to Mabel's recital with troubled eyes. "I never
before knew a girl quite like Miss Atkins," she said slowly. "What
is it you wish me to do for her, Mabel?"

"Wise young sophomore," laughed Mabel. "How did you guess it?"

"You are not given to footless gossip," replied Grace quietly.
"Besides, I live at Wayne Hall."

"Cleverer and cleverer," commented the senior, in mock admiration.
"This is my idea. I had hoped that, being in the same house with her,
you might be able to guide her gently along the beaten trail made by
girls like you. However, after what you have told me, I am afraid you
are not the one to do it."

"I haven't a particle of influence with her," said Grace soberly.
"You must know that from what I have already told you."

"Yes, I do know it," answered Mabel. "Is there any one at Wayne Hall
who would be likely to have the right kind of influence?"

"No-o-o." Grace shook her head doubtfully. Then she suddenly
brightened. "There is one person who might help her. Elfreda is going
to invite her to the sophomore reception. She doesn't wish to do it,
I know, although she hasn't said so. Please don't think me conceited,
but Elfreda would do anything for me. She fancies herself under
obligation to me on account of what happened last year," Grace added
in an embarrassed tone.

"Grace Harlowe!" exclaimed Mabel delightedly, "I believe we have
solved our problem. J. Elfreda is the very one to make Miss Atkins
wake up to what is expected from her at Overton. Will you talk with
her about it, and ask her if she is willing to try?"

"I'll tell her tonight," promised Grace. "I'm sure she'll try. She
is not afraid to tackle Miss Atkins, either, or she wouldn't have
invited her to the reception."

"Then that's settled for the time being at least," declared Mabel
jubilantly. "Just in time for dinner, too. There goes the bell."

After dinner more conversation followed. It was eight o'clock before
Grace remembered her theme. "What shall I write about?" she demanded.
"You promised to supply the inspiration."

"So I will," returned Mabel cheerfully. "Why don't you write about--"
She paused, frowning slightly. "After all my vaunted promises I'm
not able to suggest anything on the spur of the moment," she
confessed laughingly. "Why don't you take some incident in your own
life or that of your friends and write a story about it?" she
proposed after a moment's silence.

"I don't believe I could ever write a story," confessed Grace. "I
think I'll write a little discussion about girls and their ideals."

"That sounds interesting," commended Mabel. "Go ahead with it. You
may sit at this table, if you like."

Grace seated herself, nibbled at the end of her fountain pen
reflectively, then began to write. Mabel busied herself with her own
work. At last Grace shoved aside the closely written sheets of paper.
"It's done," she cried, in a triumphant voice. "Now we can talk."

"May I read it?" asked Mabel.

"Of course, if you wish to," laughed Grace. "It isn't worth the
trouble, though."

Mabel picked up the theme and began to read. Grace rose, and
strolling over to the bookcase fell to examining the various
bindings. Her friend's flattering comment, "It's splendid, Grace. I
had no idea you could write so well," caused her to look up in
surprise from the book she held in her hand.

"I don't think it is very remarkable," she contradicted. "It hasn't
a shred of literary style."

"It's convincing," argued Mabel.

"That is because I felt strongly on my subject. When it comes to anything
that lies near my heart I am always convincing. Father says I put up the
most convincing argument of any one he knows," smiled Grace. "He always
declares he is wax in my hands. I hope you will make me a visit and meet
my father and mother, Mabel," she added.

"I surely will," promised Mabel. "We must correspond after I leave
college. I wish you could go home with me for one of the holiday
vacations. Can't you manage it?"

"I am afraid not this year," returned Grace doubtfully. "Father and
Mother wouldn't object, but they miss me so during the year that I
feel as though my holidays belonged to them. I am an only child, you
know."

"So am I," returned Mabel. "I am also extremely popular with my
father. If I can tear myself away from him to make you a visit,
surely you ought to be equally public spirited."

"I'll think it over," laughed Grace. "Oh, dear!" she exclaimed a
moment later, glancing at the little French clock on the chiffonier,
"I must go. It is twenty minutes to ten. How the time has slipped
away."

"Thank you," bowed Mabel. "Such appreciation of my society is
gratifying in the extreme. I'll invite you again."

"See that you do," retorted Grace. "Have you any engagement for
Saturday afternoon? If you haven't, then suppose we have luncheon at
Vinton's; then go for a long walk. We can stay out all afternoon,
stop at the tea shop for supper and come home on the street car, or
walk in, if we choose. We might ask Frances and Anne to join us.
Miriam and Elfreda are going out for a ride. Miriam has a horse here
this year. She had her choice between a horse and a runabout and she
took the horse. The moment Elfreda found out she had one, she wrote
home about it. Now she has a riding horse, too."

"I had my own pet mount, Elixir, here during my freshman and
sophomore years. The latter part of my second year I didn't take him
out enough to exercise him. So I ordered him sent home. He is a
beauty. Jet black with a three-cornered white spot in the middle of
his forehead. He's an Arabian, and Father paid an extravagant price
for him. He shakes hands and does ever so many tricks that I taught
him. When you go home with me, you shall see him."

"I'd love to have a riding horse," confessed Grace, "but Father
can't afford it. I've never asked him, but I know he can't. We have
no car either."

"Make me a visit and you can ride Elixir every day," bribed Mabel.

"I'd love that!" exclaimed Grace fervently as she slipped into her
coat and settled her hat firmly on her fluffy hair. "Good night,
Mabel. Come and see me soon. Don't forget our Saturday walk."

"I'll go to the door with you," announced Mabel. "No, I won't forget
our walk. I'll tell Frances about it to-morrow, before she has a
chance to make any other plans. She is a popular young person, and
elusive in the matter of dates."

"There are others," retorted Grace, with a significant glance at her
friend.

"So there are," agreed Mabel innocently.

On the way home Grace wondered if there were any way in which she
might help Laura Atkins. True to her promise, she went at once to
interview Elfreda on the subject of the eccentric freshman. She found
Miriam and the stout girl busily engaged in trying to put together
a puzzle that Elfreda had unearthed in the toy department of one of
the Overton stores that afternoon. Puzzles were the delight of Elfreda's
heart. But, once put together, they immediately ceased to be of
interest.

"This is a wonder!" she exclaimed at sight of Grace. "It is worth
having. Neither Miriam nor I can put it together."

"I have a harder one for you to tackle," smiled Grace. Then she
recounted her conversation with Mabel Ashe.

"You have altogether too much faith in my powers of persuasion,"
grumbled Elfreda, secretly pleased, nevertheless.

"But that is much better than if we had no faith at all," reminded
Grace.




CHAPTER VIII

THE INVITATION


The next morning Grace made a startling discovery. It was directly
after breakfast that she made it. Having fifteen minutes to spare
before going to her first recitation, she decided to reread her
theme. What one wrote always read differently after one had slept
over it. What seemed clever at night might be very commonplace when
read in the cold light of the morning. Grace reached for the book in
which she had placed her theme. It was not there. Going down on her
knees, she looked first under the table, then under the chiffonier,
then turned over the books on the table, then, darting to the closet,
searched the pockets of her long coat.

"Where can it be?" she cried despairingly. "I am sure I had it when
I came into the hall last night. I couldn't have lost it on my way
across the campus. I'll run down and ask Anne. Perhaps she picked it
up and put it away for me."

Grace hurried downstairs as fast as her feet would carry her. To her
low inquiry in Anne's ear she received a disappointing answer. Anne,
who was just finishing her breakfast, replied that she had not even
seen the theme. She rose at once to accompany Grace upstairs. The two
girls searched in every nook and corner of the room. "I wanted to
hand it in this morning," lamented Grace. "Now I'll have to write it
all over again. I don't believe I can remember much of it, either.
I'll have to explain to Miss Duncan, too, and ask her to give me
until tomorrow to write it."

"Perhaps it will be found yet," comforted Anne.

"No danger of it, unless I lost it in the street. Then there's only
one chance in a thousand of its turning up," declared Grace gloomily.
"I don't see how I happened to be so careless."

"When must it be handed in?" questioned Anne.

"This morning," answered Grace dolefully. "I'll have to re-write it
to-night and from memory, too."

"Why don't you choose another subject?" was Anne's advice.

"No." Grace shook her head positively. "I can do better with the old
one. I'm not going to bother about asking if any one has found it.
My name was on it. If I made a fuss over it some one might say it was
only an excuse, that I hadn't really lost it, but just wished to gain
time. I hope Miss Duncan won't think that."

"No one in this house would say so," contradicted Anne loyally.

"But suppose Alberta Wicks or Mary Hampton heard of it? They might
circulate that rumor. I hate to seem so suspicious, but an ounce of
prevention, you know. I will write it over and say nothing further
about it." Having made up her mind on the subject Grace promptly
dismissed it from her thoughts.

Miss Duncan did look rather suspiciously at Grace as she related her
misfortune. Grace's gray eyes met hers so fairly and truthfully,
however, that she was forced to believe the young woman's statement.
She gave the desired respite rather ungraciously and Grace took her
place in class, relieved to think she had got off so easily. That
night she rewrote the theme. It did not give her as much trouble as
she had anticipated. She laid down her fountain pen with alacrity
when it was finished and carefully blotted the last sheet. "Now I can
begin to think about the reception," she announced. "What are you
going to wear, Anne?"

"My new pink gown," said Anne promptly. "As long as I was
extravagant enough to indulge in a new evening dress I might as well
wear it. The sophomore reception is really the most important affair
of the year, to us, at least."

"I'm delighted to have an opportunity to show off my pale blue
chiffon frock," laughed Grace. "I've been in ecstasies over it ever
since it was made. Have you seen that white gown of Elfreda's? It's
perfectly stunning. I stopped in her room for a minute last night.
She was trying it on. It's the prettiest gown she's had since she
came here. Ask her to show it to you."

"I'm going over there now," said Anne. "I'll be back in a minute."
It was precisely four minutes later when Anne poked her head in
Grace's door. "Come on into Miriam's room, Grace," she called. "She
has just made chocolate. She has some lovely little cakes and
sandwiches, too. And Elfreda has something to tell us."

Grace rose from her chair, lay down the notebook she had been
running through, and hastily followed Anne.

"Have a cushion," laughed Miriam hospitably, throwing a fat sofa
pillow at Grace, who caught it dextrously, patted it into shape and,
placing it on the floor, sat down on it Turk fashion. Elfreda poured
another cup of chocolate, then seated herself on the floor beside
Grace. "Pass Grace the sandwiches, Anne," she ordered. "We made these
ourselves. We bought the stuff at that new delicatessen place on High
Street."

"They are delicious," commented Grace, between bites. "I'm hungry
to-night. I didn't like the dinner very well."

"Neither did we," responded Miriam. "After dinner we went out for a
walk to see what we could find, and we brought back what you see
spread before you."

"I shall pay a visit to the delicatessen shop," announced Grace.
"To-morrow night you must come to my room for a spread."

"I'll come to your room with pleasure," retorted Elfreda, "but not
to eat. One spread a week is my limit. Now for my news. The Anarchist
has accepted my invitation to the reception."

"Really!" exclaimed Grace. "Do tell us about it, Elfreda."

"I delivered my invitation after dinner tonight," began Elfreda. "I
waited and waited, thinking some one else might invite her. I am not
yearning for the honor, you know. I went to her door and knocked. Her
roommate, Miss Taylor, opened it. The Anarchist sat over in one
corner of the room, studying like mad. By the way, I understand she
is a dig and stands high in her classes."

"Is she?" asked Anne, opening her eyes. "Then that is one thing she
has in her favor. Perhaps we shall discover other good qualities in
her that we've overlooked."

"Perhaps," echoed Miriam dryly.

"Mustn't interrupt me," drawled Elfreda. "I may become peevish and
refuse to talk."

"All right," smiled Grace. "We accept the warning. Continue, my dear
Miss Briggs."

Elfreda grinned cheerfully. "I inquired with deferential politeness
if Miss Atkins were busy. Then the Anarchist looked up from her book,
glared like a lion, straightened her eyebrows and said in that awful
voice she owns, 'Did you wish to speak to me?'"

Elfreda unconsciously imitated the belligerent freshman. Her
audience giggled appreciatively.

"I replied in my most impressive English that I did wish to do that
very thing," continued Elfreda. "Then I inquired tactfully if I was
too late with my invitation to the sophomore dance. Without giving
her time to answer I put in my application for the position of escort.
Then"--Elfreda paused, a slight flush rose to her round face, "then
she looked me in the eye and told me a deliberate untruth. She said
she had refused one invitation because she had not been interested
in the reception, but that she had changed her mind. She thanked me
and said she would be pleased to go. I bowed myself out without further
ado, but Miss Taylor gave me the queerest look as I went. Her face
was as red as fire. It was she who told me that the Anarchist had not
been invited. She was afraid I might think she hadn't told the truth,
but I knew better. Now, don't ever tell any one what I have said."

"I'm sorry she didn't tell the truth," said Grace disapprovingly.
"Why couldn't she say that she had not been invited?"

"False pride," commented Miriam. "She evidently isn't so indifferent
to the opinion of others as she would have us believe."

"She is a strange girl," mused Anne. "Perhaps she is not altogether
to blame for her odd ways."

"'Odd' is a good name for them," jeered Elfreda. "I wouldn't call it
'odd,' I'd use a stronger word than that. It's contemptible. I'm
sorry I asked her to go to the reception."

"Then recall your invitation and tell her your reason for doing so,"
advised Miriam Nesbit bluntly. "Don't take her to the reception in
that spirit. You will make yourself and her equally unhappy."

"Hear the sage lay down the law," retorted Elfreda impudently.
"She's right, though, only I won't withdraw my invitation at this
late date. I'll try to give the Anarchist the most exciting time of
her young life, but if she balks please don't blame me. You can lead
an Anarchist to a reception, you know, but you can't make her dance
unless she happens to feel like dancing. Still, I am going to do my
best, and no sophomore can do more."

"That sounds like the Elfreda Briggs I heard talking last night,"
said Grace, smiling her approval of the stout girl's words.

"So it does," agreed Elfreda. "Hereafter I'll try to be more
consistent. As for the Anarchist, she shall reap the benefit of my
vow. I hope she knows how to dance. If she doesn't I shall have to
constitute myself a committee of one to furnish amusement for her.
If on the fatal night you see me, my arm firmly linked in that of her
majesty, parading solemnly about the gymnasium with a fixed smile,
and an air of gayety that I am a long way from feeling, don't you
dare to laugh at me."

"We won't laugh at you, then, even though we can't help laughing at
you now," said Grace. "We shall be only too glad to do anything we
can to help you entertain her."

"I know that. Maybe you can help and maybe you can't. But if she
doesn't enjoy herself it won't be my fault."




CHAPTER IX

ANTICIPATIONS


The day of the sophomore reception was a busy one for the members of
the sophomore class. To them, it was the event of the year, and the
desire to make this dance outshine all its predecessors was paramount
in almost every sophomore breast. Of course, there were the digs, who
never thought of festivities, but spent all their time in study. No
one counted on their help. The greater part of the class, however,
was properly enthusiastic over the music, decorations, gowns and
dance cards. Grace and Miriam, who were on the decorating committee,
had spent the greater part of their day in the gymnasium. Under the
skilful direction of the committee the big room blossomed out in
strange and gorgeous array. There were the masses of evergreen so
convenient for hiding unsightly gymnasium apparatus, which made the
gymnasium a veritable forest green. Strings of Japanese lanterns
added to the effect, while the freshmen and sophomore colors
impartially wound the gallery railing and were draped and festooned
wherever there was the slightest chance for display.

The sophomores had put forth their best efforts in behalf of their
freshman sisters. When it came to sofa cushions and draperies they
had surrendered their most highly treasured possessions for the good
of the cause.

"I think we may congratulate ourselves," commented Gertrude Wells as
she stood beside Miriam Nesbit, surveying their almost completed
task. "Look at my hands! I have scratched and bruised them handling
those evergreens. My dress is a sight, too," she added, pointing
first to the green stains that decorated her white linen gown, then
significantly to a three-cornered tear near the bottom of the skirt.
"I don't care. It will be out of style by next summer, at any rate."

"I'm not much better off," declared Miriam. "You can't be a working
woman and keep up a bandbox appearance, you know."

"I should say not," laughed Arline Thayer, who had come up in time
to hear Miriam's last remark.

"Does any one know the time?" asked Grace, standing back a little to
view the effect of the bunting she had been winding about a post. "I
can't see the gym. clock from here. It is so swathed in green boughs
and decorations that its poor round face is almost hidden, and I'm
really too tired to go close enough to find out."

"It's five minutes past four o'clock," informed Gertrude, glancing
at the tiny watch pinned to her waist.

"Good gracious!" exclaimed Arline Thayer, "I can't stay here another
minute. I have a hundred things to do before to-night."

"Where's Ruth?" asked Grace. "I haven't seen either of you lately
except at an aggravating distance."

Arline's baby face hardened. "I haven't seen Ruth for over two
weeks," she said stiffly.

"You haven't!" exclaimed Grace, who, stooping to tie her shoe, had
not noticed Arline's changed expression. As she straightened up her
surprised gray eyes met Arline's defiant blue ones. Like a flash she
remembered. "Then you don't know who she has invited to the reception?"

"No," responded Arline shortly. "I don't know anything about it."

Grace was about to say something further when, overtaken by sudden
thought, she turned her face away to hide the smile that hovered
about her lips. Meanwhile, Gertrude Wells had engaged Arline in
conversation, and Ruth's name was not mentioned again.

"This is positively my last appearance this afternoon as a
decorator," declared Emma Dean. "I'm going home to beautify myself
for the great moment when I shall stand in line with my sophomore
sisters to greet the infant freshmen."

"I'm going home, too, but without bursting into language," drawled
J. Elfreda Briggs. "I pounded my thumb with a hammer, scratched my
nose on an obstinate hemlock bough, and lost a bran span new pair of
scissors. I think it is high time to leave this place. I'm not on the
reception committee, 'tis true, but I have weighty matters to
consider and am on the verge of a perilous undertaking." She uttered
the last words in an all too familiar undertone, shooting a
mischievous glance at her friends which caused Grace, Anne and Miriam
to laugh outright.

"What are you girls laughing at?" demanded Gertrude Wells.

"Elfreda is so funny," explained Grace enigmatically. Then, fearing
to offend Gertrude, she said hastily, "What she said was extremely
laughable to us, because she was imitating some one we know."

The knot of girls separated soon after, going their separate ways.
Anne, Grace, Miriam, Elfreda and Emma Dean turned their faces toward
Wayne Hall.

"I wonder if Ruth is going?" remarked Grace, who walked behind Anne.
"I thought we'd see her this afternoon."

"I noticed how sharply Arline answered you," said Anne significantly.

"Poor Ruth, I haven't a minute to spare or I'd run down there. We
must go to-morrow afternoon, Anne. We'll take Ruth to Vinton's for
dinner and, oh, Anne! let's invite Arline and make them be friends!"

"Splendid!" admired Anne. "I'll take charge of Ruth and you can look
out for Arline."

"If you don't hurry, you'll be ready for the reception some time
to-morrow," called Elfreda derisively. The two quickened their steps.
The three girls ahead looked back, then mischievously began
running toward Wayne Hall.

"We can catch them, Anne," exulted Grace.

"You mean you can," laughed Anne. "Run ahead and surprise them."

Grace was off like the wind. Although the three girls ran well they
were no match for the lithe, slender young woman who ran like a
hunted deer. She soon passed her friends and running on to the hall
sat down on the steps with no apparent traces of exhaustion to wait
for them.

"Let me see, what track team did you say you belonged to?" quizzed
Elfreda, with open admiration. "If I could run like that I'd be
happy. Where did you learn to run?"

"Back in Oakdale, where I was the prize tomboy of the school,"
laughed Grace. "Have you seen to your flowers for your freshman? I
ordered pink roses for Miss Evans. Anne chose violets for Miss
Taylor, didn't you, Anne?"

"I ordered violets for Miss Wilton, too," said Miriam.

"I tried to get snap dragons," giggled Elfreda, "but it's rather
late in the season for them. Instead, the Anarchist will flourish a
nosegay of blood-red roses. I can't imagine her parading around the
gym. bedecked with violets."

"Elfreda, you are anything but a chivalrous escort," commented Anne.

"I am at least sincere," returned Elfreda, with an affected simper.
"I hope those flowers haven't loitered along the way. I must call on
my fair lady and see if she has received hers. I'm beginning to feel
excited. I'm going to eat my dinner post haste. I want to get dressed
and practice my bow before the mirror ere I enter the sacred
precincts of her majesty's boudoir. Then I shall sweep into her
domicile, arrayed in all my glory. She will be so overcome at sight
of me and my splendor that she will follow me down to the carriage
like a lamb. I ask you, ladies, after seeing me in that new white
silk gown of mine, what Anarchist could resist me?"

"Of whom did Elfreda remind you just then, Grace?" asked Miriam.

"Hippy," laughed Grace. "She looked exactly like him."

"Never saw him," stated Elfreda laconically.

"But you gave a fine imitation of him just the same!" exclaimed Grace.




CHAPTER X

AN OFFENDED FRESHMAN


At dinner that night excitement reigned. Every girl in the house was
going to the reception. To dispose of one's dinner and hurry to one's
room to begin the all important task of dressing was the order of
procedure, and Mrs. Elwood's flock rose from the table almost in a
body and made a concerted rush for the stairs.

"She got them," Elfreda informed the others as they stopped for a
moment in the hall. "I went to the door to ask her. She even thanked
me for them."

"Wonderful," smiled Miriam. "Come on now. Remember, time flies and
that your new white frock is a dream."

An hour later Elfreda stood before the mirror viewing herself with
great satisfaction. "It certainly is some class," she declared.
"There I go again. I haven't used slang for a week. But circumstances
alter cases, you know. Just pretend you didn't hear it, will you? I
think I'll wear my violets at my girdle. I don't look very stout in
this rig, do I? You look like a princess, Miriam. You're a regular
howling beauty in that corn-colored frock. Where are my gloves and
my cloak? Oh, here they are, just where I put them. Now, I must go
for her highness. Br--r--" Elfreda shivered, giggled, then gathering
up her cloak and gloves switched out the door.

Miriam smiled to herself as she went about gathering up her own
effects, then fastening the cluster of yellow rosebuds to the waist
of her gown she hurried out into the hall in time to encounter Grace
and Anne.

"We are fortunate in that our ladies live under the same roof with
us," laughed Anne.

"It certainly saves carriage hire," returned Grace. "Here comes
Elfreda and Miss Atkins. What on earth is she wearing?"

"I think I'll go for my freshman," said Miriam, her voice quivering
suspiciously.

By the time Elfreda and the Anarchist had reached the head of the
stairs, the three girls had fled precipitately, unable to control
their mirth. Elfreda's face was set in a solemn expression that
defied laughter. As for the Anarchist herself, she might easily have
posed as a statue of vengeance. Her eyebrows were drawn into a
ferocious scowl. She walked down the stairs with the air of an Indian
chief about to tomahawk a victim. Her white silk gown, which was well
cut and in keeping with the occasion, contrasted oddly with her
threatening demeanor, which was enhanced by a feather hair ornament
that stood up belligerently at one side of her head.

"If she wouldn't wear that feather thing she'd be all right,"
muttered Grace in Anne's ear. "She looks like Hiawatha. She has made
up her mind to be nice with Elfreda. She's wearing her flowers. I
wonder if I'd better ask her to dance to-night. Shall you ask her,
Anne?"

"I think so," reflected Anne. "I can't lead very well, but perhaps
she can."

"I don't believe I'll ask her," said Grace slowly. "Humiliating
one's self needlessly is just as bad as having too much pride."

"Hurry," called Miriam, who was already on the stairs. "The
carriages are here."

It was a ridiculously short drive to the gymnasium, but, a fine rain
having set in, carriages for one's freshmen guests were a matter of
necessity. Elfreda and her charge occupied seats in the same carriage
with Anne and Mildred Taylor, who, in a gown of pink chiffon over
pink silk, looked, according to Elfreda, "too sweet to live."

"How are you getting along with Miss Atkins?" asked Grace an hour
later, running up and waylaying Elfreda, who was slowly making her
way across the gymnasium toward the corner of the room where the big
punch bowl of lemonade stood.

"Don't ask me!" returned Elfreda savagely. "I managed to fill her
dance card and supposed everything was lovely. She dances fairly
well. If she'd only keep quiet, smile and dance calmly along. But,
no, she must talk!" Elfreda's round face settled into lines of
disgust. "She says such outrageously personal things to her partners.
I know of three different girls she has offended so far. What will
become of her before the evening is over?" she inquired gloomily.
"She told me I was too stout to dance well, but I didn't mind that.
Stout or not, she will be lucky to have even me to dance with at the
rate she's going. Let's drown our mortification in lemonade."

"Poor Elfreda," sympathized Grace. "I wish I could help you, but,
honestly, I feel as though it would be hardly fair to myself to make
further advances in that direction."

"Don't do it," advised Elfreda, quickly, handing Grace a cup of
fruit lemonade. "I'll manage to steer her through this dance. But
next time some one else may do the inviting. The two classes make a
good showing, don't they?"

"Beautiful," commented Grace. "The gymnasium looks prettier than it
did last year. That sounds conceited, doesn't it?"

"It's true, though," averred Elfreda stoutly. "Doesn't Miriam look
stunning tonight? I think she is the handsomest dark girl I ever saw,
don't you?"

"With one exception," smiled Grace.

"Show me the exception, then," challenged Elfreda.

"I will some fine day," promised Grace. "She's in Italy now."

"You mean the girl you speak of as Eleanor?" asked Elfreda curiously.

Grace nodded. "She is one of my dearest friends and belongs to our
sorority at home. At one time she was my bitterest enemy," she
continued reminiscently. "She was so self-willed and domineering that
none of us could endure her. She entered the junior class in high
school when Miriam, Anne and I did. For a year and a half she made
life miserable for all of us, then something happened and she turned
out gloriously. I'll tell you all about it some other time."

"Was she worse than the Anarchist?" asked Elfreda sceptically.

"There is no comparison," replied Grace promptly. "Still, the
Anarchist may have possibilities of which we know nothing."

"I wish she would give a demonstration of them to-night then,"
muttered Elfreda. "I suppose I'll have to get busy and look her up.
It is dangerous to leave her to her own devices. She may have
offended half the company by this time." Elfreda strolled off in
search of her troublesome charge. Grace crossed the gymnasium, her
keen eyes darting from the floor, where groups of daintily gowned
girls stood exchanging gay badinage, and resting after the last
waltz, to the chairs and divans placed at intervals against the walls
that were for the most part unoccupied.

Everyone seemed to be dancing. Grace remembered with a start that
she had seen nothing of Ruth Denton. She had waved to Arline across
the room on entering the gymnasium, and had not caught a glimpse of
her since. "I must find Ruth," she reflected, "and tell her about
tomorrow. Perhaps Anne has told her. She promised she would." Espying
Mildred Taylor, Grace remembered with sudden contrition that she had
not asked the little freshman to dance. "I suppose she hasn't a
single dance left," murmured Grace regretfully. "At any rate, I'll
ask her now." Approaching Mildred she said in her frank,
straightforward fashion, "I'm so sorry I overlooked you, Miss Taylor.
I intended asking you to dance first of all."

The "cute" little freshman turned her head away from Grace's
apologetic gray eyes. "It doesn't matter," she answered in a queer,
strained voice. "My card was full long ago."

"I hope you are not hurt or offended at my seeming neglect,"
insisted Grace anxiously.

"Not in the least," was the almost curt rejoinder. "I do not think
I shall stay much longer. I have a headache."

"I'm so sorry," said Grace sympathetically. "Can I do anything for
you?"

Mildred Taylor did not answer. Her lip quivered and her eyes filled
with tears. She brushed them angrily away, saying with a petulance
entirely foreign to her, "Please don't trouble yourself about me."

"Very well," replied Grace, in proud surprise. "Shall I tell Miss
Pierson that you are ill?"

"No," muttered Mildred.

Grace walked away, puzzled and self-accusing. "I hurt her feelings
by not asking her to dance," was the thought that sprang instantly
to her mind. Then she suddenly recollected that she had not yet found
Ruth. A little later she discovered her in earnest conversation with
Gertrude Wells at the extreme end of the room.

"Dance this with me, Ruth," called Grace, as she neared her friend.
Ruth glanced at her card. "I have this one free," she said. A moment
later they were gliding over the smooth floor to the inspiriting
strains of a popular two step. Long before the end of the dance they
stopped to rest and talk. "I suppose we ought to devote ourselves
strictly to the freshmen," said Grace. "They all appear to be
dancing, though. Where have you been keeping yourself, Ruth?"

"I've been busy," replied Ruth evasively.

"Will you be too busy to have dinner with us at Vinton's to-morrow
night?" persisted Grace.

"No-o-o," said Ruth slowly. "At what time?"

"Half-past six," returned Grace. "We'll meet you there. I must leave
you now to look after Miss Evans. I brought her here to-night."

It was late when the notes of the last waltz sounded, and still
later when the gay participants left the gymnasium in twos, threes
and little crowds trooping down the broad stone steps to where they
were to take their carriages. The rain was now falling heavily, and
to walk even across the campus was out of the question. Every public
automobile and carriage in Overton had been pressed into service, and
many who had braved the fine rain early in the evening and walked
were obliged to negotiate with the drivers for a return of their
vehicles. The carriages to Wayne Hall carried six girls instead of
four, and the merry conversation that was kept up during the short
drive showed plainly that the evening had been a success. Even the
Anarchist indulged in an occasional stiff remark with a view toward
being gracious. When Elfreda humorously bowed her to her door and
wished her an elaborate good night, an actual gleam of fun appeared
in her stormy eyes, and forgetting her dignity she replied almost
cordially that she had enjoyed her evening.

"I am surprised to think she did after the way she made remarks
about people," commented Elfreda to Miriam, who was busily engaged
in unhooking the stout girl's gown and listening in amusement to
Elfreda's recital. "She has as much tact as a guinea hen. You know
how tactful they are?"

In the meantime Anne and Grace were discussing the night's festivity
in their own room. Grace had slipped into a kimono and stood brushing
her long hair before the mirror. Suddenly she paused, her brush
suspended in the air. "Anne," she said so abruptly that Anne looked
at her in surprise, "did you notice anything peculiar about Miss
Taylor? You were her escort, you know."

"No," responded Anne, knitting her brows in an effort to remember.
"I can't say that I noticed anything."

"Then I am right," decided Grace. "She is angry with me because in
some way I missed asking her to dance."

"She said nothing to me," was Anne's quick reply.

"She is offended, I know she is," said Grace. "I'm sorry, of course.
I didn't pass her by intentionally. I didn't know she was so
sensitive. I think I'll ask her to go to Vinton's for luncheon on
Saturday."

But when Grace delivered her invitation at the breakfast table the
next morning it was curtly refused. Mildred Taylor's attitude, if
anything, was a shade more hostile than it had been the night before.
From her manner, it was evident that the little freshman, whom Grace
had hastened to befriend on that first doleful morning when she found
her roomless and in tears on the big oak seat in the hall, had quite
forgotten all she owed to the girl she now appeared to be trying to
avoid.

Finding her efforts at friendliness repulsed, Grace proudly resolved
to make no more overtures toward the sulking freshman. She had done
everything in her power to make amends for what had been an
unintentional oversight on her part, and her self respect demanded
that she should allow the matter to drop. She decided that if, later
on, Mildred showed a disposition to be friendly, she would meet her
half way, but, until that time came, she would take no notice of her
or seek further to ascertain the cause of her grievance.




CHAPTER XI

THE FINGER OF SUSPICION


That very morning as Grace was about to leave Miss Duncan's class
room she heard her name called in severe tones. Turning quickly, she
met the teacher's blue eyes fixed suspiciously upon her.

"Did you wish to speak to me, Miss Duncan?" Grace asked.

"Yes," answered Miss Duncan shortly. She continued to look steadily
at Grace without speaking.

Grace waited courteously for the teacher's next words. She wondered
a little why Miss Duncan had detained her.

"Miss Harlowe," began the teacher impressively, "I have always
entertained a high opinion of you as an honor girl. Your record
during your freshman year seemed to indicate plainly that you had a
very clear conception of what constitutes an Overton girl's standard
of honor. Within the past week, however, something has happened that
forces me to admit that I am deeply disappointed in you." Miss Duncan
paused.

Grace's expressive face paled a trifle. A look of wonder mingled
with hurt pride leaped into her gray eyes. "I don't understand you,
Miss Duncan," she said quietly. "What have I done to disappoint you?"

Miss Duncan picked up a number of closely written sheets of folded
paper and handed them to Grace, who unfolded them, staring almost
stupidly at the sheet that lay on top. A wave of crimson flooded her
recently pale cheeks. "Why--what--where did you get this?" she
stammered. "It is my theme."

"You mean it is the original from which you copied yours," put in
Miss Duncan dryly. "Is that your handwriting?"

"No," replied Grace, in a puzzled tone.

"Is this your writing?" questioned Miss Duncan, suddenly producing
another theme from the drawer of her desk.

"Yes," was Grace's prompt answer. "I handed it in to you instead of
putting it in the collection box. You remember I told you I had lost
the first one I wrote and asked for more time."

"I remember perfectly," was the significant answer. "Is this theme,"
pointing to the one Grace still held, "the one you say you lost?"

"The one I say I lost," repeated Grace, a glint of resentment
darkening her eyes. "What do you mean, Miss Duncan?"

Her bold question caused the instructor's lips to tighten. "You have
not answered my question, Miss Harlowe," she said icily.

"No, this is not my theme," answered Grace; "that is, it is not in
my handwriting. I do not recognize the writing." Grace ceased
speaking and stared at the theme in sudden consternation. "Some one
found my theme and copied it." Her voice sank almost to a whisper.
A flush of shame for the unknown culprit dyed her cheeks anew.

"It would be better, perhaps," interrupted the teacher sarcastically,
"if you admitted the truth of the affair at once, Miss Harlowe."

"There is nothing to admit," responded Grace steadily, "except that
I lost my theme on the evening I wrote it. When I found it was gone
I came to you at once and asked for another day's time. That same night
I rewrote it as well as I could from memory and handed it to you the
following day."

An ominous silence ensued. Then Miss Duncan said stiffly: "Miss
Harlowe, the young woman who wrote the theme you have in your hand
dropped it into the collection box of another section during the very
evening you would have me believe you were writing it. It was brought
to me early the next morning."

"How do you know that it was dropped into the box the evening
before?" flung back Grace, forgetting for an instant to whom she was
speaking.

"Your question is hardly respectful, Miss Harlowe," returned Miss
Duncan, coldly reproving. "I will answer it, however, by saying that
I sent for the young woman and questioned her regarding the time she
placed her theme in the box, without letting her know my motive in
doing so. Her frank answer completely assured me that she was
speaking the truth. At the same time she explained that she had been
late with her theme on account of mislaying it. She had written it
two days before and placed it in her desk. Then it had mysteriously
vanished and suddenly reappeared in the same pigeonhole in her desk
in which she had placed it. She assured me that directly she found
it she took it to the box. Your theme is so suspiciously similar to
hers that it is hardly possible to believe it to be merely a coincidence.
In the face of the circumstances it looks as though you were the real
offender."

Grace regarded Miss Duncan with mute reproach. She could not at once
trust herself to speak.

"Have you anything to say to me, Miss Harlowe?" was the stern
question.

"Only, that what I have previously said to you is the truth,"
answered Grace, fighting down her desire to cry. Then, seized with
a sudden idea, she said in a tone of subdued excitement, "Will you
allow me to look at that theme again, Miss Duncan?"

Miss Duncan picked up the theme from the desk where Grace had laid
it and handed it to her. A strip of paper had been pasted over the
name in the upper left hand corner. Grace scanned each closely
written page attentively. "This is my theme," she declared finally,
"and I have thought of a way to prove that I wrote it. I did not
steal it from another girl. I would not be so contemptible."

"I shall be very glad to have conclusive proof that you did not,"
commented Miss Duncan rather sarcastically. "Appearances are not in
your favor, Miss Harlowe."

"I am sorry that you doubt my word, Miss Duncan," said Grace with
gentle dignity, "because I am going to prove to you how utterly wrong
you have been in suspecting me of such contemptible conduct. I wrote
this theme in the room of a member of the senior class. She read it
after I had written it. I feel sure that she can identify this as
mine because when I rewrote it I could not remember a word of the
original ending which she had particularly commended. I did the best
I could with it, but it wasn't in the least like the other," Grace
ended earnestly.

"Will you tell me the name of the young woman in whose room you
wrote your theme?" asked Miss Duncan, her stern face relaxing a little.

"It was Miss Ashe," returned Grace frankly.

Miss Duncan raised her eyebrows in surprise. "I should say you had
strong evidence in your favor, Miss Harlowe."

"Will you ask Miss Ashe to come to your room after your last class
to-day, Miss Duncan?" she asked eagerly. "I should like to show her
the theme without explaining anything to her at first. I give you my
word of honor I will say nothing about it to her in the meantime."
Then, realizing that her word of honor was at present being seriously
questioned, Grace blushed painfully.

Miss Duncan, understanding the blush, said less severely, "Very
well, Miss Harlowe." She scrutinized Grace's fine, sensitive face for
a moment, then added, "You may come at the same time if you wish."

Grace brightened, then shook her head positively. "Please let me
come to see you tomorrow morning instead." She wished to give Miss
Duncan perfect freedom to ask Mabel any questions she might find
necessary to ask.

"To-morrow morning, then," acquiesced Miss Duncan graciously.

Grace turned to leave the room. At the door she hesitated, then
walking back to the desk she said almost imploringly: "Please don't
punish the other girl now, Miss Duncan. I do not know who she is, but
I am sure she must have found my theme and copied it on the spur of
the moment. I can't believe that she did it deliberately. If she did,
then being found out by you will be lesson enough for her."

"I have not as yet exonerated you from this charge, Miss Harlowe,"
declared Miss Duncan stiffly, her brief graciousness vanishing like
magic. "If the other girl is to blame, then she must suffer for her
fault. Until I have seen Miss Ashe I shall say nothing. After that
I can not promise."

Grace bowed and left the class room, her feeling toward the unknown
plagiarist entirely one of pity. She had vindicated herself at the
expense of exposing some one else without intent to do more than
assert her own innocence, and she now wondered sadly if there were
not some way in which she might persuade Miss Duncan to change her
mind.

On her way from Miss Duncan's class room that morning Grace found
herself walking directly behind Emma Dean. She was sauntering across
the campus, her near-sighted eyes fixed on a small, hurrying figure
just ahead of her.

"Hello, Grace," was Emma's affable salutation as she turned at the
touch of Grace's hand on her shoulder. "I was watching Miss Taylor.
What a disappointment that girl is. The first week or two after her
arrival at Wayne Hall I thought her delightful, but she has turned
out to be anything but agreeable. She barely nodded to me this
morning. I believe she is developing snobbish tendencies, which is
a great mistake. Deliver me from snobs! We have very few of them at
Overton, thank goodness."

But Grace could not help thinking that somewhere in the college
community lived a girl who possessed a fault far greater than that
of being a snob.




CHAPTER XII

THE SUMMONS


The prospective dinner at Vinton's at which Ruth Denton and Arline
Thayer were to be guests of honor drove the unpleasant incident of
the morning from Grace's mind for the time being. She had determined
to keep her interview with Miss Duncan a secret from her friends. If
it had involved only herself, she might possibly have told Anne of
it, but since it concerned some one else, Grace's fine sense of honor
forbade her making even Anne her confidant in the matter. She could
not help speculating a little concerning the identity of the other
girl. She had not the remotest idea as to who she might be. Whoever
she was, she could not have realized what a dishonorable thing she
had done, was Grace's charitable reflection. She wondered what Mabel
would think when Miss Duncan asked her to identify the theme as the
one Grace had written during that evening in Holland House.

"I'm going to stop thinking of it for the rest of the day," declared
Grace half aloud, as she dressed for dinner late that afternoon. She
started guiltily, glancing quickly to where Anne sat mending a tiny
tear in her white silk blouse. Anne, who was fully occupied with her
mending, made no comment. She was so used to Grace's habit of
thinking aloud that she had no idle curiosity regarding her friend's
thoughts. Whatever Grace wished her to know she would hear in due
season.

"Miriam and Elfreda are not going with us, you know," said Grace as
they were about to leave their room.

"I didn't know it," commented Anne. "Why did they change their minds?"

"Miriam thinks you and I can do more toward restoring peace without
her and Elfreda. She suspects that Ruth will satisfy Arline's
curiosity and at the same time appease her wrath by telling what she
refused to tell that other night, provided there are not too many
listeners."

"What a wise girl Miriam is!" exclaimed Anne admiringly. "I never
thought of that."

"Nor I," admitted Grace, "until she mentioned it. Then I saw the
wisdom of it."

"Where are we to meet Ruth and Arline?" asked Anne. "Suppose both of
them arrive at Vinton's before we do?"

"I thought of that, too," chuckled Grace, "so Arline is to come
here, and Ruth is to wait for us at Vinton's. They can't possibly
meet until we are there to manage matters. Arline ought to be here
by this time. Shall we go downstairs and wait for her?"

"There's the door bell now," said Anne. "That must be Arline."

Her supposition proved correct. Just as they reached the foot of the
stairs the maid admitted the fluffy-haired little girl.

"Hello!" she called merrily. "I'm strictly on time, you see."

"So are we," smiled Anne. "Shall we start at once?"

"Yes, indeed," emphasized Arline. "I'm starved. I wasn't prepared in
Greek to-day, and rushed through my luncheon in order to snatch a few
minutes' study before class. I had my trouble for my pains, too. The
bell rang before it was my turn to recite. Wasn't that fortunate?"

"I should say so," agreed Grace. "If it had been I, Professor Martin
would have called on me first. You were born lucky, Daffydowndilly."

"I don't think so," replied Arline gloomily. "I have all kinds of
miserable, unpleasant things to bother me."

Anne and Grace exchanged significant glances behind the little
girl's back. There was a chance for the success of their scheme.
Arline was evidently unhappy over her cavalier treatment of Ruth.

During the short walk to Vinton's all mention of Ruth's name was
tacitly avoided. Arline chattered volubly about the reception. She
had not enjoyed herself particularly. She had taken a freshman by the
name of Violet Darby, who lived on the top floor of Morton House. She
was considered the freshman beauty.

"Oh, I remember her!" exclaimed Grace. "Gertrude Wells introduced me
to her. I asked for a dance, but her card was full to overflowing.
She is beautiful. She has such wonderful golden hair, and her brown
eyes are in such striking contrast to her hair and fair complexion.
She is awfully popular, I suppose."

"Yes, the Morton House girls are all rushing her. I was surprised to
think she accepted my invitation," returned Arline.

"I don't think that was so very surprising," declared Grace bluntly.
"Arline Thayer is also a Morton House favorite."

"Violet is the reigning favorite just at present," rejoined Arline.
"It's her fatal beauty. She is a very nice girl, though. Not a bit
snobbish or conceited. Everyone in the house likes her. You must
become better acquainted with her."

"Here we are at Vinton's," announced Grace. "I ordered one of the
alcove tables reserved for us."

As they made their way to the alcove a girl rose from her seat in
the shadow to greet them. It was Ruth, and as Arline caught sight of
her her baby face grew dark. "How dared you?" she asked accusingly,
turning toward Grace. "You know we are not friends. I don't wish to
see her. I'm going straight home. I suppose she planned all this. She
has tried to make up with me, but I shall never again be friends with
her."

"Please listen to me, Arline," began Grace, taking the angry little
girl by the arm and pulling her gently toward the alcove. Ruth had
risen from the table, a look of mingled pain and bewilderment on her
face.

"I didn't know Arline was to be here," she said tremulously. "Please
tell her I didn't know it." She turned appealing eyes toward Grace.

"Suppose we sit down at our table and talk over this matter,"
suggested Grace, in her most casual manner. Her calm gray eyes rested
first on Ruth, then traveled to Arline, who hesitated briefly, then
with an angry shrug of her shoulders seated herself in the nearest
chair. Grace motioned Anne and Ruth to their chairs, then seating
herself she said gently: "Now, children, suppose we clear up some of
these doubts and misunderstanding by holding court? I am going to be
the prosecuting attorney. Anne can be the counsel for the defense.
Arline can borrow her first, then Ruth can have her. When all the
evidence is in I shall appoint myself as judge and jury. It means a
great deal of work for me, but the law must take its course. I,
therefore, summon you both into court."




CHAPTER XIII

GRACE HOLDS COURT


In spite of her displeasure, Arline giggled faintly at Grace's
impromptu session of court. Ruth's sad little face brightened, while
Anne listened to her friend with open admiration. She could have
conceived of no surer way to settle the difference that had made them
so unhappy.

"You must remember," Grace said solemnly, "that there can be no
dinner until the court has disposed of its first case. This is a
murder trial, therefore the chief object of the court is to find the
murderer of one friendship, done to death in cruel fashion. I wish
I had Emma Dean's glasses to make me look more imposing. I wonder what
kind of voice a prosecuting attorney would have. Dearly beloved,"
went on Grace impressively, "they don't say that in court, I know,
but then I'm going to be different from most prosecuting attorneys."

"There isn't the least doubt of that," interposed Anne slyly.

"Silence," commanded Grace severely. "I shall have you arrested for
contempt of court. Then there won't be any counsel for the defense.
The first witness, that's you, Arline, will please take the stand.
You needn't really move, you know. We will take a few things for
granted. Sit up straight and be as dignified as possible. Fold your
hands on the table. That's right. Now, state where and when you first
met the defendant. Ruth can be the defendant until I question her.
Then you'll have to play the part."

"Over a year ago, at Morton House," stated Arline obediently.

"What was your opinion of the defendant?"

"I liked her better than any other girl I had ever met," confessed
Arline.

"Defendant number two, what did you think of Arline Thayer?" quizzed
Grace, eyeing Ruth expectantly.

"I liked her as much as she liked me," replied Ruth promptly.

"When did your first disagreement occur?" probed Grace, turning from
Ruth to Arline.

"Here, at this very table," returned Arline in a low tone.

"Whose fault was it?" inquired Grace wickedly.

"Mine!" exclaimed Ruth and Arline simultaneously.

"Thank you," returned Grace soberly. "Such spontaneity on the part
of the defendants is very refreshing. It also simplifies the case and
saves the court considerable trouble. There is hope that the court
will be dismissed in time for dinner. As prosecuting attorney I will
now deliver my charge. I shall have to deliver it sitting down or
attract too much attention to the case. Gentlemen of the jury, you
have heard the evidence. You think, no doubt, that murder has been
done. This is not so. The friendship between Defendant Number One,"
Grace bowed to Arline, "and Defendant Number Two," she made a second
bow to Ruth, "received a blow on the head which rendered it
unconscious for some time. It had no intention of dying, but both
prisoners treated it with extreme cruelty, not allowing it to hold
up its poor crippled head. I ask you, Gentlemen of the jury, to consider
well what shall be the penalty for assaulting and battering
friendship with intent to kill. Gentlemen of the jury, are you ready
for the question?"

"We are," Grace answered for the jury in a deep voice that elicited
little shrieks of laughter from her companions.

"What shall be the fate of these malefactors?" demanded Grace in her
prosecuting attorney voice, after the jury had rendered a verdict of
guilty. "Be deliberate in your decision, but don't be all night about
it."

"They shall be made to shake hands across the table or suffer the
full penalty of the law," stated the judge.

"What is the full penalty of the law?"

"No dinner," was the prompt answer.

"Counsel for the defense, have you anything to say? I should have
asked you before sentence was pronounced, but it doesn't matter. The
prosecuting attorney always tries to fix things to suit himself, no
matter what any one else thinks."

"The counsel for the defense is a mere blot on the landscape in this
trial," jeered Anne.

"How did you guess it?" beamed the prosecuting attorney. "Prisoners,
the sentence will be executed at once. Shake hands."

Ruth's hand was stretched across the table to meet Arline's.

"I'm awfully sorry, Ruth," said Arline, her voice trembling
slightly. "I should never have asked you to tell what you wished to
keep secret."

"And I shouldn't have been so silly as to refuse to tell," declared
Ruth bravely. "I'm going to tell you now, and you mustn't stop me.
I was brought up in an orphan asylum. That's why I didn't care to tell
you about myself that evening."

"You poor, precious dear!" exclaimed Arline. "How can I ever forgive
myself for being so horrid? Won't you forgive me, Ruth? I never
supposed it was anything like that. I was angry because you called
me your best friend, but wouldn't trust me. I'm so sorry. I'll never
speak of it again to you." Arline looked appealingly at Ruth, her
blue eyes misty.

"But I want you to think of it. I had made up my mind to tell you.
Then you passed me on the campus without speaking, and somehow I
didn't dare come near you after that."

"I've been perfectly horrid, I know," admitted Arline contritely.
"I've been so used to having my own way that I try to bend everyone
I know to it."

"I don't mind telling you girls about myself now. At first I was
ashamed of my poverty," confessed Ruth. "After I went to Arline's
beautiful home I hated to say anything about it to any one. Then
Arline grew angry with me. I realized afterward that I had been
foolish not to tell her my story. There isn't much to tell. I was
picked up in a railroad wreck on a westbound train when I was four
years old. I can just remember getting into the train with my mother.
She was burned to death in the wreck, but by some miracle I was
saved. I knew my name, Ruth Irving Denton, my age, and around my neck
mother had tied a little packet containing some money, a letter and
a gold watch. A woman who lived near where the wreck occurred took
charge of me, and as no one came for me, in time I was sent to a
home. I lived there until I was fourteen. The matron was good to us,
and considering we were all homeless waifs we fared very well."

"And the letter?" asked Grace.

"It was from my father to my mother, giving all the directions for
our journey west. With it had been enclosed a money order for four
hundred dollars, which my mother had evidently cashed. I still have
the letter.

"Then a man and his wife took me. They were good to me and sent me
to school. I studied hard and finished high school when I was
seventeen. Then I won a scholarship of one hundred dollars a year.
I was determined to go to college, but the people with whom I lived
thought differently. So I left them a year ago last fall and came to
Overton, resolving to make my own way. They were so angry with me for
leaving them they would have nothing further to do with me. So you
see I had not a friend in the world until I met you girls."

"But you have me now," comforted Arline, patting Ruth's hand. "I'll
never be so silly again. Poor little girl!"

"And you have Anne and me," added Grace. "Don't forget Miriam and
Elfreda, either."

"I am rich in friends now," said Ruth softly.

"Perhaps your father isn't really dead, Ruth!" exclaimed Grace.

"He must be," said Ruth sadly. "I have only one thing that belonged
to him, a heavy gold watch with his full name, 'Arthur Northrup
Denton,' engraved on the inside of the back case. It is a valuable
watch, but I have always declared I would starve rather than part
with it."

"Perhaps it may help you to find him some day," suggested Grace
thoughtfully.

"Don't you know the name of the town in Nevada where he first
lived?" asked Anne.

"He went to Humboldt, and from there into the mountains," replied
Ruth. "Since that time all trace of him has been lost. I never knew
my own story until on the day I became fourteen years of age. Then
the matron told me. It was at the time that I was getting ready to
go to live with the man and his wife of whom I have spoken. After that
it seemed as though the whole world changed for me. I didn't mind
being poor, nor having to work, for I had the glorious thought that
perhaps my father was still alive and that some time I should see him
again. I wrote several letters to him, sending them to Humboldt, but
they always came back to me.

"After a while I gave up all hope and stopped writing. I couldn't
bear to think of having more letters come back unclaimed. I tried to
forget that I had even dreamed of seeing my father again, and began
to put my whole mind on going to college. Now I am so thankful that
I persevered and won the scholarship. There were times when I was very
unhappy over leaving the only home I had ever known, outside the
orphanage. Still I could not rid myself of the conviction that I had
taken a step in the right direction. Later, when I met you girls, I
was sure of it. Even though I didn't find my father, I found true and
loyal friends who have crowded more pleasure and happiness into one
short year than I ever had in all my life before."

"I'll lend you half of my father, Ruth," offered Arline generously.
"He is almost as fond of you as he is of me. You remember he said so."

"Weren't you green with jealousy when he admitted it?" teased Anne.

"Not a bit of it," protested Arline stoutly. "I only wish Ruth were
my sister."

"I'd like to be the one to find Ruth's father," mused Grace.

Anne smiled. "Even college can't uproot Grace's sleuthing
tendencies. She has an absolute genius for ferreting out mysteries."

"No, I haven't," contradicted Grace. "If I had--" she stopped. She
had been on the point of remarking that she would have known who had
stolen and used her theme.

"If you had what?" asked Arline curiously.

"If I had the genius of which Arline prattles, I'd be at the head of
the New York Detective Bureau," finished Grace. And Anne alone knew
that Grace had purposely substituted this flippant answer to conceal
her real thought.




CHAPTER XIV

GRACE MAKES A RESOLUTION


"What do you think has happened?" demanded J. Elfreda Briggs,
bursting into the room where Anne and Grace were busily making up for
lost time. They had lingered at Vinton's until after eight o'clock.
Then the thought of to-morrow with its eternal round of classes had
driven them home, reluctantly enough, to where their books awaited
them. It was almost nine o'clock before they had actually settled
themselves, and Elfreda's sudden, tempestuous entrance caused Anne
to lay down her Horace with an air of patient resignation. "We might
as well begin saying 'unprepared' now, and grow accustomed to the sound
of our own voices," she announced.

"I think so, too," agreed Grace. "Well, Elfreda, why this thusness?
What has happened? Have you been elected to the Pi Beta Gamma, or did
you get an unusually large check from home?"

"Catch the P. B. Gammas troubling themselves about me," scoffed
Elfreda. "As for a check, I've written for it, but so far I've seen
no signs of it. When I do lay hands on it we'll celebrate the event
with feasting and merrymaking."

"Then I can't guess," sighed Grace. "You'd better tell us."

"Well," began Elfreda, her eyes twinkling, "I have a dinner
invitation for to-morrow night at Martell's."

"That is nothing startling," scoffed Anne. "We've just come from
Vinton's."

"But the rest of my news is remarkable," persisted the stout girl.
"I am invited to dine"--Elfreda paused, then finished impressively
--"with the Anarchist."

"You don't mean it!" Grace looked her surprise.

"Of course I mean it," retorted Elfreda. "I wouldn't say so if I
didn't. She delivered her invitation on the way over to chapel this
morning. I'd give you an imitation of the way she did it if I hadn't
accepted."

Grace shot a quick, approving glance toward Elfreda which the latter
saw and interpreted correctly. "I wouldn't have thought about that
last year, would I, Grace?" she asked shyly.

Grace laughed rather confusedly. "How did you guess so much? The way
you stumble upon things is positively uncanny."

"Observation, my dear, observation," returned Elfreda patronizingly.
"One can learn almost everything about everybody if one keeps one's
eyes open."

"You seem to carry out your own theory," admitted Grace smilingly.
"Have you finished your work for to-night?"

"Years ago," declared Elfreda extravagantly. "Miriam hasn't, at
least she was still studying when I left the room. I'll tell you what
I'll do. I'll make some fudge. Mrs. Elwood will let me have some milk
and we have the rest of the stuff in our room. I'll send Miriam in
here. Then I can have the whole room to myself. When it's done, I'll
call you."

With a joyful skip that fairly jarred the furniture in the room
Elfreda bounded through the doorway and vanished. Two minutes later
Miriam appeared, an amused look on her dark face, several books
tucked under one arm. "Driven from home," she declaimed, posing on
the threshold, her free hand appealingly extended. "Will no one help
me?"

"I will." Grace reached forth her hand, dragging Miriam into the
room. "Hurry through your lessons and we'll have a spread. I'm sorry
you weren't with us to-night, but Anne and I weren't sure as to just
how successfully our plan would work. Everything went smoothly,
though." Grace related briefly what had taken place at the dinner.

"I am glad Ruth and Arline settled their differences," commented
Miriam. "We all knew that Arline was at fault. She is such a dear
little thing, one hesitates to say so."

"She was very sweet to-night," interposed Anne. "She asked Ruth's
forgiveness and took the blame for their little coolness on her own
shoulders."

"I don't wish to cause dissension in this happy band, but we really
must stop talking and study," warned Grace. "I haven't made a
satisfactory recitation this week, and I vote for reform."

"All right, my dear Miss Harlowe," flung back Miriam. "'Work, for
the Night is Coming.'"

"You mean going," giggled Anne.

After this interchange of flippant remarks silence reigned, broken
only by the sound of turning leaves or an occasional sigh over the
appalling length of a lesson. The three girls were fully absorbed in
their work when Elfreda poked her head in the room to announce that
the fudge was made. "I've a bottle of cunning little pickles, and a
box of cheese wafers. I made some tea, too. Hurry, or it will be half-past
ten before we have time to eat a single thing."

"I can't possibly finish studying my Latin tonight," sighed Miriam.
"Every day the lessons seem to get longer. Miss Arthur hasn't a spark
of compassion."

"Don't stop to grumble," commanded Elfreda. "Come along."

The half-past ten o'clock bell rang before the fudge was half gone.
In fact, it was after eleven before the quartette prepared for sleep.
During the evening all thought of the troublesome theme had left
Grace's mind. It was not until after she had turned out the light and
gone to bed that it came back to her with such disagreeable force
that for the time being all idea of sleep fled. For the first time
since her entrance into Overton College she had incurred the
displeasure of one in authority over her, and through no fault of her
own.

As Grace lay staring into the darkness the recollection of that
bitter time during her junior year at high school, when Miss Thompson
had accused her of shielding the girl who had destroyed the
principal's personal papers, came back, vivid and complete. Eleanor
Savelli, now numbered among her dearest friends and a member of the
Phi Sigma Tau, had been the transgressor, and Grace had refused to
voice her suspicions. It had all come right in the end, although Miss
Thompson's displeasure had been hard to bear.

Perhaps this affair would end happily, too. Suppose the other girl
had chosen the same subject? Grace gave vent to a soft exclamation
of impatience at her own supposition. She wished she dared believe
that it were so, but common sense told her that she could not hope
to deceive herself by any such delusion.

"Who could the girl be?" Grace asked herself over and over. Surely,
no one of her intimate friends. Nor any girl at Wayne Hall, either.
Whoever was guilty would be severely punished, perhaps sent home.
Overton prided itself on its honor. Its children must be above
reproach at all times. Mabel's evidence would clear her. But what of
the other girl?

"Whoever she is," speculated Grace, "by this time she is probably
sorry for what she did. I suppose she is frightened, too. I'm going
to make Miss Duncan let her off this once, and if I can find out who
she is, I'm going to stand by her so faithfully that she'll never
again care to do a dishonest thing as long as she lives."

It was a long time before Grace fell asleep that night. Her
perturbed state of mind over the stolen theme had served to make her
wakeful, and her thoughts flitted from one subject to another, as she
lay waiting for the sleep that refused to come, always returning,
however, to that of the unlucky theme.

When, at last, it came, it brought disturbing dreams, in which she
figured as the transgressor. The theme did not belong to her, but to
J. Elfreda Briggs. She had stolen it from the pocket of Elfreda's
brown serge coat, and Miss Duncan had seen her take it. During the
morning exercises in the chapel, Miss Duncan had mounted the steps
of the platform, and, standing beside Dr. Morton, had shouted forth
her guilt to the whole college, while she had endeavored to creep out
of the chapel unnoticed.




CHAPTER XV

THE QUALITY OF MERCY


The next morning Grace felt singularly dispirited as she went down
to breakfast. It had been raining, and the dreary outlook caused the
gloomy lines, "The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the
year," to run through her head with maddening persistency.

"What's the matter, Grace?" inquired Emma Dean. "That chief-mourner
expression of yours is doubly depressing on a day like this. Did you
eat too much fudge last night, or have you been conditioned in math?"

"You are a wild guesser, Emma," returned Grace, smiling faintly. "My
troubles are of an entirely different nature. But how did you know
we made fudge last night, and why didn't you come in and have some?"

"I never go where I am not invited," was the significant retort.

"Nonsense!" declared Grace. "You are always welcome, and you know
it. The spread was in Miriam's room, but you know who your friends
are, don't you?"

"Don't worry, I'm not offended," Emma assured Grace good-humoredly.
"I came in just before the ten-thirty bell last night and heard
sounds of revelry as I passed by."

"There's plenty of fudge on our table," put in Miriam Nesbit. "Help
yourself to it whenever the spirit moves you."

"Where is Mildred Taylor this morning?" asked Irene Evans, glancing
toward Mildred's vacant place.

"Miss Taylor is ill this morning," answered a prim voice from the
end of the table.

With one accord all eyes were turned in the direction of the voice.
The Anarchist had actually spoken at the table! It was unbelievable.
What followed was even more surprising. The Anarchist swept the table
with a defiant look, then said, with startling distinctness, "If she
has not fully recovered by tonight I shall send for a physician. In
the meantime I shall remain with her to care for her."

"That is very kind in you, I am sure," ventured Emma Dean. Surprise
had tied the tongues of the others.

"Not in the least," contradicted the Anarchist coldly. "As her
roommate, common humanity demands that I assume a certain amount of
responsibility for her welfare."

"Oh, yes, of course," agreed Emma hastily. "Please let us know when
we may run in to see her. Excuse me, everybody. I must run upstairs
and study a little before going to chapel."

Several freshmen followed her lead and filed decorously out the door
with preternaturally solemn faces that broke into smiles the moment
the door closed behind them.

The Anarchist, however, went on eating her breakfast, quite unaware
that she had created the slightest ripple of amusement. When Elfreda
rose to leave the dining room the strange young woman rose, too, and
walked sedately out of the room in the stout girl's wake.

"Elfreda has evidently made a conquest," remarked Miriam to Grace.
"See how tamely the haughty Anarchist follows at her heels."

"It's astonishing, but splendid, I think," said Grace decidedly.
"Isn't it strange how much influence for good one girl can have over
another? For some reason or other Elfreda knows just how to bring the
best in Miss Atkins to the surface. Shall we run up and see Miss
Taylor for a moment?"

"You go this morning, Grace," urged Miriam. "I'll stop and see her
at noon. I haven't the time just now."

"I'll go with you," volunteered Anne.

Grace knocked gently on the slightly opened door, then, receiving no
answer, opened it softly. She paused irresolutely on the threshold,
Anne peering over her shoulder. Laura Atkins had left the room, but
Mildred Taylor, fully dressed, sat at the window looking listlessly
out. If she heard Grace's light knock she paid no attention to it.
It was not until Grace said rather diffidently, "We heard you were
ill and thought we'd come in to see you," that the girl at the window
turned toward Grace. Her piquant little face was drawn and pale, and
her eyes looked suspiciously red. She eyed Grace almost sulkily, then
said slowly, "It was kind of you to come, but I shall be all right
to-morrow." Under Grace's serious glance her eyes fell, then, to her
visitors' amazement, she burst into tears. Grace crossed the room.
Her arm slid across the sobbing freshman's shoulders in silent
sympathy. "Can't you tell me what troubles you?" she asked softly.

Mildred shook off the comforting arm with a muttered: "Let me alone.
I can't tell you, of all persons. Go away."

"Why can't you tell me?" persisted Grace gently.

"Because I can't. Won't you please go. I don't wish to talk to any
one," wailed Mildred.

Grace walked toward the door, her eyes on the weeping girl. Anne,
who had kept strictly in the background during the little scene,
stepped out into the hall, Grace following.

"That was hardly my idea of a cordial reception," was Anne's dry
comment as they entered their own room.

"That young woman has something on her mind," declared Grace. "Her
illness is not physical. It is mental. Either some one has torn her
feelings to shreds or else she has done something she is ashamed of
and remorse has overtaken her."

"Unless she has had bad news from home or has been conditioned,"
suggested Anne.

"I don't believe it's either," said Grace, shaking her head. "I
believe this is something different. Of late she has been acting
strangely. Ever since the reception she has avoided me. Anne Pierson,
do you see the time? We'll be late for chapel!" gasped Grace in
consternation.

With one accord the two friends gathered up their wraps, putting
them on as they ran.

After chapel Grace left Anne at the door of Science Hall and went on
to Overton Hall. She wished to see Miss Duncan before her first class
recited, and learn the latest developments of her case. Until chapel
exercises were over, Grace had refused to allow her mind to dwell on
her trouble, but now, as she climbed slowly up the broad stairway to
Miss Duncan's class room, the whole unhappy affair rose before her.

Miss Duncan was sitting at her desk as Grace entered. She looked at
her watch, smiled frankly at Grace and said in her usual businesslike
way, "I can give you only ten minutes, Miss Harlowe."

The teacher's friendly tone made Grace's heart leap. She recognized
the fact that Miss Duncan no longer looked upon her with suspicion.

"Your innocence was clearly proven by Miss Ashe," said Miss Duncan
in her blunt fashion, coming at once to the point. "I recognize your
claim to the authorship of the theme. The other young woman was the
real plagiarist. It was a contemptible trick and not in keeping with
Overton standards."

"What will happen to this other girl, Miss Duncan?" asked Grace
apprehensively, her eyes fixed on Miss Duncan.

"What do you think she deserves?" inquired Miss Duncan quizzically.

"A chance to redeem herself," was the prompt reply. "No one except
you knows who she is. I don't wish to know her identity, and I am
sure Miss Ashe doesn't. Couldn't you send for the girl and tell her
that it would be a secret between just you two. That you were willing
to forget it had happened if she were willing to start all over again
and build her college foundation fairly and squarely. It wouldn't be
of any benefit to her to place her fault before the dean. No doubt
she would be dismissed, and that dismissal might spoil her whole life."

"You are an eloquent pleader, Miss Harlowe," returned Miss Duncan.
"As this is strictly an affair of one of my classes, I consider that
I am at liberty to do as I think best about placing this matter
before the dean. If I did see fit to do so I hardly think it would
mean dismissal, particularly if I took you with me to plead the cause
of the offender. Come to me this afternoon after my last class and
I will give you my answer."

Grace left the class room far more cheerfully than she had entered.
Her own vindication had not impressed her half so deeply as Miss
Duncan's apparently lenient attitude toward the girl who had been
false to herself and to Overton.




CHAPTER XVI

A DISGRUNTLED REFORMER


Grace was not disappointed. Miss Duncan graciously agreed to let the
culprit off with a severe reprimand. Grace ran joyfully down the
campus to Holland House. She wished to tell Mabel Ashe the good news.

"Horrid little copy-cat! She doesn't deserve it," was Mabel's
unsympathetic comment as Grace related what had passed between Miss
Duncan and herself. "You know who she is, don't you, Grace?"

Grace shook her head. "I haven't the slightest idea," she said
soberly. "I can't believe it was any one at Wayne Hall. You don't
suspect any one, do you?"

"No," returned Mabel. "I haven't become very well acquainted with
the freshmen this year, so far. I suppose you did right in not
exposing this girl. I don't know whether I should be quite as
charitable as you. If you hadn't had a witness who saw you write the
theme, you would now be under a cloud. What I can't forget is the
fact that she went so far as to try to make Miss Duncan believe that
you really copied it. Miss Duncan said she insisted that the theme
had disappeared from her room. Think how foolish she must have felt
when Miss Duncan confronted her with the truth yesterday afternoon
and made her confess!"

"Oh, Mabel!" Grace's distressed tone caused the pretty senior to
rise and stand in front of Grace's chair.

"What's the matter, Gracie," she said, taking Grace's hands in hers.

Grace raised her gray eyes to meet the inquiring brown ones bent on
her. "I'm so sorry," she said sadly, "but the girl who took my theme
does live in Wayne Hall."

"How do you know?" asked Mabel quickly.

"From what you said," returned Grace. "If she accused me of taking
her theme from her room, isn't it highly probable that her room is
in Wayne Hall? I wouldn't be likely to go into one of the campus houses
to steal a theme, would I? I must have dropped it in the hall or on
the stairs that night, and she must have come into the house directly
after I did and picked it up. I don't like to believe that one of our
girls did it," Grace concluded sorrowfully, "but I am afraid it's
true."

"Some day you'll stumble upon the guilty girl when you least expect
to find her," prophesied Mabel. "Now forget her, and tell me what you
and your chums are going to do over Thanksgiving. I am going to a
dance on Thanksgiving night with a Willston man. His fraternity is
giving it."

"I don't know any college men in this part of the world," sighed
Grace regretfully, "therefore I never have any invitations to man
dances."

"Wait until my cousin comes up here. He is a Columbia man and you
will like him immensely. I know a number of the Willston men, too.
Why don't you go with me to the football game Thanksgiving Day? You
are not going away, are you? It is only a four days' vacation, you
know."

"No, we haven't any particular place to go. Last year we spent our
Thanksgiving vacation with the Southards in New York. You knew about
that."

"You lucky things," laughed Mabel. "I envy you your friendship with
Everett Southard and his sister."

"Some day you must meet them," planned Grace. "They are delightful
people. Mr. Southard is appearing in Shakespearian roles in the large
cities this season, and Miss Southard is in Florida visiting friends.
If they were in New York they would insist on our going to them for
the holidays. I must run away now. It is almost dinner time and I
promised to hook up Elfreda's new gown. Miriam went over to Morton
House with Gertrude Wells, and won't return until late, and Elfreda
is going to dine with the Anarchist."

"Really!" exclaimed Mabel. "Elfreda seems to be coming to the front
this year, doesn't she!"

"She is turning out splendidly," said Grace warmly. "She stands high
in every one of her classes, and she is so ridiculously funny that
we would feel lost without her. She says things in the same droll way
that a young man we know in Oakdale does. But I mustn't stay another
minute. Good-bye, Mabel, I'll see you in a day or two."

Grace darted across the campus and ran rapidly in the direction of
Wayne Hall. She loved to run and her fleetness of foot had served her
well on more than one occasion. Only that day she had complained to
Miriam that it had been years since she had indulged in a good run.
Miriam had laughingly accused her of still being a tomboy, and had
proposed that they take a long tramp on Saturday. "You can run up and
down the road to your heart's content when we get far enough away
from Overton so that no one will see you and think you have suddenly
gone crazy," Miriam had declared good-naturedly.

Bounding up the steps two at a time, Grace reached the front door of
Wayne Hall without drawing a laboring breath. "I'm certainly in good
condition," she laughed to herself, inhaling deeply and inflating her
chest. "I hope I'll be chosen to play on the team this year." She
rang a third time before the door was opened by Emma Dean, who
grumbled at her repeated ringing and then announced that she had rung
six times that afternoon before any one had condescended to let her
in. "Have you seen Elfreda?" flung back Grace on her way upstairs.

"You'd better hurry," called Emma after her. "I heard her growling
to herself as I passed her door."

"I began to think you were never coming," greeted Elfreda, as Grace
burst into the room, her eyes bright and her cheeks becomingly
flushed from her recent run across the campus.

"Why didn't you ask some one else to hook you up?" retorted Grace
mischievously, throwing down her gloves and beginning on the top hook.

"Because I wanted you to see how nice I looked in this new frock,"
replied the stout girl. "If I had not stipulated that you were to
perform this extremely important service for me, you would have in
all probability absented yourself from my immediate vicinity,
unmindful of the rare exhibition of youth and beauty that was being
prepared for you in my room."

"If I had closed my eyes I could have sworn it was Miss Atkins,"
laughed Grace. "Even she herself couldn't fail to recognize that
impersonation. It's ridiculously funny, Elfreda, but I wish you
wouldn't do it." As Grace and Elfreda were standing with their backs
directly away from the door neither girl saw the tense little figure
that stood rigid, one hand on the door casing, listening with
eyebrows drawn fiercely together. An instant later it had vanished.
Grace, after triumphantly placing the last hook in its eye, began
helping Elfreda find her handkerchief and gloves. "Now you have
everything you need," she declared, holding up the stout girl's coat.
"Do you wait here for your dinner partner or does she call for you?"

"She is coming in here for me," answered Elfreda. "I wish she would
hurry along. I haven't had even a cracker to eat since luncheon and
I'm famished."

"I think I'll go if you don't mind. I'm hungry, too. I must see if
Anne has come in yet. Miss Atkins will be here in a moment. Goodbye.
I hope you will have a nice time. I am so glad she invited you."

Grace crossed the hall to her own room. Anne was rearranging her
hair preparatory to going down to dinner.

"I think I'll do my hair over again," decided Grace. "That run
across the campus shook most of my hairpins loose. It will be at
least ten minutes before the bell rings, so I shall have plenty of
time." But her hair proved refractory and the clang of the dinner
bell found her tucking in a last unruly lock. "I'm going on
downstairs, Grace," called Anne from the doorway.

"All right," answered Grace. As she passed Elfreda's room she heard
her name uttered in a sibilant whisper. Wheeling at the sound, Grace
stepped to the stout girl's door. Elfreda drew her in and, closing
the door, said nervously: "What do you suppose has happened? I waited
and waited for the An--Miss Atkins and she didn't appear, so I went
down to her room and found the door closed. I knocked at least a
dozen times, until my knuckles ached, but not a sound came from
within. Then I came back to my room and waited. She hasn't
materialized yet. I went down to her door just now and knocked again,
but, nothing doing." In her agitation Elfreda dropped into slang.

"That is strange," agreed Grace. "Do you suppose she has been taken
suddenly ill?"

"Search me," declared Elfreda wearily. "She ought to be called the
Riddle. She is past solution, isn't she? I'm hungry, and if she
doesn't appear within the next five minutes I'm going to put on my
old brown serge dress and go down to dinner. I'm not used to being
invited out to dine and then deserted before I've even had a chance
to look at the bill of fare."

"Never mind," comforted Grace. "I'll ask you to dinner at Martell's
next week and won't desert you either. Wait a minute. I will go down
to the dining room and see if by any chance she could be there. Then
I'll come upstairs and let you know. If she isn't there you had
better change your gown and go downstairs with me."

"She isn't there," reported Grace, five minutes later. "Miss Taylor
is, but her roommate is missing."

"'Parted at the altar,'" quoted Elfreda dramatically. "Will you
please unhook me?"

For the second time that night Grace busied herself with the
troublesome hooks and eyes. Elfreda jerked off the new gown. Her
temper was rising. "This is what comes of cultivating freaks," she
muttered, lapsing into her old rudeness. "I might have known she'd
do something. Catch me on any more reform committees!"

"The way of the reformer is hard," soothed Grace, as she picked up
the gown Elfreda had thrown in a heap on the floor, and folding it,
laid it across the foot of the stout girl's couch.

Elfreda, who was reaching into the closet for her brown serge dress,
wheeled about, regarding Grace solemnly. "Too hard for me," she
declared. "Hereafter, the Anarchist can attend to her own
reformation. The Briggs Helping Hand Society has disbanded."




CHAPTER XVII

MAKING OTHER GIRLS HAPPY


The Thanksgiving holiday was welcomed with acclamation by the
students of Overton College, who, with a few exceptions, ate their
Thanksgiving dinners at their various campus houses and boarding
places. During the four days tables at Martell's and Vinton's were
in demand and a continuous succession of dinners and luncheons made
serious inroads in the monthly allowances of the hospitable
entertainers.

The month of December dragged discouragingly, however, and when the
time really did arrive to pack and be off for the Christmas holidays
the latent energy that suddenly developed for packing trunks and
making calls caused the faculty to sigh with regret that it had not
been used in the pursuit of knowledge.

Nothing of any event had happened at Wayne Hall. Since the evening
when Elfreda had waited in vain for Laura Atkins, whose invitation
to dinner she had accepted, this peculiar young woman had offered
neither apology nor explanation for her inexplicable behavior. In
fact, the next morning she had completely ignored Elfreda, who,
feeling herself to be the aggrieved one, had made no attempt to
discover what had prompted this glaring disregard of etiquette on the
part of the eccentric freshman.

For a week afterward Elfreda discussed and rediscussed the mystery
with Grace, Anne and Miriam. Then she gave up in disgust and turned
her attention to basketball. She had lost considerable weight and was
now a member of the scrub team. Her greatest ambition was to make the
real team in her junior year, and with that intent she sturdily
refused to eat sweet things, took long walks and daily haunted the
gymnasium, going through the various forms of exercises she had
elected to take with commendable persistency.

Grace had never sought to discover the identity of the freshman who
had stolen her theme. She felt reasonably certain that the same roof
covered them both, but she never allowed herself to reach the point
of laying the finger of suspicion on any one in particular. That she
had been vindicated of the charge was quite enough for her, but she
could not resist wondering occasionally what had prompted the deed,
and whether the other girl had turned over a new leaf.

One other thing troubled Grace not a little. Mildred Taylor had
become extremely intimate with Mary Hampton and Alberta Wicks. Both
young women were frequent guests for dinner at Wayne Hall, and
Mildred spent her spare time almost entirely in their society. As the
two juniors were extremely unpopular with the Wayne Hall girls a
peculiar constraint invariably fell upon the table when either young
woman was Mildred's guest for the evening. "One has to weigh one's
words before speaking when Alberta Wicks or Mary Hampton are here,"
Emma Dean had declared significantly to Irene Evans, and this seemed
to be the prevalent opinion among the students who lived at Wayne Hall.

Mildred's attitude toward Grace had not changed. In manner she was
more distant than ever, and except for a slight bow when chance
brought her face to face with Grace, she gave no other evidence of
having been more than the merest acquaintance. Her dislike for her
roommate had to all appearances disappeared, and Laura Atkins was now
seen occasionally in company with Mildred and her two mischievous
junior friends.

Such was the situation when the longed-for Christmas vacation
arrived. Grace Harlowe's thoughts were not on her own perplexities
as she walked toward Wayne Hall after finishing her last round of calls.
A new problem had arisen, and as she swung along through the crisp
winter air she was deep in thought. It was peculiar Christmas
weather. A light snow had fallen, but through the patches of white
lying softly on the campus the grass still showed spots of green. It
had been an unusually long, warm fall, and to Grace, whose winters
had been spent much farther north, the mildness of December had
seemed marvelous.

"There!" she exclaimed, stopping in the middle of the walk to
consult a small leather book, and drawing a pencil through the last
item, "I can go home in peace. I have every single thing done, even
to notifying the expressman to come for my trunk."

A sudden trill sounded down the street behind her. Turning her head,
Grace saw Arline Thayer bearing down upon her. "I thought I'd never
make you hear me," panted the little girl. "Ruth is going home with
me after all."

"I thought she would," laughed Grace. "She assured me last night
that she wouldn't think of imposing upon you, but I know your powers
of persuasion. You have given Ruth a great deal of happiness, Arline,
and I am sure she appreciates it, too."

Arline shook her curly head. "I don't deserve any credit. I am nice
with her because I like her. I am consulting my own selfish pleasure,
you see, and that doesn't count. If I didn't care for Ruth I am
afraid I wouldn't bother my head about helping her to have good times."

"You are frank, at least," smiled Grace.

"Seriously speaking, I am really very selfish," admitted Arline. "I
never think of doing good for unselfish reasons. I don't find any
particular interest in being nice with girls who do not appeal to me.
That sounds terribly cold-blooded, doesn't it? They say an only child
is always selfish, you know. Oh, forgive me, Grace; I forgot you were
an 'only child.' Goodness knows you are not selfish."

"Yes, I am," contradicted Grace. "This is my second year at Overton
and in all the time I've been here I have thought about nothing but
myself and my friends and my good times. This afternoon when I
started out to make calls I met Miss Barlow, a little freshman who
lives in a boarding house down on Beech Street. We were going in the
same direction and I thoughtlessly asked if she were going home for
Christmas. A second afterward I was sorry. Her face fell, then she
brightened a little and said, 'No.' She and seven other girls who
lived in the same house were going to have a Christmas tree. For
three days they had been busy decorating it. They had just finished.
She asked, almost timidly, if I would like to see it. Of course I
said 'Yes,' and we started for her boarding house. It is away down
at the other end of Overton, and the most cheerless looking old barn
of a house. The inside of the house is almost as cheerless as the
outside, too. They had set up their tree in the parlor, and it was
the only bright spot in the room.

"The tree was trimmed with popcorn and tinsel. There were funny
little ornaments of colored paper, too, that they had made
themselves. The presents were underneath the tree, a few forlorn
looking little packages that made me feel like crying. I couldn't
truthfully say that the tree was lovely, but I did tell Miss Barlow
that I thought they had done splendidly and that I was sorry I hadn't
known her better before, because I should have liked to help them
with their tree.

"Then she said she had always wanted to know me, but I had so many
friends among the influential girls at Overton she had thought I
wouldn't care to know her. You can imagine how conscience stricken
I felt. At home I was the friend of every girl in high school, and
to think that I have been developing snobbish traits without realizing
it!"

"Couldn't we do something nice for them before we go?" asked Arline
generously. "It is only three o 'clock. Why not start a movement
among the girls we know and send them a box? We can make the girls
contribute, but we won't tell a soul who it's for. We will ask for
money or presents--whatever they care to give," she went on eagerly.
"What do you think of it? Do you suppose they would be offended?"

"I think it is the greatest thing out!" exclaimed Grace
enthusiastically. "How can they be offended if we send the things
anonymously?"

"They can't," chuckled Arline gleefully. "Now we had better
separate. I'll do Morton House, Livingstone Hall and Wellington
House. You can do Wayne Hall, Holland House and those two boarding
houses on the corner below you. A lot of freshmen and sophomores live
there. I'll come over to your house with my loot to-night, directly
after dinner. Good-bye until then."

At seven o'clock that night Arline set down a heavy suit case and
rang the bell at Wayne Hall. Grace, who had been watching for her
from one of the living-room windows, hastened to open the door.
"Thank goodness," sighed the little fluffy-haired girl. "I thought
I would never be able to drag this suit case across the campus. It
is crammed with things. I've been busier than all the busy bees that
ever buzzed," she continued happily, following Grace into the living
room. "You can't begin to think how nice every one has been. About
half of this stuff in the suit case is candy. One girl at Morton
House had ten boxes given her. Of course, she couldn't eat it all,
so she put in five." Arline did not volunteer the further information
that she was the "girl" and that the candy was mostly from Willston
men, with whom she was extremely popular.

"Another girl gave me two pairs of gloves. She had half a dozen
pairs sent from home. She's going to New York for Christmas, so her
home presents were sent to her here. Ever so many girls who had
bought presents to take home gave me something from their store. I
caught them just as they were finishing their packing. But, best of
all," added Arline triumphantly, sinking into a chair and opening her
brown suede handbag, "I have money--fifty dollars! That will help
some, won't it?" She gave a little, gleeful chuckle.

"I should say so," gasped Grace. "I didn't do quite as well,
although I have a whole table full of presents. Come on up and see
them. None of us have put in our money contribution yet."

"How much have you?" asked Arline curiously.

"So far only twenty-five dollars," replied Grace. "The girls in the
boarding houses are not overburdened with money. I collected half of
it from the Holland House girls. Miriam has promised me five dollars
and I will put in five. That makes thirty-five dollars. I haven't
asked Elfreda yet. She went out on a last shopping tour early this
afternoon and hasn't come home yet. I suppose she went to Vinton's
for dinner. Anne hasn't given me her money yet."

"Did you ask Miss Atkins?" was Arline's sudden inquiry. She was
seized with a recollection of what transpired earlier in the fall.

Grace shook her head. "I couldn't. She hasn't spoken to me since the
beginning of the term."

"Shall I run up and ask her?" proposed Arline. "She is quite cordial
to me in that queer, stiff way of hers."

"It is only fair to give her a chance to contribute if she wishes,"
said Grace slowly. "I should say you might better ask her than leave
her out."

"I'll go now, while I feel in the humor," declared Arline.

"You might ask Miss Taylor, too. She is Miss Atkins's roommate. She
has been rather distant with me, so I haven't approached her on the
subject."

Arline danced off on her errand with joyful little skips of
anticipation. It was not long before she returned, a pleased smile
on her baby face. "What do you think!" she whispered, gleefully. "She
gave me ten dollars! She was lovely, too, and didn't scowl at all.
I wished her a Merry Christmas, and she asked me to take luncheon or
dinner with her some time after Christmas. Miss Taylor wasn't there."

Grace was on the point of replying humorously that she hoped Arline
would not share Elfreda's fate when the hour to dine came round. She
checked herself in time, however. She had no right to betray
Elfreda's confidence even to Arline. "That was generous in her," she
said warmly. "Would you like to come upstairs with me now, Arline,
while I collect my share of the contributions? Miriam and Elfreda
will soon be here and I will ask Anne for her money."

Arline obediently followed Grace upstairs to her room. Grace lighted
the gas. As she did so she espied an envelope lying on the rug near
the door. Crossing to where it lay, Grace picked it up. It bore no
superscription. She turned it over, then finding it unsealed pulled
back the flap and peered into it. With an exclamation of wonder she
drew forth a crisp ten dollar bill. "Who do you suppose left it
there?" she gasped in amazement. "I thought Anne was here. She must
have gone out."

"Look in the envelope. Perhaps there is a card, too," suggested
Arline hopefully.

Grace peered into it a second time. Close to the inner surface of
the envelope lay a tiny strip of paper. She held it up triumphantly
for Arline's inspection.

"Is there any writing on it?" demanded Arline.

Grace scanned the strip of paper earnestly, turned it over and found
the faint lead-pencil inscription: "From a friend."

"Who can it be?" pondered Arline. "Do you recognize the hand-writing?"

"No." Grace looked puzzled. "It is a welcome gift. Just think,
Arline, we have one hundred dollars. Your fifty, and Miss Atkins's
ten makes sixty, and this makes seventy. The twenty-five dollars I
have and twenty dollars more from the four of us makes one hundred
and fifteen dollars. That will mean a great deal to those girls. I
only wish it were more."

"If I had known sooner I would not have been so extravagant in
buying my Christmas presents," declared Arline regretfully. "There
isn't time to write Father for money. I don't like to telegraph. I've
been positively reckless with money this month. When I go home I'm
going to have a talk with Father. Oh, Grace Harlowe, I've a perfectly
lovely idea," she continued, joyfully clasping her two small hands
about Grace's arm, "but I am not going to say a word until I come
back to Overton."

"Then I won't ask questions," smiled Grace. "Come, now, help me with
these packages. It is eight o'clock and we haven't made a start yet.
We had better wrap the presents in two large packages. I will ask
Mrs. Elwood for some wrapping paper, and we'll bring the suit case
up here."

It was almost nine o'clock when Grace and Arline descended the steps
of Wayne Hall with mystery written on their faces. Each girl carried
an unwieldy bundle. In the center of Grace's bundle, securely wrapped
in fold after fold of tissue paper, was a little box. It contained
one hundred and fifteen dollars in bills. Wrapped about the bills was
the following note addressed to Esther Barlow, the freshman Grace had
encountered that afternoon: "Merry Christmas to yourself and your
seven freshmen friends. Santa Claus."

"How can we manage to deliver this stuff without being seen?"
demanded Arline. "My arms ache already, and we haven't walked a block."

Grace set down her bundle on a convenient horse block and paused to
consider. Arline dropped hers beside it with a sigh of relief. "I
know what we can do," said Grace reflectively. "We can get Mr. Symes
to go with us. He is that old man who does errands and takes messages
for ever so many of the girls. We will go with him as far as the
corner, then he can carry the things to the door and give them to the
woman who owns the boarding house. He lives just around the corner
from here. You stay here and watch the bundles and I will see if I
can find him."

Grace found Mr. Symes at home and quite willing to carry out the
final detail of the Christmas plan. The old man was duly sworn to
secrecy and entered into the spirit of his errand almost as heartily
as did Arline and Grace. At the chosen corner the girls halted,
repeated their final instructions, and drawing back into the shadow,
left him to deliver the two bulky packages, his wrinkled face
wreathed in smiles.

He smiled even more broadly on his return to the watchers, as Grace
slipped a crisp green note into his hand and wished him a Merry
Christmas.

"Now we ought to do a little celebrating on our own account," she
proposed. "Suppose we pay a visit to Vinton's. It isn't too cold for
ices."

"That is just what I was thinking," agreed Arline.

An hour later Arline and Grace said good-bye on the corner below
Wayne Hall. "I won't see you in the morning at the station, Grace,"
said Arline regretfully. "My train leaves a whole hour later than
yours. I hope you will have a perfectly lovely Christmas. I hope
eight other girls will, too. Don't you?"

"You're a dear little Daffydowndilly," smiled Grace as she kissed
Arline's upturned face. "I am sure they will, and they have you to
thank for their pleasure, though they will never know it."




CHAPTER XVIII

MRS. GRAY'S CHRISTMAS CHILDREN


"If this isn't like old times, then nothing ever will be!" exclaimed
David Nesbit, beaming on Anne Pierson, who was busy pouring tea for
the "Eight Originals" in Mrs. Gray's comfortable library.

"Old times!" exclaimed Hippy Wingate, accepting his teacup with a
flourish that threatened to send its contents into the lap of Nora
O'Malley, who sat beside him on the big leather davenport. "It takes
me back to the days when I had only to lift my hand and say, 'Table,
prepare thyself,' and some one of these fair damsels immediately
invited me to a banquet. Gone are the days when I waxed fat and
prosperous. Now I am thin and pale, a victim of adversity."

"I think you look stouter than ever," declared Nora cruelly. "You
say you have lost ten pounds, but--" she shrugged her shoulders
significantly.

"Cruel, cruel," moaned Hippy. "It is sad to see such calloused
inhumanity in one so young. Pass me the cakes, Anne, the chocolate
covered ones. They, at least, will afford me sweet consolation."

"I object," interposed Reddy Brooks. "Don't give him that plate.
Hand him one or two, Anne. I like the looks of those cakes, too."

"Man, do you mean to insinuate that I am not what I seem?" demanded
Hippy, glaring belligerently at Reddy.

"No, I am stating plainly that you are exactly what you seem. That's
why I am looking out for my share of the cakes."

"Always prompted by selfish motives," deplored Hippy. "How thankful
I am that the sweet blossom of unselfishness blooms freely in my
heart. It is true that I would eat all the cakes on that plate, but
from a purely unselfish motive."

"Let's hear the motive," jeered Tom Gray.

"I would eat them all," replied Hippy gently, favoring the company
with one of his famously wide smiles, "to save you, my beloved
friends, from indigestion. It is better that I should bear your
suffering."

"Thank you," retorted David Nesbit dryly, helping himself to the
coveted cakes and passing the plate over Hippy's head to Mrs. Gray,
"I prefer to do my own suffering."

"Oh, as you like," returned Hippy airily. "I have always been fonder
of Mrs. Gray than I can say." He sidled ingratiatingly toward where
Mrs. Gray sat, her cheeks pink with the excitement of having her
Christmas children with her.

From the time Grace, Miriam and Anne stepped off the train into the
waiting arms of their dear ones, their vacation had been a season of
continued rejoicing. Mrs. Gray, who, Tom gravely declared, would
celebrate her twenty-fifth birthday next April, was tireless in her
efforts to make their brief stay in Oakdale a happy one. On Christmas
night she had gathered them in and given them a dinner and a tree.
She had also given a luncheon in honor of Anne and a large party on
New Year's night. It was now the evening after New Year's and the
morning train would take the boys back to college. Grace, Miriam and
Anne would leave a day later for Overton. Nora and Jessica were to
remain in Oakdale until the following week. It seemed only natural
that they should spend their last evening together at the home of
their old friend. Outside the "Eight Originals," Miriam had been the
only one invited to this last intimate gathering.

"Now, Hippy, stick to the truth," commanded Mrs. Gray, shaking her
finger at him, but handing him the plate at the same time. Hippy
swooped down upon it with a gurgle of delight.

"It's the truth. I swear it," he declared, holding up one fat hand
in which he clutched a cake.

"What made you give him the plate, Aunt Rose?" asked Tom
reproachfully.

"Bless you, child, there are plenty of cakes. Let Hippy have as many
as he can eat."

"Vindicated," chuckled Hippy, between cakes, "and given full
possession besides."

"I wouldn't be so greedy," sniffed Nora O'Malley.

"I'm so glad. I dislike greedy little girls," retorted Hippy
patronizingly.

"Stop squabbling," interposed Grace. "Here we are on the eve of
separation and yet you two are bickering as energetically as when you
first caught sight of each other two weeks ago. Did you ever agree
on any subject?"

"Let me see," said Hippy. "Did we, Nora?"

"Never," replied Nora emphatically.

"Then, let's begin now," suggested Hippy hopefully. "If you will
agree always to agree with me I will agree--"

"Thank you, but I can't imagine myself as ever being so foolish,"
interrupted Nora loftily.

"She spoke the truth," said Hippy sadly. "We never can agree. It is
better that we should part. Will you think of me, when I am gone?
That is the burning question. Will you, won't you, can you, can't you
remember me?" He beamed sentimentally on Nora, who beamed on him in
return, at the same time making almost imperceptible signs to Grace
to capture the plate of cakes, of which Hippy was still in
possession. In his efforts to be impressive, Hippy had, for the
moment, forgotten the cakes. But he was not to be caught napping. The
instant Grace made a sly movement toward the plate it was whisked
from under her fingers.

"Naughty, naughty, mustn't touch!" he exclaimed, eyeing Grace
reprovingly.

"Let him alone, girls, and come over here," broke in David Nesbit.
"He only does these things to make himself the center of attraction.
He wants all the attention."

"Ha," jeered Hippy exultantly. "David thinks that crushing remark
will fill me with such overwhelming shame that I shall drop the cakes
and retire to a distant corner. He little knows what manner of man
I am. I will defend my rights until not a vestige of doubt remains
as to who is who in Oakdale."

"There is not a vestige of doubt in my mind as to what will happen
in about ten seconds if certain people don't mend their ways,"
threatened Reddy, rising from his chair, determination in his eye.

"Take the cakes, Grace," entreated Hippy, hastily shoving the plate
into Grace's hand. "Nora, protect me. Don't let him get me. Please,
mister, I haven't any cakes. I gave them all to a poor, miserable
beggar who--"

"Here, Reddy, you may have them," broke in Grace decisively. "It is
bad enough to have an unpleasant duty thrust upon one, but to be
called names!"

"I never did, never," protested Hippy. "It was a mere figure of
speech. Didn't you ever hear of one?"

"Not that kind, and you can't have the cakes, again," said Jessica
firmly. "Give them to me, Grace."

"Jessica always helps Reddy," grumbled Hippy. "Now, if Nora would
only stand up for me, we could manage this whole organization with
one hand. She is such a splendid fighter--"

"I'll never speak to you again, Hippy Wingate," declared Nora,
turning her back on him with a final air of dismissal.

"Gently, gently!" exclaimed Hippy, raising his hand in expostulation.
"I was about to say that you, Nora, are a splendid fighter"--he paused
significantly--"for the right. What can be more noble than to fight
for the right? Now, aren't you sorry you repudiated me? If you will
say so immediately I will overlook the other remark. But you must be
quick. Time and I won't wait a minute. Remember, I'm going away
to-morrow."

"Good-bye," retorted Nora indifferently. "I'll see you again some
day."

"'Forsaken, forsaken, forsaken am I,'" wailed Hippy, hopelessly out
of tune.

"Now, see what you've done," commented David Nesbit disgustedly.

"I'm truly sorry," apologized Nora. "Hippy, if you will stop
singing, I'll forgive you and allow you to sit beside me." She patted
the davenport invitingly.

"I thought you would," grinned Hippy, seating himself triumphantly
beside her. "I always gain my point by singing that song. It appeals
to people. It is so pathetic. They would give worlds to--"

"Have you stop it," supplemented Tom Gray.

"Yes," declared Hippy. "No, I don't mean 'yes' at all. Tom Gray is
an unfeeling monster. I refuse to say another word. I have subsided.
Now, may I have some more tea?"

Anne filled the stout young man's cup and handed it to him with a
smile. "What are you going to be when you grow up, Hippy?" she asked
mischievously.

"A brakeman," replied Hippy promptly. "I always did like to ride on
trains. That's why I am spending four years in college."

"Don't waste your breath on him, Anne," advised Nora. "He won't tell
any one what he intends to do. I've asked him a hundred times. He
knows, too. He really isn't as foolish as he looks."

"I'm going to try for a position in the Department of Forestry at
Washington after I get through college," announced Tom Gray.

"I'm going into business with my father," declared Reddy.

"I don't know yet what my work will be," said David Nesbit
reflectively.

"All you children will be famous one of these days," predicted Mrs.
Gray sagely. She had been listening delightedly to the merry voices
of the young people. To her, as well as to his young friends, Hippy
was a never-failing source of amusement.

"To choose a profession is easier for boys than for girls," declared
Grace. "I haven't the slightest idea what I shall do after my college
days are over. Most boys enter college with their minds made up as
to what their future work is going to be, but very few girls decide
until the last minute."

"Girls whose parents can afford to send them to college don't have
to decide, as a rule," said Nora wisely, "but almost every young man
thinks about it from the first, no matter how much money his father
is worth."

"That is true, my dear," nodded Mrs. Gray.

"Yet I am sure my girls as well as my boys will astonish the world
some day. In fact, Anne has already proved her mettle. Nora hopes to
become a great singer, Jessica a pianiste and Grace and Miriam--"

"Are still floundering helplessly, trying to discover their
respective vocations," supplemented Grace.

"Yes, Mrs. Gray," smiled Miriam, "our future careers are shrouded in
mystery."

"Time enough yet," said Mrs. Gray cheerily. "Going to college
doesn't necessitate adopting a profession, you know. Perhaps when
your college days are over you will find your vocation very near home."

"Perhaps," assented Grace doubtfully, "only I'd like to 'do noble
deeds, not dream them all day long,'" she quoted laughingly.

  "'And so make life, death and the vast forever
      One grand sweet song,'"

finished Anne softly.

"That is what I shall do when I am a brakeman," declared Hippy
confidently.

"You mean you will make life miserable for every one who comes
within a mile of you," jeered Reddy Brooks.

"Reddy, how can you thus ruthlessly belittle my tenderest hope, my
fondest ambitions? What do you know about my future career as a
brakeman? I intend to be touchingly faithful to my duty, kind and
considerate to the public. In time the world will hear of me and I
shall be honored and revered."

"Which you never would be at home," put in David sarcastically.

"What great man is ever appreciated in his own country?" questioned
Hippy gently.

Even Reddy was obliged to smile at this retort.

"Let the future take care of itself," said Tom Gray lazily. "The
night is yet young. Let us do stunts. Grace and Miriam must do their
Spanish dance for us. Then it will be Nora's and Jessica's turn.
Hippy can sing, nothing sentimental, though. David, Reddy, Hippy and
I will then enact for you a stirring drama of metropolitan life
entitled 'Oakdale's Great Mystery,' with the eminent actor,
Theophilus Hippopotamus Wingate as the 'Mystery.' Let the show begin.
We will have the Spanish dance first."

"Come on, Miriam," laughed Grace. "We had better be obliging. Then
we shall be admitted to the rest of the performance."

The impromptu "show" that followed was a repetition of the "stunts"
for which the various members of the little circle were famous and
which were always performed for Mrs. Gray's pleasure. "Oakdale's
Great Mystery," of which Hippy calmly admitted the authorship, proved
to be a ridiculous travesty on a melodrama which the boys had seen
the previous winter. Hippy as the much-vaunted Mystery, with a
handkerchief mask, a sweeping red portiere cloak, and an
ultra-mysterious shuffle was received with shrieks of laughter by the
audience. The dramatic manner in which, after a series of humorous
complications, the Mystery was run to earth and unmasked by "Deadlock
Jones, the King of Detectives," was portrayed by David with
"startling realism" and elicited loud applause.

"That is the funniest farce you boys have ever given," laughed Mrs.
Gray, as Hippy removed his mask with a loud sigh of relief and wiped
his perspiring forehead with it. "You will be a playwright some day,
Hippy."

"I'd rather be a brakeman," persisted Hippy with his Cheshire cat
grin.

It was half-past ten o'clock when the last good night had been said
and the young people were on their way home. As the Nesbit residence
was so near Mrs. Gray's home, Miriam was escorted to her door by a
merry body guard. At Putnam Square the little company halted for a
moment before separating, Nora, Jessica, Hippy and Reddy going in one
direction, Grace, Anne, Tom and David in the other.

"Are you coming down to the train to-morrow morning to see us off?"
asked David Nesbit, his question including the four girls.

"Of course," replied Grace. "Don't we always see you off on the
train whenever you go back to school before we do?"

"Then we'll reserve our sad farewells until the morn," beamed Hippy.

"Sad farewells!" exclaimed Nora scornfully. "I never yet saw you
look sad over saying goodbye to us. You always smile at the last
minute as though you were going to a picnic."

"'Tis only to hide my sorrow, my child," returned Hippy
lugubriously. "Would'st have the whole town look upon my tears and
jeer, 'cry baby'?"

"That's a very good excuse," sniffed Nora.

"Not an excuse," corrected Hippy, "but a cloak to hide my real
feelings."

"That will do, Hippopotamus," cut in David decisively. "We don't
wish to hear the whys and wherefores of your feelings. If we stayed
to listen to them we would be here on this very spot when our train
leaves to-morrow morning."

"Wait until we come back for Easter, Hippy, then if you begin the
first day you're home you'll finish before we go back to college,"
suggested Grace.

"That's a good idea," declared Hippy joyfully. "I shall remember it,
and look forward to the Easter vacation."

"I shan't come home for Easter, then," decided Nora mercilessly.

"Then I shan't look forward to anything," replied Hippy with such
earnestness that even scornful Nora forgot to retort sharply.

"We all hope to be together again at Easter," said Grace, looking
affectionately from one to the other of the little group. "Remember,
every one, your good resolution about letters."

"We'll talk about that in the morning," laughed Reddy, who abhorred
letter writing.

"You mean you'll forget about it," said Jessica significantly.

"We all have our faults," mourned Hippy. "Now, as for myself--"

"Take him away, Nora," begged David.

"I will," agreed Nora. "Come on, Hippy. Reddy, you and Jessica help
me tear him away from this corner."

"How can you tear me away now? At the precise moment when I had
begun to enjoy myself, too?" reproached Hippy.

"This is only the beginning," was Reddy's threatening answer. "We
are going to leave you stranded on the next corner. Then you can go
on enjoying yourself alone."

"Try it," dared Hippy. "If you do I shall lift up my voice and tell
everyone in this block how unfeeling and hard-hearted some persons
are. I shall mention names in my most stentorian tones and the public
will rush forth from their houses to hear the truth about you. Ah,
here is the corner! Now, leave me at your peril."

"His mind is wandering," said Reddy sadly. "He imagines he is still
'Oakdale's Great Mystery.' We had better lead him home. I'll take his
left arm, and Nora----"

"Will take my right," interrupted Hippy. "Reddy, you may attend to
your own affairs, and keep your distance from my left arm. Jessica,
please look after Reddy. His mind is wandering. In fact, it always
has wandered. Crazy is as crazy does, you know."

"Yes, we know," flung back David significantly.

"Do you?" asked Hippy in apparent innocence. "I was so afraid you
didn't. To lose one's mind is a dreadful affliction, but not to know
that one is crazy is even worse. I am so relieved, David, Grace, Tom,
and all of you, that at last you know the truth concerning
yourselves. It is indeed a sad----"

A moment later the loquacious Hippy was hustled down the street by
three determined young people, while the other four turned their
steps in the opposite direction.




CHAPTER XIX

ARLINE'S PLAN


"It was beautiful to be at home, but it is nice to be here, too. If
it wasn't for mid year exams, I could be happy," sighed Grace
Harlowe, as she rearranged three new sofa pillows she had brought
from home, the gifts of Oakdale friends. Grace and Anne had invited
Arline Thayer and Ruth Denton to dinner, and Miriam and Elfreda had
dropped in for a brief chat before the dinner bell rang.

"We'll all survive even mid year," predicted Miriam confidently.

"We had a perfectly lovely time in New York, didn't we, Arline?"
asked Ruth Denton, looking at the little curly-haired girl with fond
eyes.

Arline nodded. "I wish our vacation had been two weeks longer," she
remarked wistfully. "I just begin to get acquainted with Father, when
it is time to go back to college again. Have you seen many of the
girls?"

"Only the Morton House girls and you," answered Arline. "This is the
first call I've made outside the house. Are all the Wayne Hall girls
here?"

"Miss Taylor hasn't come back yet," said Elfreda. "Do you girls
happen to know where she spent her vacation?"

"No," said Grace. "I didn't see her before I left. When first she
came to Wayne Hall she seemed to like me. At the sophomore reception
I hurt her feelings, unintentionally you may be sure. I am afraid she
has never forgiven me, for since then she has avoided me."

"She must have very sensitive feelings," remarked Elfreda bluntly.
"What did you do to hurt them?"

"I missed asking her to dance," explained Grace. "I didn't see her
until late that evening, and when I apologized and asked to see her
card she refused, saying coldly that my forgetting to ask her to
dance was of no consequence. Since then she has hardly spoken to me."

"Why didn't you tell me that before?" asked Elfreda quickly. "That
accounts for certain things."

"Don't be mysterious, Elfreda," put in Miriam. "Tell us what you
mean by 'certain things'?"

"You girls know that on several occasions before Christmas Alberta
Wicks and Mary Hampton were invited here to dinner. Who invited them?
Miss Taylor. So Alberta Wicks retaliated by taking Miss Taylor home
with her for the holidays."

"Really?" asked Miriam, in surprise. "Who told you?"

"They went home on the same train with Emma Dean," returned Elfreda.
"She sat two seats behind them. Has any one seen the Anarchist?"

No one answered.

"Why don't we change the subject and talk about something pleasant,"
complained Arline Thayer.

"Do you remember saying to me the night before we went home that you
had thought of a lovely plan?" reminded Grace.

"Yes," returned Arline. "I am glad you reminded me of it while we
are all here. Just before I went home for my vacation the idea popped
into my head that we ought to organize some kind of society for
helping these girls who come to Overton with little or no money and
who depend on the work they find to do here to help them through
college."

"Like me," put in Ruth slyly.

"Don't interrupt me," retorted Arline, smiling at Ruth. "When I went
home I had a talk with Father, and he has promised to give me five
hundred dollars with which to start a fund. Now, what I propose to
do is to organize a little society of our own with this same object
in view. There is one society of that kind here at Overton, but it
is always so besieged with requests for help that I don't imagine it
more than keeps its head above water. There is room for another, at
any rate. I don't see why we can't be the girls to organize it."
Arline looked questioningly about the circle of interested faces.

"I think it would be splendid," said Miriam emphatically. "I know my
mother would contribute toward it."

"So would Pa and Ma," declared Elfreda. "Suppose we all write home
tonight."

"What do you think of it, Grace and Anne?" asked Arline. "So far
neither of you has said a word."

"Neither has Ruth made any remarks," replied Anne. "Why don't you
ask her? I think she has something to say on the subject."

All eyes were immediately turned on Ruth, who flushed, looked almost
distressed, then said slowly, "Could the girls who asked for help
borrow the money and return it as soon as they were able?"

"Of course," responded Arline. "Don't be afraid that you are going
to have charity thrust upon you, Ruth."

"That would be the only basis on which we could establish a society
of that kind," commented Miriam. "An Overton girl would hesitate to
make use of the money except as a loan."

"What would we call ourselves?" asked Elfreda abruptly.

"We can decide on a name later," said Arline. "The thing to decide
now is, shall we or shall we not form this society? Answer yes or no?"

"Yes," was the chorus.

"Don't you think," said Grace after a slight deliberation, "that it
would be nicer if we could finance this society ourselves, instead
of asking our fathers and mothers for money? It isn't any particular
effort for most of us to write home for money. How much better it
would be if we could say that we had earned the money ourselves, or
saved it from our allowances."

"But what about my five hundred dollars?" questioned Arline
plaintively. "As the originator of this scheme I claim the privilege
of putting in as much capital as I please. I am going to be the
exception that proves the rule. Besides, Father has already promised
me the money. Take the five hundred dollars for the basis of our
fund, then we will pledge ourselves hereafter to earn or contribute
whatever money we put into it."

"What do you say to that, girls?" asked Grace.

"I think Arline ought to be allowed to give the five hundred dollars
if she wishes," said Miriam. "It is her money and her plan. Besides,
we need the money!"

"I think so, too," echoed Elfreda. "We might call the society the
'Arline Thayer Club.'"

"If you dare--" began Arline.

"Save your breath, my child, I didn't mean that seriously," drawled
Elfreda. "However, we had better begin our society here, to-night.
There are six of us. Shall we add to our number or let well enough
alone?"

"I'd like to have Gertrude Wells in it," said Arline. "Shall we make
it strictly a sophomore affair?"

"I think it would be better," replied Grace.

"Then let us ask Emma Dean, Elizabeth Wade, Marian Cummings and
Elsie Wilton," pursued Arline.

"Seven, eight, nine, ten," counted Anne.

"Let us make it a dozen," suggested Miriam.

"Then who shall the other two members be?"

"Why not ask the Emerson Twins?" suggested Arline. "They would be
good material, and they are both splendid on committees. Julia
Emerson nearly worked her head off for the sophomore reception last
fall."

"Very well, we will ask them," agreed Grace. "In case any one of the
girls we have named but haven't yet interviewed should not wish to
belong to our society we can propose some one else to take her place.
In the meantime you must each be thinking of a name for our little
club. We can meet in the library after the last class tomorrow
afternoon, and go from there to Vinton's to talk it over. Arline, you
must tell Gertrude Wells, Elizabeth Wade and Marian Cummings. We can
easily see the others."

"The dinner bell! Thank goodness!" exclaimed Elfreda fervently. "I
am almost starved. I hope dinner will be better than last night's
offering. Everything we had to eat was warranted to fatten one."

"Never mind, Elfreda," consoled Arline. "Think how nice it will be
when you make the team. That will be a reward worth having."

"Yes, if I make it," grumbled the stout girl.

"We will go on with our new plan after dinner," said Grace. Then as
an afterthought she added: "Don't say anything about it at the table.
Suppose we keep it a secret until our society is in running order?"

"Hello, children," greeted Emma Dean, as they entered the dining
room that night. "Has the board of directors been holding a meeting?
I see you are all here."

Several girls already seated at the table looked up smilingly as the
six girls slipped into their places. Laura Atkins returned Arline's
friendly nod with a cold bow. She did not appear to see the others.
During the progress of the meal she said little, keeping up a
pretense of indifference as to what went on around her. Nevertheless
her eyes strayed more than once toward the end of the table where
Elfreda was entertaining the girls sitting nearest to her with a
ludicrous account of what had happened to her on her way back to
Overton. Miriam accidentally intercepted one of these straying
glances. In it she fancied she read reproach. A quick flush rose to
Laura Atkins's cheeks. Drawing down her eyebrows she scowled
defiantly at Miriam, then turned her head away, and went on with her
dinner.

After dinner the discussion of the proposed club was renewed with
energy. Emma Dean's innocent allusion at dinner to the meeting of the
board of directors had brought smiles to the faces of the six girls.
After they had again gathered in Grace's room, Elfreda was despatched
to Emma's room with orders to bring her to the council, no matter
what her engagements or obligations might be.

"I knew something was going to happen," was Emma's calm announcement
as she followed Elfreda into the room. "To quote my esteemed friend,
Miss Briggs, 'I could see' it in your eyes at dinner. I have a theme
to write, a dressmaker to see, and four letters to answer, but,
still, I am here."

"We can readily understand how deeply it must have grieved you to
shun the dressmaker, put off writing your theme, and tear yourself
away from your correspondence," sympathized Miriam Nesbit, her eyes
twinkling.

"Then, as long as you understand it, we won't say anything more
about it," was Emma's hasty reply. "I move that we avoid
personalities and proceed to business."




CHAPTER XX

A WELCOME GUEST


The meeting in the library the next day, followed by a social
session at Vinton's, resulted in the enthusiastic organization of the
society proposed by Grace. As had been suggested, every girl had
brought with her a slip of paper on which was written the name she
had selected for the society. Arline collected the names and read
each one in turn to the assembled girls.

"Which one do you like best?" she asked, looking from one to another
of her friends.

"The first one," said Miriam Nesbit.

"So do I," echoed half a dozen voices.

"'Semper Fidelis,'" repeated Grace musingly. "I like the sound of
that, too. Who proposed that name?"

"I did," admitted Emma Dean. "I thought it might stand for our motto
as well. It means 'always faithful,' you know. That applies to us,
doesn't it?"

"Of course we shall be always faithful to our cause," declared
Grace. "All those in favor of the name Semper Fidelis, please
manifest it by holding up their right hands."

Twelve right hands were raised simultaneously.

"That settles it," stated Grace. "From now on we are the Semper
Fidelis girls. Let us lose no time in leaving the sacred precincts
of the library for Vinton's. We can make more noise there."

After the second sundae all around had been disposed of the society
settled down to business. It was decided that the club should be a
purely social affair. Arline was chosen for president, Grace for
vice-president and Gertrude Wells as secretary and treasurer. There was
to be no special day set aside for meetings. A meeting might be called
at any time at the united request of three members. The sole object
of the club was to extend a helping hand to the young women who were
making praiseworthy efforts to put themselves through college. The
foremost duty of the society would be to ascertain the names of these
girls and offer them pecuniary assistance. Arline had written her
father for the promised check for five hundred dollars, which would
be deposited in the bank in Gertrude Wells's name as soon as it
arrived.

"I might as well tell you now that I wrote and asked Pa for a check
in spite of what Grace said," confessed Elfreda rather sheepishly.

"I might as well confess that I mentioned the club idea to Mother,"
said Miriam. "I didn't ask her for a check, but I wouldn't be
astonished if she sent one in her next letter."

"You two girls are traitors to the cause," laughed Grace. "Perhaps
you will be disappointed."

"I won't," asserted Elfreda boldly. "Pa might as well help us as any
one else. I told him so, too."

"The important question is what can we do to earn money for our
cause?" asked Grace.

"We might give a play," said Miriam Nesbit. "Anne can star in it. I
should like to have the Overton girls see her at her best."

"I don't wish to be seen 'at my best,'" protested Anne. "I want the
other girls to have a chance, too. Why not give a vaudeville show?
Grace and Miriam can dance. Elfreda can give imitations. There are
plenty of things we can do. We will advertise the show in all the
campus houses, and each one of us must pledge ourselves to sell a
certain number of tickets. I think we would be allowed to use Music
Hall for the show, and if we could sell tickets enough to fill it,
even comfortably, it would mean quite a sum of money for our
treasury. We might charge fifty cents for admittance, or, if you
think that is too much, we might put the price down to twenty-five
cents."

"I think we had better charge fifty cents," said Elfreda shrewdly.
"It will be as easy for those who come to pay fifty cents as to pay
twenty-five. We might as well have the other quarter as Vinton's or
Martell's."

"Elfreda, you are a brilliant and valuable addition to this
society," commended Arline. "I agree with you. We are likely to reap
almost as many half dollars as quarters."

"We might give an act from one of Shakespeare's plays," remarked
Gertrude Wells doubtfully. "Still, I think it would be more fun to
have just stunts. Those of us who know any ought to be willing to
come forward and do them. We can ask some of the upper class girls
to help. Beatrice Alden sings; so does Frances Marlton. Mabel Ashe
can do almost any kind of fancy dancing. There is plenty of talent
in college. The junior glee club will sing for us, I am sure.

"We can make it a regular vaudeville entertainment, and have posters
announcing each number. We can have two girls, costumed as pages, to
bring out and remove the posters announcing the numbers."

"That's a good idea," approved Arline. "I can sing baby and little-girl
songs and dance a little. I might sing one to fill in."

"You are engaged to sing one the first time you come to see me,"
laughed Grace. "Here is talent of which we never dreamed. I knew you
could sing, but you never before confessed to being a real song and
dance artist."

"We shall have all 'headliners in our show,' as the billboard
advertisements beautifully put it," commented Miriam. "I wish Eleanor
were here, don't you, Grace? Then Anne could recite 'Enoch Arden.'"

"Who is Eleanor, and why can't Anne recite 'Enoch Arden' without
her?" were Elsie Wilton's curious inquiries.

"The 'Eleanor' we speak of is in Italy, studying music, or was the
last time we heard from her. She used to live in Oakdale and is one
of our dearest friends. She arranged music to be played during Anne's
recital of 'Enoch Arden.' They gave it at a concert at home and it
was a tremendous success."

"I wish she were to be here to our show, then," said Arline
plaintively. "We would feature her. What's her other name?"

"Savelli," replied Grace quickly.

"Eleanor Savelli, the famous Italian pianiste," announced Arline,
bowing to an imaginary audience. "Her name is the same as that of
Savelli, the great virtuoso, isn't it?"

"He is her father," said Grace simply.

A little murmur of astonishment went up.

"Oh, if she had only come to Overton instead of going to Italy!"
sighed Elizabeth Wade. "I heard Savelli play at a concert three years
ago. I shall never forget him."

"We were awfully disappointed," interposed Miriam. "Eleanor's father
was to tour America this winter, but changed his mind. There was talk
of a spring tour, but we haven't heard from Eleanor for over a month,
so we don't know whether there is any possibility of his sailing for
America. If he did come to this country, Eleanor would be sure to
accompany him. She has promised us that."

"There is no use in wishing for the impossible, children," said Emma
Dean briskly, rising from the table and beginning to put on her coat.
"There is also no use in being late for dinner. In spite of this
bounteous repast," she indicated the empty sundae glasses, "I yearn
for Mrs. Elwood's simple but infinitely more satisfying fare. It's
almost six o'clock. Those that are going with me, hurry up."

"We must have another meeting within the next two or three days,"
declared Grace. "Can all of you girls come to our room next Friday
evening? In the meantime we will arrange a programme which will be
brought before the club for approval at our next meeting. Don't any
of you fail to be there."

As the Wayne Hall girls flocked in the front door that night, Mrs.
Elwood met them with: "Miss Harlowe, there is a young lady in the
living room, waiting for you. She's been there almost an hour."

"For me?" inquired Grace in surprise. "I'll go in at once."

An instant later the girls heard a delighted little cry of "Eleanor,
you dear thing!" Then Grace sprang to the door, exclaiming: "Girls,
girls! come in here at once. You can never guess who is here!"

At the cry of "Eleanor," Miriam and Anne, who were half way
upstairs, ran down again and into the living room. They were followed
by Elfreda, who paused on the stairs, then turned and went slowly up
to her room. "Last year I wouldn't have known enough to go on about
my business," she muttered as she walked stolidly into her room and
sat down on the end of the couch.

Ten minutes later Miriam burst into the room with: "Come downstairs,
Elfreda. Don't you want to meet Eleanor? You know you have said so
ever so many times. She's very anxious to meet you."

"Of course I want to meet her," returned Elfreda with a short,
embarrassed laugh. "This room is the place for me, though, until you
are ready to introduce me. Are you sure you want me to go downstairs?"

"You funny girl," laughed Miriam. "Of course we want you. We have
just been telling Eleanor about you. She hasn't time to come upstairs
now, for her father is waiting for her at the 'Tourraine.' He is
going back to New York City to-night. He has a concert to-morrow.
Grace, Anne and I are going to dine with them. I'm sorry I can't take
you along, but perhaps he will come again to Overton. Eleanor is
going to stay a week longer if we can coax her to remain. She is
traveling with her father. We must hurry downstairs, for Eleanor is
to meet her father at half-past six o'clock, and it is a quarter-past
now."

Elfreda shook hands with Eleanor almost timidly, She was deeply
impressed with the latter's exquisite beauty.

"So this is Elfreda," smiled Eleanor, patting the stout girl's hand.
"I have learned to know you through the letters my friends have
written me. I feel as though you were an old friend."

"It's awfully nice in you to say so," murmured Elfreda, her eyes
shining with pleasure.

"Won't you go with us to the 'Tourraine'?" asked Eleanor sweetly. "I
would like to have you meet my father."

"Thank you," almost gasped Elfreda. "I'd love to meet him, but I
think--"

"Never mind thinking," interrupted Eleanor, gayly. "Just hurry into
your wraps and come along. We'll wait for you."

"That's sweet in you, Eleanor," said Grace in a low tone as Elfreda
ran upstairs. "She was wild to go with us. She has worshipped you
ever since we showed her your picture. She has heard your father
play, too, and considers him the greatest violinist living."

"I suspected she wished to be included in the invitation," smiled
Eleanor. "I imagine I am going to like her very much."

Guido Savelli had engaged a private dining room at the "Tourraine"
for his young guests. He welcomed them with true Latin enthusiasm,
and to see him seated at the head of the table one would never have
suspected him to be the moody, temperamental genius whose playing had
made him famous in two continents. When the time came to leave the
hotel for the train he was escorted to the station by an admiring
bodyguard of five young women.

"Remember, you have promised to visit Overton again before you leave
New York," reminded Grace as he walked down the station platform
between Grace and Eleanor.

"He will," declared Eleanor. "I shall make him come back to Overton
for me. Good-bye, Father. Take care of yourself. Remember to go for
your walk every day, won't you? He's the nicest father," she said
softly as the little group turned to leave the station after the
train had gone. "Now take me to your house and let us have an
old-fashioned gossip. I have so much to tell you, and I want to hear
about Overton."

A happy party gathered in Grace's room that night for an old-time
talk about Oakdale. Elfreda was the only outsider present. For her
benefit the story of the stolen class money and its timely recovery
by Grace and Eleanor, as related in "GRACE HARLOWE'S SENIOR YEAR AT
HIGH SCHOOL," was retold, as well as many other eventful happenings
of their high school life. At a quarter to ten o'clock the four girls
escorted Eleanor to the "Tourraine," returning just inside the half-past
ten o'clock limit.

"Well, what do you think of Eleanor, Elfreda?" asked Grace, stopping
for a moment outside the room shared by Miriam and Elfreda before
going to her own.

"Don't ask me," rejoined Elfreda fervently. "I can't thank you girls
enough for the good time I've had tonight. But I want to say that if
there is anything I can do for any of you, just count on J. Elfreda
Briggs to do it."

"It isn't necessary for you to tell us that, Elfreda," said Anne.
"We know that you are true blue, and so does Eleanor."

"Does she really like me?" asked Elfreda eagerly.

"She likes you very much," interposed Grace. "She said so."

"Then I'm going to give a luncheon for her to-morrow afternoon at
Vinton's," declared Elfreda with shining eyes. "I wanted to suggest
it, to-night, but I was afraid she might not care to come."

"Couldn't you 'see' that she liked you?" teased Miriam.

"No, I couldn't. There are lots of things I can't 'see.' One of them
is why you girls ever went to so much trouble to make me 'see.' Good
night." Casting one glance of love and loyalty toward her friends,
Elfreda vanished into her room, and wise Miriam took care not to
enter the room until the stout girl's moment of self-communion had
passed.




CHAPTER XXI

A GIFT TO SEMPER FIDELIS


When the news was whispered about through Overton College that the
attractive young woman who was frequently seen in company with Grace
Harlowe and her friends was the daughter of Guido Savelli, the
renowned virtuoso, it created a wide ripple of excitement among the
four classes. Curious juniors and dignified seniors grew interested,
and Mabel Ashe and Frances Marlton, who were Eleanor's sworn
cavaliers, were besieged with requests for introductions. Far from
being spoiled by so much adulation, Eleanor laughingly attributed it
to her father's genius, and flouted the idea that her own delightful
personality had made her a reigning favorite during her stay in
Overton.

It took Grace some time to recover from the surprise occasioned by
Eleanor's unexpected arrival. During the month in which she had
received no letter from Eleanor, Guido Savelli had reconsidered his
decision not to appear in America and instead of canceling his
contract had sailed at the eleventh hour to fulfill it, taking
Eleanor with him.

"You arrived just in time for our show!" exclaimed Grace gleefully
to Eleanor. The two girls sat opposite each other at the library
table in the living room at Wayne Hall, making up the programme for
the vaudeville performance which was to be held in Music Hall, on the
following Friday evening. "Oh, Eleanor, don't you think you can go
home with me for Easter? Never mind if 'Heartsease' is closed. You
can have just as much fun at our house. We have only one more week
here, you know, and your father's concert tour doesn't end for
another month," pleaded Grace.

"I think I can arrange it," reflected Eleanor. "It is only that
Father misses me so. In some ways he is like an overgrown child. All
great musicians are like that, I believe."

"It is a pity to take you away from him," admitted Grace, "but we
would like to have you with us. Besides, Tom Gray is going to bring
Donald Earle to Oakdale with him for the Easter. Donald will be so
disappointed if he doesn't see you, Eleanor."

"I'd like to see him, too," returned Eleanor frankly. "He is one of
the nicest young men I know. Father is coming down here for our show,
unless something unforeseen happens. I shall coax him to play. I
imagine he will be willing. He will play if you ask him, Grace."

"I wish we might feature him on the bulletin board," reflected
Grace, with a managerial eye to business, "but he wouldn't like that.
We could have him for a surprise, though."

"I'll tell you what I will do," volunteered Eleanor. "I will
telephone to his hotel in New York and ask him. If he says yes, we
can go ahead and count on him to furnish Overton with a surprise."

"Oh, Eleanor, could you, would you do it?" asked Grace, a note of
excitement in her voice.

"I'll telephone at once," nodded Eleanor, rising. "Suppose we go
over to the 'Tourraine' to do it."

Within the next hour Eleanor and Grace had talked with Guido
Savelli. It had taken very little coaxing to secure his promise to
play at Overton on Friday night, as he gave his last performance in
New York on Thursday evening, and was free until the following
Monday, when he would appear in Boston.

"It seems almost providential, doesn't it?" asked Eleanor, as she
hung up the receiver. "He could not have come here at any other time."

"I'm so happy over it I could hurrah," declared Grace jubilantly.

"I knew Father would not refuse us," smiled Eleanor. "Now hadn't we
better hurry home and make up the rest of the programme?"

By eight o'clock Friday evening every available foot of space in
Music Hall was crowded with Overton students. The front rows of the
hall had been reserved for the faculty, who were quite in sympathy
with the idea of the new club. In order to obtain permission to use
this hall, Grace had gone to the dean with the story of the
organization of Semper Fidelis and its purpose. The dean had
sympathized heartily with the movement, and had at once laid the
matter before the president of the college, who willingly gave the
desired permission.

As the Semper Fidelis Club was composed entirely of sophomores,
twelve young women of the sophomore class had been detailed as ushers
and ticket takers. The majority of the club members were down on the
programme, therefore these duties had been turned over to their
classmates. Grace, besides appearing in the Spanish dance with
Miriam, had taken upon herself the duties of stage manager. The two
smallest sophomores in the class, dressed as pages, had been chosen
to place the posters announcing the various numbers on the standards
at each side of the stage. These posters had been designed and
painted by Beatrice Alden and Frances Marlton, who, with Mabel Ashe,
Constance Fuller and several other public-spirited seniors, had
generously offered their services. As both Beatrice and Frances
possessed considerable skill with the brush they turned out extremely
decorative posters, which were afterward sold to various admiring
students for souvenirs of the club's first entertainment.

"I am so tired," declared Grace to Eleanor as they stood at one side
of the stage while the Glee Club, composed of juniors and seniors,
arranged themselves preparatory to filing on to the stage.
"Everything seems to be going beautifully though. Not a single
performer has disappointed us. How pretty the Glee Club girls look
to-night."

"Lovely," agreed Eleanor. "The audience is out in its best bib and
tucker, too. Nearly every girl in the house is in evening dress."

"Consider the occasion," laughed Grace. "Our show would not have
amounted to much if it had not been for you and your distinguished
father. Anne could not have recited 'Enoch Arden,' without your
accompaniment, and the crowning glory of having the great Savelli
play would have been missing. It reminds me of our concert, Eleanor,"
she added softly.

Eleanor's blue eyes met Grace's gray ones with ineffable tenderness.
"The concert that brought me my father," she murmured. "It seems ages
since that night, Grace. I can't realize that I have ever been away
from Father."

"It does seem a long time since our senior year in high school,"
agreed Grace musingly. "Good gracious, Eleanor, the Glee Club are
waiting for the signal to go on while we stand here reminiscing!"
Grace hurried to the wing where one of the pages stood patiently
holding the Glee Club poster, and signaled to the page on the
opposite side. An instant later the singers had filed on the stage
for their opening song.

As the show progressed the audience became more enthusiastic and
clamored loudly for encores. Elfreda's imitations provoked continuous
laughter, and dainty Arline Thayer, looking not more than seven years
old, was a delightful success from her first babyish lisp. Her song
of the goblin man who stole little children to work for him in his
underground cellar, with its catchy chorus of "Run away, you little
children," was immediately adopted by Overton, and when later it was
noised about that Ruth had written the words while Arline had
composed the music, both girls were later rushed by the Dramatic Club
and made members, an honor to which unassuming Ruth had some
difficulty in becoming accustomed.

Anne's "Enoch Arden," to Eleanor's piano accompaniment, met with an
ovation. Guido Savelli had been purposely placed last on the
programme. "No one will care for anything else after he plays. The
audience will have the memory of his music to take away with them,"
Grace had said wisely. Knowing the musician's horror of being
lionized, Grace had confided the secret to no one except Miriam,
Anne, Mabel Ashe and Elfreda, who, in company with her and Eleanor,
had met him at the train and dined with him at the "Tourraine." It
had been arranged that at half-past nine o'clock Anne and Elfreda
should go for him and escort him to Music Hall.

At precisely ten minutes past ten o'clock he was escorted through
the side entrance to the hall by his two smiling guides, and into the
little room just off the stage that did duty for a green room.
Eleanor's quick exclamation of, "You have plenty of time, Father,
there are two more numbers before yours," caused the various
performers to open their eyes, and when Eleanor turned to those in
the room, saying sweetly, "Girls, this is my father. He is going to
play for us," astonishment looked out from every face.

In order that the surprise might be complete, Grace had purposely
withheld until the last moment the posters bearing Guido Savelli's
name. When the two pages placed them up on their respective
standards, a positive sigh of astonishment went up from the audience
that changed to vociferous applause as Eleanor appeared and took her
place at the piano. A second later the great Savelli walked on the
stage, violin in hand. Eleanor, having frequently accompanied him on
the piano in private, had begged to be allowed for once to accompany
him in public.

As the delighted audience listened to the music of the man whose
playing had won for him the homage of two continents, they realized
that they had been granted an unusual privilege.

"How did he happen to stray into Overton?" "I supposed great artists
like him never condescended to play outside of the large cities,"
were the whispered comments.

One stately old gentleman in particular, who had been the guest of
the president at dinner, and who sat beside him during the
performance, grew enthusiastically curious, asking all sorts of
questions. Who had planned and managed the entertainment? What was
the object of the "Semper Fidelis Club"? How long had it been in
existence? Who had been on familiar enough terms with Savelli to
induce him to play at the "show"? The president answered his
questions with becoming patience, promising to introduce him to Grace
Harlowe and Arline Thayer, who, he stated, had been responsible for
the organization of the club.

Later, the curious old gentleman was presented to Grace and Arline,
who answered his flow of inquiries so courteously and with such
apparent good will that he left the hall, smiling to himself as
though he had gained possession of some wonderful bit of information.

The vaudeville show netted the Semper Fidelis Club two hundred
dollars, which Arline deposited in the bank the following morning.

"'Every little bit helps'" chuckled Arline as she opened the bank
book and pointed to the new entry. She and Grace were on their way
from the bank.

"I should say it did," returned Grace warmly. "I only wish we could
always make money as easily and pleasantly as we made that two
hundred dollars."

"It was lots of fun, wasn't it?" declared Arline happily. "When we
come back next fall as juniors we can give another show and add to
our fund. We won't have time this year. We are all going home next
week and after Easter it will be too late in the year to bother with
entertainments."

"We might give a carnival in the gymnasium next fall," suggested
Grace. "We had a bazaar at home and made over five hundred dollars.
If we gave it early in the fall we would have as much as a thousand
dollars on hand to lend where it was needed. I imagine we can find
plenty of places for it."

"We can be thinking about it through the summer," planned Arline.

That night when Grace reached Wayne Hall she found a letter bearing
her address in the bulletin board at the foot of the stairs. After
glancing curiously at the superscription, Grace tore it open and
read:

  "To Miss GRACE HARLOWE,
  "Wayne Hall,
  "Overton.

"MY DEAR MISS HARLOWE:

"I am enclosing a check made payable to you, which I should like you
to accept in behalf of the Semper Fidelis Club. I am greatly
interested in your association and wish to say that at this time each
year as long as the club exists I pledge myself to contribute the
same amount of money. Trusting that the club will continue to thrive
and prosper,

"Yours very truly,

"THOMAS REDFIELD."

Grace lay down the letter and stared at the check with incredulous
eyes. It was for one thousand dollars.

It took but an instant to dart down the hall to Miriam's room, where
Anne had just gone to borrow Miriam's Thesaurus.

"Look, look!" cried Grace, holding the check before Anne's
astonished eyes.

Miriam rose from her chair and peered over Anne's shoulder. "Three
cheers for Mr. Redfield!" she exclaimed. Three cheers for the fairy
godfather of Semper Fidelis!




CHAPTER XXII

CAMPUS CONFIDENCES


After the Easter vacation there seemed very little left of the
college year. Spring overtook the Overton girls unawares, and golf,
tennis, Saturday afternoon picnics and walking tours crowded even
basketball off their schedule. It was delightful just to stroll about
the fast-greening campus arm in arm with one's best friend under the
smiling blue of an April sky. It was ideal weather for planning for
the future, but it was anything but conducive to study.

"It's a good thing we work like mad in the winter," grumbled Elfreda
Briggs, giving her Horace a vindictive little shove that sent it
sliding to the floor. "I can't remember anything now, except that the
grass is green, the sky is blue--"

"Sugar is sweet, and so are you," supplemented Miriam Nesbit slyly.

"That wasn't what I was going to say at all," retorted Elfreda
reprovingly.

"Then I beg your pardon," returned Miriam, with mock contrition.
"What were you going to say?"

"Nothing much," grinned Elfreda, "except that I was weighed to-day
and I've lost five pounds. I am down to one hundred and forty-five
pounds now. If I can lose five pounds more this summer I shall be in
fine condition for basketball next fall."

"You did splendid work on the sub team this year," replied Miriam
warmly. "I am sure that you will make the regular team next fall."

"The upper class girls say they have very little time for
basketball," mused Elfreda. "All kinds of other stunts crowd it out.
I'm not going to be like that, though. I love to play and I shall
manage to find time for it."

"Where is Grace to-night?" asked Elfreda. "I didn't see her at
dinner."

"She had a dinner engagement with Mabel Ashe."

"Vinton's?" asked Elfreda.

Miriam nodded.

"Grace is lucky," sighed Elfreda. "She is always being invited to
something or other. Her dinner partners always materialize, too," she
added ruefully.

"Which is more than can be said of some of yours," laughed Miriam.
"Strange you never found out about that, isn't it?"

It was Elfreda's turn to nod. "I have often thought I would go to
Miss Atkins and ask her why she left me to languish dinnerless in my
room after inviting me to eat, drink and be merry," mused Elfreda.
"I hate to go home with the mystery unsolved. I believe I will go ask
her now," she declared, with sudden energy. "I know she's alone, for
the Enigma isn't there to-night." Elfreda had recently bestowed this
title upon Mildred Taylor on account of her inexplicable attitude
toward Grace.

"I have been disappointed in little Miss Taylor," remarked Miriam
slowly. "I was so sure that she would prove another Arline Thayer.
She had the same fascinating little ways and at first she seemed so
genuinely frank and straightforward."

"I wonder what made her change so suddenly," said Elfreda, walking
to the door, "and toward Grace, especially. She doesn't speak to
Grace when she meets her. She is an Enigma and no mistake. Now for
our friend the Anarchist. If I don't come back within a reasonable
length of time you will know that I have been annihilated."

Ten minutes went by, then ten more. At the end of half an hour
Miriam wondered slightly at her roommate's continued absence. Just
before time for the dinner bell to ring, Elfreda burst into the room
with: "Miriam, will you help me to dress? I am invited to dinner and
this time I am going. The An--Miss Atkins has forgiven me, peace has
been restored and we are going out to dine, arm in arm." Elfreda
pranced jubilantly about the room, then flinging open the door of the
wardrobe brought forth two large boxes that had come by express the
day before, one of them containing her new spring hat, the other a
smart suit of natural pongee.

"Stop hurrying for a minute and give me a true and faithful account
of this miracle," demanded Miriam. "I had begun to think the worst
had happened. What did you say first, and what did she say?"

"The door of her room stood partly open and I knocked on it, then
marched in without an invitation," replied Elfreda. "She was so
surprised she forgot to be angry, and before she had time to remember
that she didn't like me I surprised her still further by asking her
to tell me why she had refused to speak to me for so long. Before she
knew it she had stammered something about Grace and I calling her
names and making fun of her behind her back when she had asked me in
all good faith to have dinner with her at Vinton's. She declared she
had heard us.

"The instant she said that I remembered that I had mimicked her that
night while dressing and that Grace had laughed, but had said in the
same breath, that it wasn't fair. So I asked her point blank if that
was what she meant, and she said 'yes,' only she hadn't waited long
enough to hear what Grace had said about unfairness. She had come to
the door just in time to hear me mimic her, and had rushed back to
her room angry and hurt. Then I explained to her that I had a bad
trick of imitating even my friends, and that I had offended more than
one person by my thoughtlessness. I was really dreadfully sorry and
asked her to forgive me. She had half a mind not to do it, then she
relented, smiled a little and actually offered me her hand. Of
course, after that I stayed a few minutes to talk things over with
her and she proposed going to dinner. She is changed. In just what
way I can't explain, except that she is more gentle and not quite so
prim. Will you look in the top drawer of the chiffonier and see if
I put my gold beads in that green box? You know the one I mean."

Miriam obediently opened the drawer and taking the beads from the
box deftly fastened them about Elfreda's neck. "Grace will be glad
to hear of this," she remarked. "May I tell her and Anne?"

"Yes," returned Elfreda, "but please don't tell any one else."
Pinning on her new hat she hurried off to keep her long-delayed
engagement with the now thoroughly pacified Anarchist.

When the dinner bell rang, Miriam suddenly remembered that of the
four friends she was the only stay-at-home that night. Anne had gone
to take supper and spend the evening with Ruth Denton. As she took
her seat at the table she noted that Emma Dean's and Mildred Taylor's
places were also vacant.

"Where is everyone to-night?" asked Irene Evans, who sat opposite
Miriam.

"Grace, Anne and Elfreda were all invited out this evening,"
answered Miriam. "I don't know anything about Miss Dean and Miss
Taylor."

"Emma is spending the evening with her cousin, that other Miss Dean
of Ralston House," replied Irene. "Miss Taylor," she shrugged her
shoulders slightly, "is with Miss Wicks and Miss Hampton, I suppose."

"I don't think I shall overstudy to-night," announced Miriam, a
little later, as she rose from the table. "I'm going for a walk. Want
to go with me?"

"I'm sorry," replied Irene regretfully, "but I've a frightfully hard
chemistry lesson ahead of me to-night."

It had been an unusually balmy April and now that the moon was at
the full, the Overton girls took advantage of the fine nights to walk
up and down College Street or the campus. Sure of finding some one
she knew, Miriam slipped on her sweater, and, disdaining a hat,
strolled down the street toward the campus. Exchanging numerous
greetings with students, she wandered aimlessly across the campus
toward a seat built against a tree where she and Grace had had more
than one quiet session.

As she neared the seat, which was somewhat in the shadow, she gave
a little startled exclamation. A girl was crouching at the darkest
end of the seat, her face hidden in her hands. Turning away, Miriam
was about to recross the campus when the utter despondency of the girl's
attitude caused her to go back. Stopping directly in front of the
bowed figure, she said gently, "Can I help you?"

The girl rose, and without answering was about to hurry away, when
Miriam, after one swift glance at her face, ran after her,
exclaiming, "Wait a moment, Miss Taylor!"

Mildred Taylor stopped and eyed Miriam defiantly. Despite her
expression of bravado, she looked as though she had been crying.
"What do you want?" she asked in a low voice.

"To talk with you," said Miriam boldly, stepping forward and
slipping her arm through Mildred's. "Shall we sit down here and
begin? All my friends have deserted me to-night. There were ever so
many vacant places at the dinner table. I noticed you were away, too."

"I--I--have--haven't had any dinner," faltered Mildred. Then,
staring disconsolately at her companion for an instant, she dropped
her head on her arm and gave way to violent sobbing. "I am so
miserable," she wailed.

Miriam sat silent, touched by Mildred's distress, yet undecided what
to do. Things were evidently going badly with the "cute" little girl.
"She has done something she is sorry for," was Miriam's reflection.
After a slight deliberation she said gently, "Is there anything you
wish to tell me, Miss Taylor?"

Mildred raised her head, regarding Miriam with troubled, hopeless
eyes. Miriam took one of the little girl's hands in hers. "Do not be
afraid to tell me," she said earnestly. "I am your friend."

"You wouldn't be if you knew what a miserable, contemptible coward
I am," muttered Mildred. "I can't tell you anything. Please go away."
Her head dropped to her arm again.

Miriam, still holding her other hand, patted it comfortingly. "No
one is infallible, Miss Taylor. I once felt just as you do to-night.
Only I am quite sure that my fault was much graver than yours can
possibly be."

Mildred raised her head with a jerk. She looked at Miriam
incredulously. "I don't think _you_ ever did anything very
contemptible," she said sceptically.

"Let me tell you about it," replied Miriam soberly. "Then you can
judge for yourself. The person whom I wronged has long since forgiven
me, but I can never quite forgive myself or forget. It was during my
first year in high school that I began behaving very badly toward a
new girl in the freshman class, of whom I was jealous. I was the star
pupil of the class until she came, then she proved herself my equal
if not my superior in class standing, and I tried in every way to
discredit her in the eyes of her teachers and her friends. At the end
of the freshman year, a sum of money was offered as a prize to the
freshman who averaged highest in her final examinations. Feeling sure
that this other girl would win it, I managed, with the help of some
one as dishonest as myself, to gain possession of the examination
questions, but before I had finished with them, I was obliged to drop
them in a hurry, to escape discovery by the principal. By the merest
chance the girl I disliked happened along just in time to be
suspected of tampering with the papers. But she had friends who
fought loyally for her and cleared her of the suspicion.

"She won the prize. Nothing was ever said to me about it, but I knew
that the principal and at least four girls in school knew what I had
done. When I entered the sophomore class in the fall I felt a
positive hatred for this girl and for her friends. I did all sorts
of cruel, despicable things that year, and succeeded in dividing my
class into two factions who opposed each other at every point.

"Toward the last of the year I grew tired of being so disagreeable.
My conscience began to trouble me seriously. Then, one day, the two
girls I despised did me a great service, and my enmity toward them
died out forever.

"I can't begin to tell you how differently I felt after I had
acknowledged my fault and been forgiven. Those girls are my dearest
friends now. You know them, too."

"You--you don't mean Miss Harlowe and Miss Pierson?" asked Mildred
in a low tone, her eyes fixed upon Miriam.

Miriam nodded. "Grace and Anne are the most charitable girls I ever
knew," she said softly, "If they were not they would never have
forgiven me. Anne was the girl who won the prize. Grace was one of
the friends who stood by her. If you feel that you have done some one
an injustice, you will not be happy until you have righted matters.
If the person refuses to forgive you, you at least will have done
your part."

"I can't go to the--the--person and tell her," faltered Mildred. "I
should die of humiliation."

"But you don't wish to go away from Overton carrying this burden
with you," persisted Miriam. "It will weigh heavily upon you when you
come back next fall--"

"I'm not coming back next fall," mumbled Mildred. "I shall never
again be happy at Overton."

"Brace up, and square things with the other girl, and you'll feel
differently," retorted Miriam.

"If it were any one else besides Miss Harlowe," began Mildred.

"Oh, I am so sorry you told me her name!" exclaimed Miriam
regretfully. "Now that I know it is Grace, however, I shall redouble
my advice about going to her. You need have no fear that she will not
forgive you. Grace never holds grudges."

"I can't do it," declared Mildred tremulously, "I am afraid."

Miriam looked at her companion rather doubtfully. "I think Grace is
the person with whom to talk this matter over," she declared.
"Suppose we go over to Wayne Hall now? She went to dinner at Vinton's
with Mabel Ashe, but she must be at the hall by this time."

"Oh, I can't," gasped Mildred nervously, "Yes, yes, I will if you
will come with me while I tell her."

"I think it would be better for you to go to her by yourself," said
Miriam dubiously.

"I can't do it," protested Mildred miserably. "Please, please come
with me."

"Then, let us go now," returned Miriam decisively. "We may catch
Grace at home and alone."

During the walk across the campus the two girls exchanged no words.
Mildred was trying to summon all her courage in order to make the
dreaded confession.

Miriam was thinking of the day that belonged to the long ago when
she had confessed her fault, and, joining hands with Anne Pierson and
Grace Harlowe, had sworn eternal friendship. She felt only the
deepest sympathy for the unhappy little girl at her side, for having
been through a similar experience she understood clearly the struggle
that was going on in Mildred's mind.

Twice the little freshman stopped short, declaring she could not and
would not go on, and each time, with infinite patience, Miriam buoyed
and restored to firmness her shaking resolution.

"You do not know Grace Harlowe," Miriam said as they neared Wayne
Hall, "or you would not be afraid to go to her and tell her what you
have just told me. She is neither revengeful nor unforgiving, and I
am sure that she will be only too glad to help you begin all over
again."

"But not here at Overton," quavered Mildred.

"You can decide that later," Miriam said kindly, as they entered the
house. But she smiled to herself, for she felt reasonably sure that
Mildred would come back to Overton for her sophomore year.




CHAPTER XXIII

A FAULT CONFESSED


Grace came home from Vinton's with the firm intention of putting in
a full evening of study. "It is only half-past eight," she exulted.
"I'll have plenty of time for everything. I suppose Anne won't be
home until the last minute's grace."

As she passed through the hall to the stairs she poked her head
inquisitively into the living room. Three or four girls sat at the
library table industriously engaged in writing. Grace turned away
without disturbing them, and went quietly up the stairs. As she
walked down the hall to her own room she noticed that Miriam's room
was dark.

"I wonder where the girls are!" Grace exclaimed. "I didn't know they
were to be away to-night, too. Perhaps they have gone for a walk."
Grace lighted the gas in her own room and, hanging up her hat, sat
down in the Morris chair, beside the table on which lay her books
piled ready for work. "If no one bothers me for the next hour and the
girls obligingly stay away, the rest will be easy," she smiled to
herself as she worked at her French.

At five minutes of ten she closed her text book on chemistry with a
triumphant bang. "Nothing left to do now but my theme and that can
wait until to-morrow night. I think I'll read until the girls come
in." Grace reached for her book, which lay on the table conveniently
near her, opened it at the place she had marked and began to read.
She had not read more than two or three pages when, through the half
opened door, came the sound of voices.

Grace's gray eyes opened in surprise as Miriam Nesbit walked into
the room followed by Mildred Taylor.

"I thought you would be here," greeted Miriam.

Grace rose and walked toward Mildred. Without the slightest show of
hesitation she held out her hand. "I am glad to see you, Mildred. Why
haven't you come in before?" she asked frankly.

Mildred looked from Miriam to Grace. "I can't tell you why!" she
exclaimed in a choked, frightened voice. "I thought I could, but I
can't." She began to cry softly.

Grace sprang to her side, and, placing her arm about the little
girl's waist, said soothingly, "Don't cry, and don't tell us anything
you don't wish to tell. I am so glad you came at all. The early part
of the year I thought we were going to be friends. I am sorry I hurt
your feelings on the night of the sophomore reception. I told you so
then, but I am afraid you thought I didn't mean what I said."

"It wasn't that," quavered Mildred, wiping her eyes. "It was--it was
--I had no business to take it. It was stealing!"

Miriam looked sharply at Mildred's distressed face, as though trying
to gain some inkling of what was to come. Grace's expression was one
of anxious concern. Neither girl spoke.

"I might as well tell you, Grace," went on Mildred in a low, shamed
voice. "I am the person who stole your theme. I found it at the foot
of the stairs. I did not look at the name written on it until I was
in my own room. I ought to have given it to you at once, but I
stopped to read it. It was so clever I wished I had written it.
Themes are my weak point, and Miss Duncan had criticised my work so
severely that I was feeling blue and discouraged. Then came the
temptation to take your theme, copy it, and hand it in as my own. You
had lost it, so you would never know what became of it. You could
write another theme as easily as you had written that. It did occur
to me that you might be able to rewrite that particular theme from
memory. So I changed the title of your theme, copied it that night
and changed the ending a little and took particular pains to hand it
in early the next morning, so that if any suspicion were aroused it
would not fall on me, but on you. It was thoroughly contemptible in
me, and after I handed in the theme I felt like a criminal. When Miss
Duncan sent for me, I grew frightened and instead of owning to what
I had done I told more lies and tried to make it appear that you were
the real offender. At first she believed me, but afterward she
didn't, and made me admit that I had lied. When she told me about
promising you that she would give me another chance and that you
neither knew nor cared to know my name, I could hardly believe it.
Since that time I've never dared to speak to you. I have been so
dreadfully ashamed." Her voice broke.

"Don't think about it ever again," comforted Grace. "Everyone is
likely to make mistakes. I think you have suffered enough for yours.
I am sure you would never do any such thing again."

Mildred shook her head vigorously. "Never," she declared sadly.

Miriam, who had listened to the little girl's confession, an
inscrutable expression on her dark face, said practically, "Was there
anything besides what you have told us that made you unhappy to-night?"

"Why--why," stammered Mildred. "Yes, there was. How did you know?"

"I didn't know," declared Miriam dryly. "I just wondered."

"It was something that made me unhappy, yet glad, too," said
Mildred, her face flushing. "I thought I hated Grace and said horrid
things about her to two other girls I know, who are not her friends.
To-night I was with them at Martell's, and I quarreled with them
about you girls. Ever since I heard Savelli play at your
entertainment I have felt differently about everything. His music
brought me to my real self and made me realize how small and mean and
contemptible I was. I discovered that it was not you but myself I
hated, and when these girls began to say things about you, all of a
sudden I found myself standing up for you as staunchly as ever I
could. Then we quarreled and I got up from the table and almost ran
out of Martell's.

"I walked and walked until I was all tired out, Then I sat down on
that seat by the tree where Miriam found me. In defending you, Grace,
I found myself. I saw clearly that my college life was all wrong. The
mean things I had done stared me in the face. The theme was the worst
of all. No wonder I cried. Now that I've told you everything I am
happier than I have been since last fall. Next year I am going to
start all over again in some other college where no one knows me."

"Besides yourself, there are only three who know, Miriam, Miss
Duncan and I." said Grace slowly. "When Miss Duncan sent for me about
the theme I told myself then that, although I had no desire to know
the name of the other girl, if ever I should learn her identity I
would try to be the best friend she ever had. I am ready to keep my
word, Mildred, if you are ready to come back to Overton next year and
help me keep it."

Mildred glanced timidly from Grace to Miriam. "I'd love to come
back," she faltered, "only I'm afraid you girls would never believe
in me again."

"My friends did," reminded Miriam softly, extending her hand to
Mildred. "I believe in you now."

"Of course we will believe in you," declared Grace cheerfully. "Come
back next fall and give us a chance to show you that we trust you."

"I will," answered Mildred with solemn resolution, "but you shall
give me the chance to show you that your trust is not misplaced. Good
night," she put out her hand again rather uncertainly. Grace's hand
went quickly out to meet it, holding it in a warm, friendly clasp,
and Mildred went to her room a changed girl.

"How did you happen to be her confessor, Miriam?" asked Grace
wonderingly, after the freshman had gone.

Miriam related the evening's happenings.

"I never even suspected her," said Grace. "I believed her to be
angry with me for overlooking her at the reception. I always tried
not to think of any particular girl as being guilty of taking my
theme. It has turned out beautifully, hasn't it?"

"Yes," nodded Miriam. "As a matter of fact everything generally does
turn out well in the end if one has the patience to wait."




CHAPTER XXIV

CONCLUSION


"Two more days, then good-bye to Overton," mourned Elfreda Briggs
sadly.

The stout girl was seated on the floor, the contents of her trunk
spread broadcast about her.

"Elfreda would like to stay here and study all summer," remarked
Miriam slyly to Anne, who was watching Elfreda's movements with
amused eyes.

"Oh, no, I wouldn't," retorted Elfreda good-naturedly. "I am as
anxious to go home as the rest of you, but I'm sorry to leave here,
too. What's the use in explaining?" she grumbled, catching sight of
her friends' laughing faces. "You girls know what I mean, only you
will tease me."

"Never mind, we won't tease It any more," said Miriam soothingly.

"There is only one thing you can do to convince me that you are in
earnest," stipulated Elfreda.

"Name it," laughed Anne.

"Invite me to a banquet, and have cakes and lemonade," was the calm
request.

"I thought you were strongly opposed to sweet things," commented Anne.

"Not at the sad, sorrowful end of the sophomore year," returned
Elfreda, impressively. "Besides, lemonade isn't fattening."

"And it will be such splendid exercise for you to make it," added
Miriam mischievously.

Elfreda looked disapprovingly at Miriam, then a broad smile
illuminated her round face. "So nice of you to think about the
exercise," she beamed affectedly. "Lead me to the lemons."

Miriam rose, took Elfreda by the arm, and leading her to the closet,
pointed upward to the shelf. Elfreda grasped the paper bag with a
giggle. Then Miriam led her calmly out again, just in time to
encounter Grace, Mabel Ashe and Frances Marlton, who, in passing down
the hall, had heard voices, and could not resist stopping for a moment.

"What is going on here?" asked Mabel curiously. "Why is J. Elfreda
in leading strings?"

"She is taking exercise," replied Miriam gravely. "J. Elfreda,
explain to the lady."

"This exercise is compulsory," grinned Elfreda. "No exercise, no
lemonade. Of course, you will stay and have some."

"Of course," agreed Mabel. "I may not have a chance for a very long
time to drink lemonade again with the Wayne Hallites."

"You mustn't say that," remonstrated Grace. "Remember, you are going
to visit me at Oakdale. Elfreda is going to visit Miriam. Can't you
can arrange to come, too, Frances?"

"I'm sorry," declared Frances, shaking her head, "but we are going
to sail for Europe within a week after I reach home. I shall have to
say good-bye in earnest on Thursday. But I'll write you, and make you
a visit some time."

"How comfortingly definite. I'll see you again during the next
hundred years," jeered Mabel.

"You know I don't mean that," reproached Frances.

  "I do intend before the end,
  This happy couple shall meet again,"

chanted Elfreda as she peered into the lemonade pitcher.

"Precisely," laughed Frances. "Did you play 'Needle's eye' when you
were a little girl, Elfreda?"

"Yes, and 'London Bridge' and 'King William was King James's son,'
too. I always loved to play, but was hardly ever chosen because I was
so fat and ungainly. I remember once, though, when I went to a
children's party in a pale blue silk dress that made me look like a
young mountain. I thought myself superlatively beautiful, however,
and the rest of the little girls were so impressed that I was a great
social triumph, and made up for the times when I had been passed by,"
concluded Elfreda humorously.

"Your adventures are worthy of recording and publishing," said Anne
lightly. "Write a book and call it 'The Astonishing Adventures of
Elfreda'."

The stout girl eyed Anne reflectively, the lemon squeezer poised in
one hand. "That's a good idea," she said coolly. "I'll do it when I
come back next fall. Now I'm not going to say another word until I
finish this lemonade, so don't speak to me." When she left the room
for ice water, Mabel Ashe observed warmly, "She is a credit to 19--,
isn't she?"

"Yes," returned Grace. "They are beginning to find it out, too."

"Your sophomore days have been peaceful, compared with last year,"
remarked Frances Marlton. "Certain girls have kept strictly in the
background."

"We have not been obliged to resort to ghost parties this year,"
reminded Mabel Ashe. "It requires ghosts to lay ghosts, you know."

Grace could have remarked with truth that certain ghosts had not
been laid as effectually as she desired, but wisely keeping her own
counsel she was about to essay a change of subject when the return
of Elfreda with the lemonade served her purpose.

"'How can I bear to leave thee?'" quoted Mabel sentimentally, as she
and Frances reluctantly rose to go half an hour later. "I hope you
feel properly flattered. Graduates' attentions are at a premium this
week. They ought to be, too, when one stops to think that it takes
four years to reach that dizzy height of popularity. Four long years
of slavish toil, my children. Observe my careworn air, my rapidly
graying locks, my deeply-lined countenance."

"Yes, observe them," grinned Elfreda. "You look younger than Anne,
and she looks like a mere chee--ild. Don't forget that you are going
to send us pictures of you in your cap and gown, will you?" she
added, looking affectionately at the two pretty seniors, whose help
and kindly interest had meant much to her individually.

"We will see you to the door," laughed Grace, slipping her arm
through Mabel's.

"Did you ever find the girl?" asked Mabel in a low tone. "You know
the one I mean. I have often wondered about her."

"Yes," replied Grace in the same guarded tones. "I can't tell even
you her name, but everything has been explained."

Mabel pressed Grace's arm in silent understanding. "Good-bye," she
said, "we shall see you again before we leave Overton."

"You had better come into our room and finish the lemonade,"
declared Miriam, as they watched their guests go down the walk.

"But I haven't begun my packing yet, and I have so many things to do
and so many girls to see that I ought not waste a minute."

"Time spent with us is never wasted," reminded Elfreda significantly.

"Quite true," responded Grace gaily. "I am sorry I had to be
reminded. To prove my sorrow I will help you with your packing, when
I ought to be doing my own."

"Come on, then," challenged Elfreda. She ran lightly up the stairs,
her three friends at her heels.

"I'll pour the lemonade while you and Grace pack," volunteered Miriam.

"I choose to do nothing," said Anne lazily. "I am going to work all
summer. I need a little rest now."

"You won't know where you are to be for the summer until Mr. Forest
writes, will you?" asked Miriam.

"The Originals will be lonesome without you, Anne," mourned Grace.
"You must be sure to visit me. That is, unless you are too far west."

"I am going to have a visitor of my own," announced Elfreda proudly.
"You can never guess who it is."

"I know," laughed Anne, after a moment's reflection. "It is the
Anar--Miss Atkins, I mean."

"Who told you?" demanded Elfreda. "It is true, though. She is coming
to Fairview the last two weeks in July, and I am going to give her
the time of her life. Just think, girls, she has never had any girl
friends until she came here. Her mother died when she was a baby, and
a prim old aunt kept house for them. Her father is Professor
Archibald Atkins, that Natural Scientist who went to Africa and was
held captive by a tribe of savages for two years.

"Living with the heathen didn't improve him, for when he came home
he behaved so queerly that people thought him crazy. Then the aunt,
who was the professor's sister, died, and poor Laura had to live
alone with her father in a great big country house. Finally, she grew
so tired of it she asked him to send her to college. She had always
had a tutor, so she was ready for the entrance examinations, but she
had never associated with other girls and didn't know much about
them. I can't feel sorry enough for calling her names and imitating
her. We had a long talk at Martell's the other night and I am going
to be her knight errant from now on."

"You found the rainbow side of your sophomore year in helping some
one else, didn't you, Elfreda?"

"I don't know what you are talking about," rejoined Elfreda bluntly.

"I know you don't," laughed Grace. "It was nothing much. Last year
at this time Anne and I were lamenting because we couldn't be
freshmen all over again, and Anne said that being a sophomore was
sure to have its rainbow side."

"It has been the nicest year of my life," said Elfreda earnestly.
"If being a junior is any nicer than being a sophomore--well--you
will have to show me. There, I've ended by using slang. But I've
found my rainbow side in another way, too."

"Name it," challenged Miriam mischievously.

"By losing twenty pounds," announced Elfreda, with proud triumph. "I
weigh one hundred and forty pounds now, and next fall you will see
me on the team, or it won't be my fault."

"I hope I shall have time for basketball," said Grace. "There will
be so many other things. Remember, girls, if during vacation you
think of any good plan for the Semper Fidelis Club to make money,
make a note of it. Just because we have money in our treasury, we
mustn't become lazy. We will find plenty of uses for every cent we
can earn. There are dozens of girls struggling through Overton who
need help."

"You never told us to what girls you and Arline played Santa Claus
last winter, Grace," said Elfreda reproachfully.

"And I never will," laughed Grace, "and Arline won't tell, either."

"I know something, too," declared Elfreda, "but I'm not as stingy as
Grace. I know who poked that envelope with the ten dollars in it
under Grace's door."

"Who?" came simultaneously from the three girls.

"Mildred Taylor," replied Elfreda. "I saw her do it. I was just
coming down the hall that night as she slipped it under the door and
ran away. I never told any one, because I could see she didn't want
any one to know she did it."

"Elfreda always sees more than appears on the surface," commented
Miriam mischievously.

"Elfreda's energy has inspired me to go to my room and begin my own
packing," declared Anne, rising.

"I'll go with you," volunteered Grace. "I think Elfreda can be
trusted to finish her packing by herself."

"I think I'll accomplish more, at any rate," declared Elfreda
pointedly.

"It is half over, Anne, dear," said Grace, almost wistfully, as they
strolled down the hall, school girl fashion, their arms about each
other's waists.

"Our life at Overton, you mean?" asked Anne.

Grace nodded. "I was sure I should never like college as well as
high school, but I've found it even nicer."

"And we are going to like being juniors best of all," predicted Anne.

How completely the truth of Anne's prediction was proven will be
found in "Grace Harlowe's Third Year at Overton College."


The End.






[Transcriber's Note: The spelling "aplication" occurred in chapter VIII
and was changed to "application."]





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