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Marjorie Dean, High School Sophomore

by Josephine Chase · English · Gutenberg #27985 · 385,646 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Marjorie Dean, High School Sophomore

Author: Josephine Chase


        
Release date: February 4, 2009 [eBook #27985]
                Most recently updated: January 4, 2021

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MARJORIE DEAN, HIGH SCHOOL SOPHOMORE ***




Produced by Juliet Sutherland and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net









[Illustration: MARY KNELT ON THE DRIVEWAY AND GATHERED CHARLIE INTO HER
ARMS. _Marjorie Dean High School Sophomore._]




    MARJORIE DEAN
    High School Sophomore

    By PAULINE LESTER

    AUTHOR OF

    "Marjorie Dean, High School Freshman"
    "Marjorie Dean, High School Junior"
    "Marjorie Dean, High School Senior"


    A. L. BURT COMPANY

    Publishers      New York


    Copyright, 1917
    BY A. L. BURT COMPANY




MARJORIE DEAN, HIGH SCHOOL SOPHOMORE

CHAPTER I

WHEN DREAMS COME TRUE


"Come on in, Connie. The water's fine!" invited Marjorie Dean, beckoning
with one round, dripping arm to the girl on the sands, while with the
other she kept herself lazily afloat.

The sun of a perfect August morning poured down upon the white beach,
dotted here and there with ambitious bathers, who had grasped Time
firmly by his venerated forelock, and fared forth with the proverbial
early bird for a morning dip in a deceitfully dimpled and smiling sea.

It was not yet nine o'clock, but, fearful of losing a minute of her
precious seaside vacation, Marjorie Dean had come down to her favorite
playground for her usual early morning swim.

"I know it's fine," laughed Constance Stevens, "but this nice white sand
is even finer."

"You'll never learn to swim if you just sit on the beach and dream,"
reminded Marjorie. "I feel that it's my stern duty to see that your
education as a water paddler is not neglected. So here goes!"

With a few skilful strokes she brought up in shallow water. There was a
quick rush of lithe feet, the sound of sweet, high laughter, then a
little, good-natured gurgle of protest from the golden-haired, blue-eyed
girl curled up on the sand as she found herself being dragged into the
water by a pair of sturdy young arms.

"Now--sink or swim, survive or perish!" panted Marjorie, as the lapping
shallows broke over the yielding figure of her friend. "You'll simply
have to be a water baby, Connie, dear. It's as important as being a
sophomore in Sanford High, and you know just how important that is! Now,
watch me and do likewise."

Her day dream thus rudely interrupted, Constance Stevens laughingly
resigned herself to Marjorie's energetic commands, and, now thoroughly
awake to the important business at hand, tried her best to follow her
friend's instructions. A fifteen minutes' lesson in the art of learning
to float followed, and at the end of that time, by common consent, the
two girls waded ashore and flung themselves on the warm sand.

"I'll never learn to swim. I feel it in my bones," asserted Constance,
as she lazily rose, wrung the water from her bathing suit and seated
herself on the white beach beside Marjorie, who lay stretched at full
length, her head propped upon her elbows, her alert gaze upon the few
bathers who were disporting themselves in the water.

"Then your bones are false prophets," declared Marjorie calmly. "You
know how to float already, and that's half the battle. We'll rest a
little and talk some more, and then we'll try it again. Next time I'll
teach you an easy stroke. Isn't it funny, Connie, we never seem to get
'talked out.' We've been here together five whole weeks and yet there
always seems to be something new to say. You are really a most
entertaining person."

"That's precisely my opinion of you." Constance's blue eyes twinkled.

The two girls laughed joyously. Two wet hands stretched forth and met in
a loving little squeeze.

"It's been wonderful to be here with you, Marjorie. Last year at this
time I never dreamed that anything so wonderful could possibly happen to
me." The golden-haired girl's voice was not quite steady.

"And I've loved being here with you. What a lot of things can happen in
a year," mused Marjorie. "Why, at this time last year I never even knew
that there was a town called Sanford on the map, and when I found out
there was really such a place, and that I was going to live there
instead of staying in B---- and going to Franklin High, I felt perfectly
_awful_ about it."

It had, indeed, been a most unhappy period for sunny, lovable Marjorie
Dean when the call of her father's business had made it necessary for
him to remove his family from the beautiful city of B----, where
Marjorie had been born and lived sixteen untroubled years of life, to
the smaller northern city of Sanford, where she didn't know a soul.

All that happened to Marjorie Dean from the first day in her new home
has been faithfully recorded in "MARJORIE DEAN, HIGH SCHOOL FRESHMAN."
In that narrative was set forth her trials, which had been many, and her
triumphs, which had been proportionately greater, as a freshman in
Sanford High School. How she had become acquainted with Constance
Stevens and how, after never-to-be-forgotten days of storm and sunshine,
the friendship between the two young girls had flowered into perfect
understanding, formed a story of more than ordinary interest.

Now, after several happy weeks at the seashore, where the Deans had
rented a cottage and were spending their usual summer outing with
Constance as their guest, the two friends were enjoying the last perfect
days of mid-summer before returning to Sanford, where, in September,
Constance and Marjorie were to enter the delightful realm of the
sophomore, to which they had won admission the previous June.

There had been only one shadow to mar Marjorie's bliss. She had hoped
that her childhood friend and companion, Mary Raymond, might be with
them at the seashore, but, owing to the ill-health of Mary's mother, the
Raymonds had been obliged to summer in the mountains, where Mary was
needed at her mother's side. That Constance and Mary should meet and
become friends had ever been Marjorie's most ardent desire. It was
Constance's remarkable resemblance to Mary that had drawn her toward the
girl in the very beginning.

"It's all been so perfectly beautiful, Connie." Marjorie gave a little
sigh of sheer happiness. "I've only one regret."

"I know--you mean your chum, Mary," supplemented Constance, with quick
sympathy.

Marjorie nodded.

"It seems strange I haven't heard from her. She hasn't written me for
over two weeks. I hope her mother isn't worse."

"No news is good news," comforted Constance.

"Perhaps there will be a letter for me from her when we get back to the
cottage. Suppose there should be! Wouldn't that be glorious?"

"Perhaps we'd better go up now and see," suggested Constance. "It must
be time for the postman."

"We're not going until after you've had fifteen more minutes'
instruction in the noble art of swimming, you rascal," laughed
Marjorie. "See how self-sacrificing I am! You don't appreciate
my noble efforts in your direction."

"Of course I appreciate them, Marjorie Dean." Constance's habitually
wistful expression broke up in a radiant smile that set her blue eyes
dancing. "But I must confess, this minute, that I can live and be happy
if I never learn to swim."

"That settles it. In you go again."

Marjorie sprang energetically to her feet, and began dragging her
protesting friend down the beach to the water. Another fifteen
minutes' instruction followed, punctuated by much laughter on the
part of the two girls.

"There! I'll let you off for to-day," conceded Marjorie, at last. "Now,
come on. I have a hunch that there _is_ a letter for me. I haven't had
any letters for two whole days."

It was only a few rods from the bathing beach to the "Sea Gull," the
cottage in which the Deans were living. As they neared it, a
gray-uniformed figure was seen hurrying down the walk.

"It's the postman! What did I tell you?" Marjorie broke into a run,
Constance following close at her heels.

The two girls brought up flushed and laughing at the pretty,
vine-covered veranda, where Mrs. Dean sat, in the act of opening a
letter. Half a dozen other postmarked envelopes lay in her lap.

"Oh, Captain," Marjorie touched a hand to her bathing cap, "how many of
them are for me?"

"All of them except this, Lieutenant," smiled her mother, holding up the
letter she had been reading. "But why all this haste? I hardly expected
you back so soon. Five minutes before luncheon is your usual time for
reappearing," she slyly reminded.

"Oh, I had an unmistakable hunch that there was a letter here for me
from Mary, so I let Connie off easy on her lesson. I'll make up for it
to-morrow."

By this time Marjorie held in her hand the half-dozen envelopes, each
bearing its own special message from the various friends who held more
or less important places in her regard, and was rapidly going over them.

"Here's one from Jerry and one from Hal." The pink in her cheeks
deepened at sight of the familiar boyish hand. "One from Marcia Arnold,
another from Muriel Harding. Here's a tiresome advertisement." She threw
the fifth envelope disdainfully on the wicker table at her side.
"And--yes, here it is, in Mary's very own handwriting!"

Laying the other letters on the table with a carefulness that bespoke
their value, Marjorie hastily tore open the envelope that contained news
of her friend and drawing out a single closely written sheet of paper
said apologetically, "You won't mind if I read this now, will you,
Connie and Mother?"

"Go ahead," urged Constance. "We couldn't be so hard-hearted as to
object."

Mrs. Dean smiled her assent. Marjorie's thoughtfulness of others was
always a secret source of joy to her.

Marjorie read down the page, then uttered a little squeal of delight.
"Mother!" she exclaimed joyously, "just listen to this:

    "DEAREST MARJORIE:

    "You will wonder, perhaps, what has happened to me. I know I
    have owed you a letter for over two weeks, but I have been so
    busy taking care of mother that I haven't had very much time to
    write. Of course, we have a nurse, but, still, there are so many
    little things to be done for her, which she likes to have me do.
    She is much better, but our doctor says she must go to a famous
    health resort in the West for the winter. She will start for
    Colorado in about two weeks, and now comes the part of my
    letter which I hope you will like to read. I am going to make
    you a visit. Father and I are coming to see you on a very
    mysterious mission. I won't tell you anything more about it
    until I see you. Part of it is sad and part of it glad, and it
    all depends upon three persons whether it will ever happen.
    There! That ought to keep you guessing.

    "You wrote me that you would be at home in Sanford by the last
    of next week. Please writs me at once and let me know just
    exactly when you expect to reach there. We shall not try to come
    to the seashore, as father prefers to wait until you are back in
    Sanford again. With much love to you and your mother,

        "Yours Mysteriously,
            "MARY."

Marjorie finished the last word with a jubilant wave of the letter.

"What do you think of that, Captain? What do you suppose this mysterious
mission can be?" Marjorie's face was alight with affectionate curiosity.

"I am not good at guessing," Mrs. Dean smiled tolerantly. The ways of
schoolgirls were usually shrouded with a profound mystery, which
disappeared into nothingness when confronted with reality.

"It must be something extraordinary. She says it's part sad and part
glad. I hope it's mostly glad. I know _I'm_ glad that I'm going to see
her. Why, it's almost a year since we said good-bye to each other! Oh,
Connie," she turned rapturously to Constance, "you two girls, my dearest
friends, who look alike, will actually meet at last! You'll love Mary.
You can't help yourself, and she'll love you. She can't do anything
else."

"I hope she will like me," said Constance a trifle soberly. "I know I
shall like her, because she is your friend, Marjorie."

"You'll like her for yourself, Connie," predicted Marjorie loyally, and
secure in the belief that neither of these two girls, whose friendship
she held above rubies, could fail her, Marjorie Dean dreamed of a
kingdom of fellowship into which the three were fated to enter only
after scaling the steep and difficult walls of misunderstanding.




CHAPTER II

THE SHADOW


"Listen, Connie! Do you hear that train whistling? I'm sure it's Mary's
train."

Marjorie Dean peered anxiously up the track in the direction of the
sound. In the distance her alert eyes spied the smoke of the approaching
train before it rounded the bend and appeared in full view, and her
heart beat high with the thought that the longer-for moment had come at
last.

Since her return to Sanford, five days before, Marjorie had been in a
quiver of affectionate impatience. How slowly the days dragged! She
read and re-read Mary's latest letter, stating that she and her father
would arrive at Sanford on Wednesday on the 4.30 train and her
impatience grew. It was not alone that she desired to see Mary. There
was the "mysterious mission" to be considered. What girl does not love a
mystery? And Marjorie was no exception. At that moment, however, as she
waited for her childhood's friend, all thought of the mystery was swept
aside in the longing to see Mary again.

As the train rumbled into the station and after many groans and shudders
stopped with a last protesting creak of wheels, Marjorie's anxious gaze
traveled up and down its length. Suddenly, at the far end, she spied a
tall, familiar figure descending the car steps. Close behind him
followed a slender girl in blue. With a cluck of joy and a "There she
is!" Marjorie fairly raced up the station platform. Constance followed,
but proceeded more slowly. To Marjorie belonged the right to the first
rapturous moments with her chum. In her girlish soul lurked no trace of
jealousy. She understood that with Marjorie, Mary must always be first,
and she was filled with an unselfish happiness for the pleasure of the
girl who had braved all things for her and would forever mean all that
was best and highest to her.

"Mary!" Marjorie exclaimed, her clear voice trembling with emotion.

"Oh, Marjorie, it's been ages," quavered Mary Raymond. Then the two
became locked in a tempestuous embrace.

"Here, here, where do I come in?" asked an injured voice, as the two
young women continued to croon over each other, all else forgotten.

Marjorie gently disengaged herself from Mary's detaining arms and turned
to give her hand to Mr. Raymond.

"I'm so glad to see you," she said fervently. "Mother is waiting in our
car, just the other side of the station. But first, let me introduce my
friend, Constance Stevens. Why, where is she? I thought she was right
behind me. Oh, here she comes. Hurry up, Connie!"

Constance approached rather shyly. In spite of the fact that the old
days of poverty and heartache lay behind her like a bad dream, she was
still curiously reserved and diffident in the presence of strangers. The
decision of her aunt, Miss Susan Allison, to take up her abode in
Sanford in order that Constance might finish her high school course with
Marjorie had brought many changes into the life of the once friendless
girl. Miss Allison had purchased a handsome property on the outskirts of
Sanford, and, after much persuasion, had, with one exception, induced
the occupants of the little gray house to share it with her. Soon
afterward Mr. Stevens, Constance's foster-father, whose name she still
bore and refused to change, had accepted a position as first violin in a
symphony orchestra and had gone to fulfill his destiny in the world of
music which he loved. Uncle John Roland and little Charlie, once puny
and crippled, but now strong and rosy, had, with Constance, come into
the lonely old woman's household at a time when she most needed them,
and, in her contrition for the lost years of happiness which she had so
stubbornly thrust aside, she was in a fair way to spoil her little flock
by too much petting.

The fact that from a mere nobody Constance Stevens had become the social
equal of Sanford's most exclusive contingent did not impress the girl in
the least. Naturally humble and self-effacing, she had no ambition to
shine socially. Her one aim was to become a great singer, and it was
understood between herself and her aunt that when she was graduated from
high school she was to enter a conservatory of music and study voice
culture under the best masters.

It seemed to Constance that she now had everything in the world that she
could possibly hope for or desire, but of the great good which had come
to her in one short year she felt that above all she prized the
friendship of Marjorie Dean and in whatever lay Marjorie's happiness,
there must hers lie also.

This was her thought as she now stepped forward to meet Mary Raymond.
She was prepared to give this girl who was Marjorie's dearest friend a
loyalty and devotion, second only to that which she accorded Marjorie
herself.

"At last my dearest wish has come true!" exclaimed Marjorie when
Constance had been presented to Mr. Raymond and she and Mary had clasped
hands. "I've been so anxious for you two to know each other. Now that
you're here together I can see that resemblance I've told you of.
Connie, you look like Mary and Mary looks like you. You might easily
pass for sisters."

Constance smiled with shy sweetness at Mary and Mary returned the smile,
but in her blue eyes there flashed a sudden, half-startled expression,
which neither Constance nor Marjorie noted. Then she said in a tone
intended to be cordial, but which somehow lacked heart, "I'm awfully
glad to know you, Miss Stevens. Marjorie has written me often of you."

"And she has talked to me over and over again of you," returned
Constance warmly.

"Now that you know each other, you can postpone getting chummy until
later," laughed Marjorie. "Mother will wonder what has happened to us.
She'll think you didn't come on that train if we don't put in an
appearance."

Possessing herself of Mary's traveling bag she led the way with Mary
through the station and out to the opposite side where Mrs. Dean awaited
them. Constance followed with Mr. Raymond. In her heart she experienced
an odd disappointment. Was it her imagination, or did Mary's cordiality
seem a trifle forced? Perhaps it would have been better if she had not
accompanied Marjorie to the station to meet Mary. Perhaps Mary was a
trifle hurt that her chum had not come alone. She decided that she would
not ride to Marjorie's home with the party, although she had been
invited to dine with them that night. She could not bear to think of
intruding. She managed to answer Mr. Raymond's courteous remarks, but
her thoughts were not centered upon what he was saying. Without warning,
her old-time diffidence settled down upon her like an enveloping cloak,
and her one object was to slip away as quickly and as unobtrusively as
possible.

"I think I had better not go home with you, Marjorie," she said in a low
voice. They had reached the waiting automobile and Mary and Mrs. Dean
were exchanging affectionate greetings.

"Oh, why not, Connie?" Marjorie's happy face clouded. "You know we'd
love to have you, wouldn't we, Mary?"

"Of course." Mary again smiled at Constance, but again her smile lacked
warmth.

Constance shook her head almost obstinately.

"I think I had better not come," she repeated, and in her speech there
was a shadowy return of the old baffling reserve that had so greatly
disturbed Marjorie in the early stages of their friendship.

"But you promised to take dinner with us to-night," remarked Marjorie.

"I--I have changed my mind. It will be best for me to go home, I think.
I'll come over to-morrow."

Mrs. Dean added her persuasions, but Constance was firm, and, after
bidding a courteous farewell to the Deans' guests, she hurried away,
more agitated than she cared to admit.

"Why, what ails Constance, Marjorie?" asked Mrs. Dean in surprise.

"Nothing--that is, I don't know." Marjorie looked after her friend's
rapidly disappearing figure, a puzzled expression in her brown eyes.

Mary Raymond viewed Marjorie with a faint frown. It was rather provoking
in Marjorie to express so much concern over this Constance Stevens.
After their long separation she felt that her chum's every thought ought
to be for her alone. And in that instant a certain fabled green-eyed
monster, that Mary had never believed could exist for her, suddenly
sprang into life and whispered to her that, perhaps, after all, she was
not first in Marjorie Dean's heart.




CHAPTER III

SOWING THE SEED OF DISCORD


"Before you talk of another single thing, Mary Raymond, please tell me
what you mean by a 'mysterious mission' that is 'part sad and part
glad,'" exclaimed Marjorie.

Mr. Raymond was occupying the front seat of the automobile, beside Mrs.
Dean, who drove the car, a birthday present from her husband, and the
two girls had the tonneau of the automobile to themselves. They had
scarcely deposited Mary's luggage on the floor of the car and settled
themselves for the short ride to the Deans' home when Marjorie had made
her eager inquiry into the nature of the "mysterious mission" that had
so aroused her curiosity.

"Well," began Mary, brightening, "father and I _have_ come to see you on
a mission, but the only mystery about it is that you don't as yet know
why we've come. I thought 'mysterious mission' looked rather well on
paper so I set it down."

"But you're going to tell me about it this instant, you wicked,
tantalizing girl," insisted Marjorie with pretended sternness.

"I thought perhaps you might be able to guess certain things from my
letter," continued Mary. "You see, I wrote you that mother would have to
go to Colorado for the winter and----"

"You are going with her," supplemented Marjorie.

"No, that's a wild guess. I'm not going west with her. Father says I
must stay in the East and go through my sophomore year in high school."

"But you can't stay at home by yourself, Mary. Just think how dreadful
that would be for you, with your father away most of the time," reminded
Marjorie.

Mary's father was a traveling salesman for a large furniture
manufactory, and spent the greater part of his time on the road.

"That's just the point," responded Mary. "I know I can't stay at home
alone. Mother's illness and what is to become of me when father goes on
the road again is the sad part of it, but the glad part is--oh,
Marjorie, can't you guess now?" Mary caught Marjorie's hand in hers.
"We've come all the way to Sanford to see if," her voice rose high with
excitement, "there isn't a little corner in the Dean barracks that a
certain lieutenant can call her own for this year and----"

"Mary!" It was Marjorie's turn to become excited. "Do you really mean
that you wish to come to live with me and enter Sanford High? That we'll
be sophomores together?"

Mary clung to Marjorie's hand and nodded. For a moment she was too near
to tears for speech. But they were tears of happiness. Marjorie really
desired her for a best friend after all. Her sudden jealousy of
Constance Stevens vanished.

"I should say that was a _glad_ part of your mission," laughed Marjorie
happily. "I don't know what I've ever done to deserve such good fortune.
Mother will be glad, too. She loves you almost as much as she loves me."

"Oh, Mother," Marjorie leaned impulsively forward, "Mary's coming to
live with me this year while her mother is in Colorado. You'll have two
lieutenants instead of one to look after. We are going to win sophomore
honors together and be promoted to be captains next June!"

"There," declared Mr. Raymond with comical resignment, "now you have let
the cat out of the bag with a vengeance, Mary Raymond. All this time I
had been planning to ask Mrs. Dean, in my most ingratiating manner, if
she thought she might possibly make room for a certain very frisky
member of my family for a while. I had intended to proceed carefully and
diplomatically so that she wouldn't be too much shocked at such a
prospect, but now----"

"It's all settled, isn't it, Mother?" interrupted Marjorie. "You are
just as anxious as I for Mary to come and live with us, aren't you?"

"Shall I stop the car in the middle of the street and assure you of my
willingness to increase my regiment?" laughed Mrs. Dean.

"No, no," protested Marjorie. "Let's hurry home as fast as we can and
talk it over. We're only two squares from our house now. Besides, I've
planned everything already. Mary can have the spare bedroom next to my
house." Marjorie always referred to her room as her "house." "There's
only the bath between and we'll use that together, and have a regular
house of our own. Oh, Mary, won't it be perfectly splendid?"

Regardless of what passersby might think, Mary and Marjorie embraced
with an enthusiasm that threatened to land them both in the tonneau of
the rapidly moving car, while their elders smiled at this reckless
display of affection.

The automobile had hardly come to a full stop on the broad driveway,
that wound through the wide stretch of lawn that was one of the chief
beauties of the Deans' pretty home, when Marjorie swung open the door
and skipped nimbly out of the car with, "Welcome home, Mary!"

Mary was only an instant behind Marjorie in leaving the car, and the two
hugged each other afresh out of pure joy of living.

"Take Mary up to her room at once, dear," directed Mrs. Dean. "I'm sure
she must be tired and hungry after her long ride in the train. We will
have an early dinner to-night. I expect Mr. Dean home at almost any
moment," she continued, turning to Mr. Raymond.

"Come on, Mary." Marjorie had lifted Mary's bag from the automobile. Now
she stretched forth an inviting hand to Mary, and piloted her across the
lawn and up the short stretch of stone walk to the front door. The door
opened and a trim, rosy-cheeked maid appeared as by magic. She reached
for Mary's bag, but Marjorie waved her gently aside.

"I'll do the honors, Delia. You can look after mother and Mr. Raymond.
We are very self-sufficient persons who don't need anything except a
chance to go upstairs and talk ourselves hoarse."

A wide smile irradiated the maid's goodnatured face, as she stepped
aside to allow Marjorie and Mary to enter the hall.

"What a darling house!" Mary's glance traveled about the pretty Dutch
hall to the large, comfortable living room beyond. "You have oceans of
room here, haven't you?"

Marjorie nodded. "Yes; when first we came here I felt lost. It was
actually lonesome. It took me a whole week to grow accustomed to looking
out without seeing rows of brick houses across the street and on each
side of me. Don't you remember, I wrote you all about it? You see, I
didn't enter high school until we'd been here almost two weeks, and in
all that time I never met a single girl. I felt like a shipwrecked
sailor on a great, big, lonely, old island. Shall we go upstairs now?
I'm so anxious to have you see my 'house.' It's a house within a house,
you know. Mother had it all done up in pink and white for me, and I
spent hours in it. Your house is blue. I made general and captain let
me have one of the spare bedrooms done in blue, so that when you came to
visit me you'd feel at home. And now it's going to be your very own for
a whole year! It's too good to be true."

Releasing Mary's hand, Marjorie led the way up the stairs to the second
floor and down the short hall to her "house." Mary cried out in
admiration at her friend's dainty room. She walked about, exclaiming
over its perfect details after the manner of girls, then three minutes
later the two somehow found themselves seated side by side on Marjorie's
pretty white bed, their arms about each other's waists, and fairly
launched into one of the good, old-time confabs they were wont to
indulge in when the top step of the Deans' veranda in B---- had been
their favorite trysting place.

Half an hour later Mrs. Dean entered the room to find them still talking
at an alarming rate, the rest of their world apparently forgotten.

"I might have known it," she smiled. "Why, you haven't even taken off
your hats, and dinner will be ready in ten minutes. Marjorie, you are a
most neglectful hostess."

"Oh, we don't mind having dinner with our hats on," returned Marjorie
cheerfully. Then, rising, she took off her broad-brimmed Panama, and
began gently pulling the pins from Mary's hat. "Make it fifteen minutes,
instead of ten, Captain, and we'll be as spick and span as you please."

"Discipline seems to be very lax in these barracks," commented Mrs.
Dean. "I am afraid I ought to call upon General to help me enforce my
orders. Under the circumstances I'll be lenient, though, and stretch the
time to fifteen minutes. There, I hear General downstairs now!"

She disappeared from the doorway and immediately a great scurrying about
began, punctuated with much talk and laughter. To Marjorie it seemed as
though she had not been so happy for ages. It was wonderful to know that
her beloved Mary was actually with her once more, and still more
wonderful that she would continue to be with her indefinitely.

At dinner she beamed joyously across the table at the little blue-eyed
girl, while their elders discussed and settled her destiny for the
coming year. Mr. and Mrs. Dean met Mr. Raymond's request in behalf of
his daughter with the whole-heartedness that so characterized them. In
fact, they were highly in favor of receiving Mary as a member of their
little household.

"Two soldiers are better than one," asserted Mr. Dean humorously. "I
believe in preparedness. 'In times of peace prepare for war,' you know.
With such a valiant army under my command I could do wonders if attacked
by the enemy."

After dinner they all repaired to the living room, where the discussion
of the all-important subject was continued, and when at eleven o'clock
two sleepy, but blissfully happy, lieutenants climbed the stairs to bed,
Mary Raymond lacked nothing except actual adoption papers, signed and
sealed, to admit her into the Deans' hospitable fold.

Yet there was one tiny drawback to Mary's joy. Try as she might she
could not forget Constance Stevens and Marjorie's too evident fondness
for her. From Marjorie's early letters she had formed the conclusion
that Constance was merely a poor nobody, whom her chum, with her usual
spirit of generosity had tried to befriend. Marjorie's later letters had
contained little pertaining to Constance. Mary had not known of the long
period of estrangement between Constance and Marjorie that had so nearly
wrecked their budding friendship, and of the many changes that time had
wrought in the life of the girl who looked like her. She had, therefore,
been quite unprepared to meet the dainty, well-dressed young woman whom
Marjorie appeared to hold in such strong affection. She reflected that
night, a trifle resentfully, after Marjorie had kissed her good-night
and left her, that it was very strange in Marjorie not to have put her
in possession of the real facts of the case. Still, it was really not
her affair. If Marjorie chose to become chummy with Constance without
even writing a word of it to her, there was nothing to do except to be
silent over the whole affair. Perhaps Marjorie would tell her all about
it later. Certainly she would ask no questions. And then and there,
little, blue-eyed Mary Raymond made her first mistake, and sowed a tiny
seed of discord in her jealous heart that was fated later to bear bitter
fruit.




CHAPTER IV

INTRODUCING MARY TO THE GIRLS


"We've come for a last inspection, Captain. How do we look?"

Marjorie Dean danced into her mother's room, her brown eyes sparkling
with anticipation, her charming face all smiles. Mary Raymond followed
her excited chum.

"Halt! Company, attention!" commanded Mrs. Dean, as she turned from her
dressing table to pass an opinion upon the waiting brigade of two. Her
brown eyes rested approvingly upon the trim figures drawn up in their
most soldierly attitude before her. Marjorie's frock of pink linen, with
its wide lace collar and cuffs, exactly suited her dark eyes and hair,
while Mary's gown of pale blue of the same material served to accentuate
the fairness of her skin and the gold of her curls.

"Shall we do, Captain? Are we absolutely spick and span?" Marjorie
turned slowly about, then made a laughing dive at her mother and
enveloped her in a devastating embrace.

"Now see the havoc you've wrought," complained Mrs. Dean. "I shall have
to do my hair over again. Never mind. I'll forgive you, and, being
magnanimous, will state that I am very proud of the appearance of my
army."

"You're a gallant officer and a dear, all in one." Marjorie caught her
mother's hand in hers. "Now, we must be on our way. We are going to
school early because Mary will have to see Miss Archer. Besides, I'm
anxious for her to meet Jerry Macy and some of the other girls. If only
she had come to Sanford sooner, I'd have loved to give a party for her.
Then she'd know every one of my friends. Oh, well, there is plenty of
time for that. Good-bye, Captain. We'll be back before long. There is
never very much to do in school on the first day."

Dropping a gay little kiss on her mother's smooth cheek, Marjorie left
the room, followed by Mary, who stopped just long enough to kiss Mrs.
Dean good-bye.

Three weeks had slipped by since Mr. Raymond and Mary had come to
Sanford upon the so-called mysterious mission that had made Mary Raymond
a member of the Dean household. They had returned to the city of
B---- the following day. From there Mr. Raymond had gone directly to the
mountains, for his wife, who, in spite of her ill-health, had insisted
on returning to her home to oversee the making of Mary's gowns and the
choosing of her wardrobe in general. Two days before coming to Sanford,
Mary had seen her mother off on her journey to Colorado in quest of
health. She had put on a brave face and smiled when she wished to cry,
and it was alone the thought that she was going to live with Marjorie
during her mother's absence that kept her from breaking down at the last
sad moment of farewell.

It was a sober-faced, sad-eyed Mary that Marjorie had met at the train,
but, under the irresistible sunniness of Marjorie's nature, Mary had
soon emerged from her cloud, and now the prospect of entering Sanford
High School filled her with lively anticipation.

As Marjorie and Mary emerged from the house and swung down the stone
walk in perfect step, they beheld a stout, and to Marjorie, a decidedly
familiar figure turning in at the gate. In the same instant a joyous
"Hello" rent the air, and the stout girl cantered up the walk at a
surprising rate of speed. There was a delighted gurgle from Marjorie,
that ended in a fervent embrace of the two young women.

"Oh, Jerry, I'm so glad to see you! I was afraid you wouldn't be back in
Sanford before school opened. I saw Irma day before yesterday and she
said she hadn't heard a word from you for over a week."

"We didn't get here until last night at ten o'clock Maybe I'm not glad
to see _you_." Jerry beamed affectionately upon Marjorie.

"This is my friend, Mary Raymond, Jerry," introduced Marjorie. "She is
going to live with us this winter and be a sophomore at dear old Sanford
High. There will be six of us instead of five now."

"I'm glad to know you." Jerry smiled and stretched forth a plump hand in
greeting. "I've heard a lot about you."

"I've heard Marjorie speak of you, too. I'm ever so pleased to meet
you." Mary exhibited a friendliness toward Jerry Macy that had been
quite lacking in her greeting of Constance Stevens.

As the three stood for a moment at the gate Jerry's eyes suddenly grew
very round.

"Why, Marjorie, your friend looks like Connie, doesn't she?"

"Of course she does," replied Marjorie happily. "Don't you remember I
told you long ago that that was why I felt so drawn toward Connie in the
first place?"

"Yes, I remember it now. Isn't it funny that your two dearest friends
should look alike? Have you met Constance, Mary? I'm going to call you
Mary. I never call a girl 'Miss' unless I can't bear her. I'm sure I'm
going to like you. Not only because you're Marjorie's chum, but for
yourself, you know. If you turn out to be even one half as nice as
Constance Stevens, I'll adore you. Connie is a dear and no mistake
about it."

The shadow of a frown touched Mary's forehead. Why must she be compelled
to hear continually of Constance Stevens? And why should this Jerry Macy
place her and Constance on the same plane in Marjorie's affection? She
did not propose to share her place in her chum's heart with anyone. Of
course, this girl could not possibly know just how much she and Marjorie
had always been to each other. Later on they would understand. They
would soon see that Marjorie preferred her above all others.

Comforted by this reflection the shadow passed from Mary's face and the
trio started down the street for school, chatting and laughing as only
carefree schoolgirls can.

Once inside the school building, Jerry said good-bye to them and turned
down the corridor toward the study hall. Marjorie smiled with tender
reminiscence as she and Mary climbed the familiar broad stairway to the
second floor. She was thinking of another Monday morning that belonged
to the past, when a timid stranger had climbed those same stairs and
diffidently inquired the way to the principal's office. How far away
that day seemed, and how much had happened within those same walls since
that fateful morning.

"I'll never forget my first morning here," she said to Mary, as they
walked down the corridor toward their destination--the last room on the
east side. "Captain had a headache and couldn't come with me. I had to
march into Miss Archer's office all by myself. I felt like a forlorn
stranger in a strange, unfriendly land. Then I met such a nice girl,
Ellen Seymour, a friend of mine now, and she took me to the office and
introduced me to Miss Archer."

Before Mary had time to reply they had entered the cheerful living-room
office that had so greatly impressed Marjorie on her first introduction
to Sanford High. A tall, dark girl, seated at a desk at one end of the
room, glanced up at the sound of the opening door. She hurried forward
with a little exclamation of delighted surprise. "Why, Marjorie!" she
exclaimed. "I was just thinking of you. I was wondering if you'd be in
for the first day. I had made up my mind to run down to the study hall a
little later and see." She now had Marjorie's hands in an affectionate
clasp.

"I've been wondering about you, too," nodded Marjorie. "You are another
stray who didn't come back until the last minute."

"I'm a working girl, you know," reminded Marcia. "Doctor Bernard was
dreadfully disappointed because I wouldn't give up high school and keep
on being his secretary. But I couldn't do that."

"Of course you couldn't," agreed Marjorie, "especially now that you are
a senior."

Mary Raymond had drawn back a little while Marjorie and Marcia Arnold,
Miss Archer's once disagreeable secretary, but now a changed girl
through the influence of Marjorie, exchanged greetings. Marjorie turned
and drew her chum forward, introducing her to Marcia, who bowed and
extended her hand in friendly fashion.

"Is Miss Archer busy, Marcia?" asked Marjorie, after she had explained
that Mary was to become a pupil of Sanford High School.

"Wait a moment, I'll see." Marcia went into the inner office, returning
almost instantly with, "Go right in. She is anxious to see you,
Marjorie."

Miss Archer's affectionate welcome of Marjorie Dean brought a blush of
sheer pleasure to the girl's cheeks. Her heart thrilled with joy at the
thought that there was now no veil of misunderstanding between her and
her beloved principal.

"And so this is Mary Raymond." Miss Archer took the newcomer's hand in
both her own. "We are glad to welcome you into our school, my dear. Your
principal at Franklin High School has already written me of you. How
long have you been in Sanford?"

Mary answered rather shyly, explaining her situation, while Marjorie
looked on with affectionate eyes. She was anxious that Miss Archer
should learn to know and love Mary.

"I will put you in Marjorie's hands," declared Miss Archer, after a few
moments' pleasant conversation. "She will take you to the study hall and
see that you are made to feel at home. We wish our girls to look upon
their school as their second home, considering they spend so much of
their time here. Please tell your mother, Marjorie," she added, as the
two girls turned to leave the room, "that I shall try to call on her
this week."

"How do you like Miss Archer? Isn't she splendid?" were the quick
questions Marjorie put, as they retraced their steps down the long
corridor.

"I know I'm going to love her," returned Mary fervently. "I hope I'll be
happy here, Marjorie." There was a wistful note in her voice that caused
Marjorie to glance sharply at her friend. Mary's charming face was set
in unusually sober lines.

"Poor Mary," was her reflection. "She's thinking of her mother." But
Mary Raymond's thoughts were far from the subject of her mother.
Instead, they were fixed upon what Jerry Macy had said that morning
about Constance Stevens. Miss Archer had asked about Constance, too. She
had spoken of her as though she and Marjorie were best friends. What had
she meant when she said, "Well, Marjorie, you and Constance deserve fair
sophomore weather after last year's storms." The flame of jealousy,
which Mary had sought to stifle after her first meeting with Constance,
was kindled afresh.

"What did Miss Archer mean when she spoke of you and Miss Stevens--and
last year's storms?" she asked abruptly.

"Oh, I can't explain now. It's too long a story. Here we are at the
study hall." Her mind occupied with school, Marjorie had not caught the
strained note in Mary's voice.

"She doesn't wish me to know," was Mary's jealous thought. "She is
keeping secrets from me. All right. Let her keep them. Only I know one
thing, and that is--I'll _never_, _never_, _never_ be friends with
Constance Stevens, not even to please Marjorie!"




CHAPTER V

AN UNCALLED-FOR REBUFF


The great study hall which Marjorie and Mary entered had little of the
atmosphere supposed to pervade a hall of learning. A loud buzz of
conversation greeted their ears. It came from the groups of girls
collected in various parts of the hall, who were making the most of
their opportunities to talk until called to order. Marjorie gave one
swift glance toward the lonely desk on the platform. It had always
reminded her of an island in the midst of a great sea. She breathed a
little sigh of relief. Her pet aversion, Miss Merton, was not occupying
the chair behind it. This, no doubt, accounted for the general air of
relaxation that pervaded the room. Her alert eyes searched the room for
Constance Stevens. She was not present. She gave another sigh, this time
it was one of disappointment. She had seen Constance only twice since
Mary's arrival. On one occasion she had taken dinner at the Deans' home.
The three girls had spent, what seemed to Marjorie, an unusually
pleasant evening. Constance, feeling dimly that Mary did not quite
approve of her, had dropped her usually reticent manner and exerted
herself to please. So well had she succeeded that Mary had rather
unwillingly succumbed to her charm and grown fairly cordial.

Totally unconscious of the shadow which had darkened the pleasure of
Constance's first meeting with Mary, and equally ignorant of Mary's
secret resentment of her new friend, Marjorie had retired that night
inwardly rejoicing in both girls and planning all sorts of good times
that they three might have together.

Several days later Constance had entertained them at luncheon at "Gray
Gables," the beautiful, old-fashioned house Miss Allison had purchased,
on the outskirts of Sanford. Mary had been secretly impressed with its
luxury and had instantly made friends with little Charlie. The quaint
child had gravely informed her that she looked like Connie and
immediately taken her into his confidence regarding his aspirations
toward some day playing in "a big band." He had also obligingly favored
her with a solo of marvelous shrieks and squawks on his much tortured
"fiddle." Mary loved children, and this, perhaps, went far toward
stilling the jealousy, which, so far, only faintly stirring, bade fair
to one day burst forth into bitter words.

"I'll see you in school on Monday," Marjorie had called over her
shoulder, as she and Mary had taken their departure from Constance's
home that afternoon. But now Monday had come and there was no sign of
the girl Marjorie held so dear in the study hall.

"Connie had better hurry. It's five minutes to nine. She'll be late."
Marjorie's gaze traveled anxiously toward the door. An unmistakable
frown puckered Mary's brows, but Marjorie did not see it.

"Oh, Marjorie Dean, here you are at last. We've been waiting for you."
Susan Atwell left a group of girls with which she had been hob-nobbing
and hurried down the aisle. "Come over here, you dear thing. We've been
looking our eyes out for you." She stopped short and stared hard at
Mary. "Why, I thought----" she began.

"You thought it was Connie, didn't you?" laughed Marjorie. She
introduced Mary to Susan.

"The girls over there thought you were Constance Stevens, too," smiled
Susan, showing her dimples. "You see, Marjorie and Connie are
inseparable, so, of course, we naturally mistook you for her. I never
saw two girls look so much alike. If we have a fancy dress party this
year you two can surely go as the Siamese Twins. Wouldn't that be
great?"

Mary smiled perfunctorily. She had her own views in the matter, and
they did not in the least coincide with Susan's.

A moment later they were hemmed in by an enthusiastic bevy of girls,
each one trying to make herself heard above the others. Marjorie was
besieged on all sides with eager inquiries. The girls had discovered, as
she neared them, that her companion was not Constance Stevens. Marjorie,
at once, did the honors and Mary found herself nodding in quick
succession to half a dozen girls.

"You fooled us all for a minute, Miss Raymond," cried Muriel Harding.

"She didn't fool me," announced Jerry Macy, who had joined them just in
time to hear Muriel's remark. "I knew she was coming, but I kept still
because I wanted to see you girls stare."

"Look around the room, Marjorie," observed Irma Linton in a guarded
tone. "Do you miss anyone? Not Constance. I wonder where she is?"

"I don't know." Marjorie's eyes took in the big room, then again sought
the door. "She said she would meet me here this morning. Let me see. Do
I miss anyone? Do you mean a girl in our class, Irma?"

Irma nodded.

Marjorie cast another quick look about her. "Why, no. Oh, now I know.
You mean Mignon."

Again Irma nodded. Under cover of a burst of laughter from the others
she murmured, "Mignon won't be with us this year. You will observe, if
you look hard, that I'm not weeping over our loss."

Marjorie was silent for a moment. The past rode before her like a
panorama, as the thought of the elfish-faced French girl and of how
deeply she had caused both herself and Constance Stevens to suffer. Her
pretty face hardened a trifle as she said, in a low voice, "I'm not
sorry, either, Irma. But why won't she be in high school this year? Has
she moved away from Sanford? I haven't seen her since we came home from
the beach."

"She has gone away to boarding school," answered Irma. "Between you and
me, I think she was ashamed to come back here this year. Susan told me
that her father wanted her to stay in high school and go to college, but
she teased and teased to go away to school, so finally he said she
might. She left here over two weeks ago. One of the girls received a
letter from her last week. In it she said she was so glad she didn't
have to go to a common high school and that the girls in her school were
not milk-and-water babies, but had a great deal of spirit and daring."

Marjorie's lip curled unconsciously. "I'd rather be a 'milk-and-water
baby' than as cruel and heartless as she. I'll never forgive her for the
way she treated Connie. Let's not talk of her, Irma. It makes me feel
cross and horrid, and, of all days, I'd like to be happy to-day. There's
so much to be happy over, and I'm so glad to see all of you. Life would
be a desert waste without high school, wouldn't it?"

Marjorie's soft hand found Irma's. She was very fond of this quiet,
fair-haired girl, who, with Jerry Macy, had stood by her so resolutely
through dark days.

"Here she comes--our dear teacher. Look out, girls, or you'll be ushered
out of Sanford High before you've had a chance to look at the bulletin
board," warned Muriel Harding's high-pitched voice. Her sarcastic
remarks carried farther than she had intended they should, as a sudden
hush had fallen upon the study hall. Miss Merton, Marjorie's pet
aversion, had stalked into the great room. She cast a malignant glance,
not at Muriel, but straight at Marjorie Dean.

"Oh," gasped Muriel and Marjorie in united consternation.

"That's the time you did it, Muriel," muttered Jerry Macy. "I always
told you that you ought to be an orator or an oratress or something.
Your voice carries a good deal farther than it ought to. Only Miss
Merton didn't think it was you who made those smart remarks. She thought
it was Marjorie. Now she'll have a new grievance to nurse this year."

"I'm awfully sorry." Muriel was the picture of contrition. "I didn't
intend she should hear me--but to blame you for it! That's dreadful.
I'll go straight and tell her that I said it."

Muriel made a quick movement as though to carry out her intention.
Marjorie caught her by the arm. "You'll do nothing of the sort, Muriel
Harding. My sophomore shoulders are broad enough to beat it. Perhaps she
didn't really hear what you said. She can't dislike me any more for that
than she did before she thought I said it."

"Young ladies, I am waiting for you to come to order. Will you kindly
cease talking and take seats?" Miss Merton's raucous voice broke
harshly upon the abashed group of girls. They scuttled into the
nearest seats at hand like a bevy of startled partridges.

"What a horrid woman," was Mary Raymond's thought, as she slipped into a
seat in front of Marjorie, and stared resentfully at the rigid figure,
so devoid of womanly beauty, in its severe brown linen dress, unrelieved
by even a touch of white at the neck.

With a final glare at Marjorie, the teacher proceeded at once to the
business at hand. Within the next few minutes she had arranged the girls
of the freshman class in the section of the study hall they were to
occupy during the coming year. Marjorie awaited the turn of the
sophomores to be assigned to a seat with inward trepidation. She had had
no opportunity to introduce Mary to Miss Merton. What should she do? She
half rose from the seat, then sat down undecidedly.

Miss Merton had arranged the freshmen to her satisfaction. Now she was
calling for the sophomores to rise. Perhaps she would not notice Mary.
If she did not, then Mary could pass with the sophomores to their
section. As soon as the session was dismissed, she would introduce her
to Miss Merton.

But Miss Merton was lynx-eyed. "That girl there in the blue dress," she
blared forth. "You were not in the freshman class last year."

Mary turned in her seat and shot a glance of appeal to Marjorie. The
girl rose bravely in friend's behalf.

"Miss Merton," she said in her clear, young voice, "I brought Miss
Raymond here with me. She----"

"You are not supposed to bring visitors to school, Miss Dean," was the
teacher's sarcastic reminder.

Marjorie's eyes kindled with wrath. Then, mastering her anger, she made
courteous reply. "She is not a visitor. She expects to enter the
sophomore class."

"Come down to this front seat, young woman," ordered Miss Merton,
ignoring Marjorie's explanation. "I'll attend to you later."

Mary sat still, surveying Miss Merton out of two belligerent blue eyes.

"Do as she says, Mary," whispered Marjorie.

Mary obeyed. Walking down the aisle with maddening deliberation, she
seated herself on the bench indicated.

"No talking," rasped Miss Merton, as a faint murmur went up from the
girls in the sophomore section.

Once the classes had been assigned to their places for the year there
was little more to be done. Nettled by her recent resentment against
Marjorie, Miss Merton took occasion to deliver a sharp lecture on good
conduct in general, making several pointed remarks, which caused
Marjorie to color hotly. More than one pair of young eyes glared their
resentment of this harsh teacher who had never lost an opportunity in
the past school year of censuring their favorite.

The moment the short session was over the girls of her particular set
gravitated toward Marjorie.

"Well, of all the old cranks!" scolded Geraldine Macy.

"She's the most hateful teacher in the world," was Muriel Harding's
tribute.

"I wouldn't pay any attention to her, Marjorie. I'd go straight to Miss
Archer," advised Susan Atwell. "Just see her now! She looks as though
she'd actually snap at your friend."

Miss Merton was engaged in interviewing the still belligerent Mary, who
stood listening to her, a sulky droop to her pretty mouth.

"Oh, I must go and help Mary out. Wait for me outside, girls."

"Do you need any help?" inquired Jerry. "I never was afraid of Miss
Merton, if you'll remember."

"Oh, no." Marjorie hurried toward her friend, and stood quietly at
Mary's side.

"Well, Miss Dean, what is it?" Miss Merton eyed Marjorie with her most
disagreeable expression.

"I came to tell you, Miss Merton," began Marjorie in her direct fashion,
"that Miss Raymond saw Miss Archer this morning before we came to the
study hall. She sent us----"

"That will do, Miss Dean," interrupted Miss Merton. "I hope Miss Raymond
is capable of attending to her affairs without your assistance. I should
greatly prefer that you go on about your own business and leave this
matter to me. I believe I have been a teacher in Sanford High School
long enough to be trusted to manage my own work."

A bitter retort rose to Marjorie's lips. She forced it back and with a
dignified bow to Miss Merton and, "I will wait for you in the corridor,
Mary," walked from the room, her head held high, her eyes burning with
resentful tears.




CHAPTER VI

MARY'S DISTURBING DISCOVERY


Once outside the study hall Marjorie Dean's proud manner left her. Her
recent joy in returning to high school gave place to a feeling of deep
dejection. Everything had certainly gone wrong. She had had so many
pleasant little thrills of anticipation that she had quite forgotten
Miss Merton and the teacher's unreasoning dislike for her, which she had
never taken pains to conceal. Muriel's injudicious remarks had made a
bad matter worse. Marjorie knew that from now on she would have to be
doubly on her guard. It was evident that Miss Merton intended to take
her to task whenever the slightest opportunity presented itself.
Marjorie even had her suspicions that Miss Merton had known that it was
Muriel instead of herself who had uttered those distinctly unflattering
words.

"I'll have to be very careful not to offend Miss Merton," she ruminated
gloomily, as she stood waiting for Mary, her eyes fastened on the big
study-hall door. Then her thoughts switched from Miss Merton to
Constance Stevens. Why hadn't Connie come to school? Surely she could
not be ill. Perhaps Charlie was sick.

The opening of the study-hall door interrupted her worried reflections.
Mary emerged from the hall, looking like a young thundercloud. She
closed the door after her with a resounding bang, which conveyed more
than words.

"Of all the hateful old tyrants!" she exclaimed, as she hurried toward
Marjorie. "I despise her. How dared she treat you so?"

"Oh, never mind," soothed Marjorie. "Let us forget her. Tell me, are you
or are you not a sophomore? Or must we go to Miss Archer to straighten
things?"

"I'm a sophomore all right enough," said Mary grimly. "I told her what
Miss Archer said, and after that she treated me more civilly. Such a
teacher is a disgrace to a school. Why is she so bitter against you,
Marjorie?"

Marjorie shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know. She has always acted
like that toward me. It's just a natural dislike, I suppose. Sometimes,
after a teacher has taught school a great many years, she takes sudden
likes and dislikes. I've been in her black books since my very first day
in Sanford High."

"Poor old Lieutenant." Mary patted Marjorie's hand with sympathetic
affection.

"Oh, it doesn't matter. I don't really care much. There are so many nice
teachers here who _do_ like me that I'm not going to worry over Miss
Merton. Come along." She linked her arm in Mary's. "The girls will be
waiting for us outside. We are all going down to Sargent's for ice
cream. Then we'll go home and report to Captain. After luncheon, I think
we had better walk over to Gray Gables. I am afraid Connie or, perhaps,
little Charlie is sick. You know Connie promised us, when we were there
on Friday, that she'd see us at school."

Mary's face clouded. "I--I think I won't go to Gray Gables with you. I
must write to mother. Besides, you and Constance may wish to be by
yourselves."

Marjorie's brown eyes opened wide. "Why should we?" she asked. "You know
you are always first with me. I haven't any secrets from you."

Mary's face brightened. Perhaps she had been too hasty in her
conclusions. "I wish you would tell me all about yourself and
Constance," she said slowly. "You promised you would."

"Well, I will," began Marjorie. Then she paused and flushed slightly. It
had suddenly come to her that perhaps Constance would not care to have
Mary know of the clouds of suspicion that had hung so heavily over her
freshman year. "I'd love to tell you about it now, Mary, but I think I
had better ask Constance first if she is willing for me to do so. You
see, it concerns her more than me. I am almost sure she wouldn't mind,
but I'd rather be perfectly fair and ask her first. You know Captain and
General have always said to us, 'Never break a confidence.'"

A hurt look crept into Mary's face. "Oh, never mind," she managed to
say with a brave assumption of indifference. "I don't wish to know about
it if you don't care to tell me."

"But I _do_ care to tell you, and I will if Connie says I may," assured
Marjorie earnestly.

Mary had no time for further remark. They had reached the double
entrance doors to the building and were hailed by a crowd of girls at
the foot of the steps.

"Oh, Connie," Marjorie Dean cried out delightedly. She had spied her
friend among them.

Constance ran forward to meet Marjorie and Mary. "I couldn't come
before. I've been to the train. Father is here. He's going to be at home
for two days. And what do you think he wishes me to do?"

"You are not going away with him?" asked Marjorie in sudden alarm.

"No, indeed. I couldn't give up my sophomore year here, even for him. It
isn't anything so serious. He proposed that as long as he was here to
play for us, it would be a good idea to----"

"Give a dance," ended Jerry Macy. "Hurrah for Mr. Stevens! Long may he
wave!"

"Yes, you have guessed it, Jerry," laughed Constance. "I'm going to give
a party in honor of Mary. I was so excited over it that I left him to go
on to Gray Gables by himself, while I rushed over here as fast as I
could come. I wanted to catch you girls together so I could invite you
in a body. Jerry, do you suppose Hal would be willing to see Lawrie and
the Crane and some of our boys? It will have to be a strictly informal
hop, for I haven't time to send out invitations."

"Of course he'll round up the crowd," assured Jerry slangily. "If he
doesn't, I will. I guess I won't go to Sargent's with you. What is mere
ice cream when compared to a dance? Besides, it's fattening--the ice
cream, I mean. I've lost five pounds this summer and I'm not going to
find them again at Sargent's if I can help it. So long, I'll see you all
to-night."

Jerry bustled off on her errand, leaving her friends engaged in an eager
discussion of the coming festivity. A little later they trooped down the
street to their favorite rendezvous, where most of their pocket money
found a resting place.

"We won't have a single bit of appetite for luncheon," commented
Marjorie to Mary, when, an hour later, they set out for home.

"I suppose not," assented Mary indifferently. Her thoughts were far from
the subject of luncheon. Her jealousy of Constance Stevens was
thoroughly aroused and flaming. She wished Marjorie had never seen nor
heard of this hateful girl. And to think that Constance had announced
that she was going to give a party in honor of _her_, the very person
she had robbed of her best friend! It was insufferable. What could she
do? If she refused to go, Marjorie and all those girls would wonder. She
could give no reasonable excuse for declining to go at this late day.
She told herself she would rather die than have Marjorie know how deeply
she had hurt her. Oh, well, she was not the first martyr to the cause
of friendship. She would try to bear it. Perhaps, some day, Marjorie,
too, would know the bitterness of being supplanted.

It was an unusually quiet Mary who slipped into her place at luncheon
that day.

"What is the matter, dear?" asked Mrs. Dean, noting the girl's silence.
"Don't you feel well?"

"Oh, I am all right," she made reply, torturing her sober little face
into a smile.

"Mary had troubles of her own this morning, Captain," explained
Marjorie. Then she launched forth into an account of the morning's
happenings.

Mrs. Dean looked her indignation as her daughter's recital progressed.
She had met Miss Merton and disliked her on sight.

"I have no wish to interfere in your school life, Marjorie," she said
with a touch of sternness, when Marjorie had finished, "but I will not
hear of either of you being imposed upon. If Miss Merton continues her
unjust treatment I shall insist that you tell me of it. I shall take
measures to have it stopped."

"Captain won't stand having her army abused," laughed Marjorie.

"At least you must admit that I'm a conscientious officer," was her
mother's reply. "To change the subject, would you like to go shopping
with me this afternoon?"

"Oh, yes," chorused the two. Even Mary forgot her grievances for the
moment. As little girls they had always hailed the idea of shopping with
their beloved captain.

The shopping tour took up the greater part of the afternoon, and it was
after five o'clock when the two started for home.

"No lingering at the dinner table to-night for this army," declared
Marjorie, finishing her dessert in a hurry. "It's almost seven, Mary.
We'll have to hurry upstairs to dress for the dance."

"You didn't apply to me for a leave of absence," reminded Mr. Dean. "You
know the penalty for deserting."

"We've forgotten it, General. You can tell us what it is to-morrow,"
retorted Marjorie. "Come on, Mary. Salute your officers and away we go."

In the excitement of dressing for the dance Mary almost forgot that she
was about to enter the house of the girl she now believed she disliked.
Marjorie's praise of her pretty white chiffon evening frock almost
restored her to good humor. Marjorie herself was radiant in a gown of
apricot Georgette crepe and filmy lace.

Mrs. Dean had elected to drive them to their destination in the
automobile, and when they alighted from the machine at the gate
to Gray Gables, waving her a gay good night, Mary felt almost glad
that she had come and that the dance was to be given in her honor.

"I've been watching for you." A slender figure in pale blue ran down the
steps to meet them. Out of pure sentiment Constance Stevens had chosen
to wear the blue chiffon dress--Marjorie's gracious gift to her. She had
taken the utmost care of it, and it looked almost as fresh as on the
night she had first worn it.

Mary Raymond stared at her in amazement Could it be--yes, it was the
very gown that Marjorie's aunt had given her a year ago as a
commencement present. Had not Marjorie declared over and over again that
she would never part with it? And now she had deliberately given it to
Constance. This proved beyond a doubt where Marjorie's true affection
lay. Mary was obsessed with a wild desire to turn and run down the drive
and away from this hateful girl. This was, indeed, the last straw.




CHAPTER VII

THE PROMISE


Mary Raymond wondered, as she walked up the steps of Gray Gables,
between Constance and Marjorie, and into the brightly lighted reception
hall, how she could manage to endure the long evening ahead of her. She
was seized with an insane desire to break from Marjorie's light hold on
her arm and rush out of the house of this girl who had stolen her
dearest possession, Marjorie's friendship. How well she remembered the
day on which Marjorie had received the blue dress which Constance was
wearing so unconcernedly. It had come by express in a huge white
pasteboard box, while she and Marjorie were seated on the Deans' step
engaged in one of their long confabs. How excited they had been over it!
How they had exclaimed as Marjorie drew the blue wonder from its
pasteboard nest. Then a great trying-on had followed. She recalled with
jealous clearness how great Marjorie's disappointment had been when she
found it too small for her. Then Marjorie had said as she lovingly
patted its soft folds, "Never mind, I'll keep it always, just to look
at. It was awfully dear in Aunt Louise to send it to me and I wouldn't
let her know for worlds that it doesn't fit me." And now, after all she
had said, she had lightly given it away--and to Constance Stevens.

Mary forced herself to smile and reply to the friendly greeting of Miss
Allison, who stood in the big, old-fashioned hall helping to receive her
niece's guests. A moment more and she was surrounded by Geraldine Macy,
Irma Linton and Susan Atwell, who had come forth in a body from the
long, palm-decorated parlor off the hall to welcome her, accompanied by
a singularly handsome youth, a very tall, merry-faced young man and a
black-haired, blue-eyed lad, with clean cut, sensitive features.

She was presented in turn to Harold Macy, Sherman Norwood, known as the
Crane to his intimate associates, and Lawrence Armitage.

"So, _you_ are Marjorie's friend, Mary Raymond, of whom she has spoken
to me so often," smiled Hal Macy. "We are very glad to welcome you to
Sanford, Miss Raymond."

"Thank you," Mary returned, almost forgetting her first bitter moment.
Hal Macy's direct hand-clasp and frank, bright smile of welcome stamped
him with sincerity and truth. She liked equally well Lawrence
Armitage's deferential greeting and she found the Crane's wide, boyish
grin irresistible as he bowed low over her small hand. Yes, the Sanford
boys were certainly nice. She was not so sure that she liked the girls.
They made too much of Marjorie, and Marjorie had proved herself disloyal
to her sworn comrade and playmate of years.

Once inside the drawing-room, which had been transformed into an
impromptu ball-room by taking up the rugs and moving the piano to one
end of it, introductions followed in rapid succession.

"Mary, you must meet my foster father." Constance slipped her arm
through Mary's and conducted her to the piano where stood a man with an
immense shock of snow-white hair, sorting high piles of music arranged
on top. "Father."

The man at the piano wheeled at the sound of the soft voice. His stern,
almost sad face broke into a radiant smile that completely transformed
it.

"This is Mary Raymond. Mary, my father, Mr. Stevens," introduced
Constance. "And this is my uncle, Mr. Roland."

Both men bowed and took Mary's hand in turn, expressing their pleasure
at meeting her. Old John Roland's faded blue eyes contained a puzzled
look. "You are very familiar," he said. "Where have I seen you before?"

"Look sharply, Uncle John," laughed Marjorie, who had joined them. "You
have never seen Mary before. She is like someone you know."

"'Someone you know,'" repeated the old man faithfully. He would never
outgrow his quaint habit of repetition, although he had improved
immensely in other ways since the change in Constance's fortune had
released him from the clutch of poverty.

Mary eyed him curiously. Then her gaze rested on Mr. Stevens. What
peculiar persons they were. And Marjorie had never written her of them.
They must have a strange history. She made up her mind that she would
never ask her fickle chum about them. She would find out whatever she
wished to know from others. Now that she was a pupil of Sanford High she
would soon become acquainted with girls of her class other than those
she had already met. Perhaps she might learn to like some one better
than---- Her sober reflections stopped there. She could not bring
herself to the point of breaking her long comradeship with the girl who
had failed her.

Uncle John Roland was still staring at her and smilingly shaking his
gray head. "I don't know. I can't think, and yet----"

Suddenly a jubilant little shout rent the air, causing the group about
the piano to smile. In the same instant Mary felt a small hand slip into
hers. "I knew you comed to see Charlie again. Charlie wouldn't go to bed
because Connie said you'd surely come. Charlie loves you a whole lot.
You look like Connie."

"Look like Connie," muttered Uncle John. Then his faded eyes flashed
sudden intelligence. "I know. Of course she's like Connie. I guessed it,
didn't I?" He glanced triumphantly at Marjorie.

"So you did, Uncle John," nodded Marjorie brightly.

Mr. Stevens gazed searchingly at the young girl so like his foster
daughter. Mary felt her color rising under that penetrating gaze. It was
as though this dreamy-eyed man with the dark, sad face had read her very
soul. For a brief instant she sensed dimly the ignobleness of her
jealousy of his daughter. She felt that she would rather die than have
him know it. Perhaps, after all, she was in the wrong. She would try to
dismiss it and do her best to enter into the spirit of the merry-making.
An impatient tug at her hand caused her to remember Charlie's presence.

"Talk to me," demanded the child. "Connie says I have to go to bed in a
minute, so hurry up."

Mary stooped and wound her arms about the tiny, insistent youngster. She
clasped Charlie tightly to her and kissed his eager face. And that
embrace sealed the beginning of an affection between them, the very
purity of which was one day to lead her from the terrible Valley of
Doubt into the sunlight of belief.

"Now you've done it," was Marjorie's merry accusation. "You've stolen my
cavalier. Oh, Charlie, I thought I was your very best girl." She made
reproachful eyes at Charlie, who, delighted at receiving so much
attention, sidled over to her with a ridiculous air of importance and
took her hand.

"Everybody likes Charlie," he observed complacently. "Now he can stay up
all night and listen to the band."

"You'd go to sleep and never hear the band at all," laughed Constance.
"No, Charlie must go to bed and sleep and sleep, or he will never grow
big enough and strong enough to play in the band."

The half pout on Charlie's babyish mouth, born of Constance's dread
edict, died suddenly. Even the joys of staying up all night were not to
be compared with the glories of that far-off future.

"All right, I'll go," he sighed. "But you and Marjorie must come again
soon in the daytime when I don't have to go to bed. I'll play a new
piece for you on my fiddle. Uncle John says it's a marv'lus
compysishun."

A burst of laughter rose from the group around him at this calm
statement. After kissing everyone in his immediate vicinity, Charlie
made a quaint little bow and marched off beside Constance, well pleased
with himself.

"Isn't he a perfect darling?" was Mary's involuntary tribute.

"Yes, I adore Charlie," returned Marjorie. "I used to feel so dreadfully
for him when he was crippled. Isn't it splendid, Mr. Stevens, to see him
so well and lively?" She turned radiantly to the white-haired musician.
His face lighted again in that wonderful smile. He was about to answer
Marjorie, when Constance, who had seen Charlie to the door where he had
been taken in charge by a white-capped nurse, returned to them, saying:

"What shall we have first, girls, a one step?"

"Oh, yes, do!" exclaimed Jerry Macy, who had come up in time to hear
Constance's question, in company with a mischievous-eyed,
freckled-faced youth who rejoiced in the dignified cognomen of Daniel
Webster Seabrooke, but who was most appropriately nicknamed the Gadfly.

"Mr. Seabrooke, Miss Raymond," introduced Jerry.

The freckled-faced boy put on a preternaturally solemn expression and
begged the pleasure of the first dance with Mary. Mr. Stevens had
already handed the old violinist the music for the dance and placed his
own score in position upon the piano. The slow, fascinating strains of
the one step rang out and a great scurrying for partners began.

Marjorie found herself dancing off with Hal Macy, while Lawrence
Armitage swung Constance into the rapidly growing circle of dancers.
Irma Linton and the Crane danced together, while Jerry Macy, who danced
extremely well for a stout girl, was claimed by Arthur Standish, one of
her brother's classmates.

Once the hop had fairly begun, dance followed dance in rapid succession.
Much to Mary's secret satisfaction there were no gaps in her programme.
As it was, there were no wall flowers. An even number of boys and girls
had been invited and every one had put in an appearance. At eleven
o'clock a dainty repast, best calculated to suit the appetites of hungry
school girls and boys, was served at small tables on the side veranda,
which extended almost the length of the house.

It was not until after supper, when the dancing was again at its
height, that Marjorie and Constance found time for a few words together.

The two girls had slipped away to Constance's pretty blue and white
bedroom to repair a torn frill of Marjorie's gown.

"Isn't it splendid that we can have a minute to ourselves?" laughed
Constance. "I'm glad you happened to need repairing. I hope Mary is
having a good time. As long as it's her party I'm anxious that she
should enjoy herself."

"Of course she's having a good time. How could she help it?" returned
Marjorie staunchly. "All the boys have been perfectly lovely to her and
so have the girls. I knew everyone would like her. You and Mary and I
will have lots of fun going about together this winter."

Constance smiled an answer to Marjorie's joyous prediction. Then her
pretty face sobered. "Marjorie," she said, then paused.

Marjorie glanced up from the flounce she was setting to rights.
Something in Constance's tone commanded her attention. "What is it,
Connie?"

"Have you ever said anything to Mary about you--and me--and things last
year?"

"Why, no. I wouldn't think of doing so unless I asked you if I might.
I----"

"Please don't, then," interrupted Constance. "I had rather she didn't
know. It is all past, and, as long as so few persons know about it,
don't you think it would be better to let it rest?"

Marjorie bent her head over her work to conceal the sudden disturbing
flush that rose to her face. She had intended telling Constance that
very night of the remark that Miss Archer had made in Mary's presence
about their freshman year. She had felt dimly that, perhaps, Mary ought
to be put in possession of the story, although she had not the remotest
suspicion of the jealousy that was already warping her chum's thoughts.
Her one idea had been to answer all her questions as freely as she had
done in the past. She intended to put the matter to Constance in this
light. But now Constance had forestalled her and was asking her to be
silent on the very matters she wished to impart to Mary.

"It isn't as though it is something which Mary ought to know," continued
Constance, quite unaware of Marjorie's inward agitation. "It wouldn't
make her happier to learn it and--and--she might not think so well of
me. I wish her to like me, Marjorie, just because she is your dearest
friend. Don't you think I am right about it? You wouldn't care to have
even the friend of your best friend know all the little intimate details
of your life. Now, would you?" Constance slipped to her knees beside
Marjorie, one arm across her shoulder, and regarded her with pleading
eyes.

Marjorie stared thoughtfully into the earnest face of the girl at her
side. What should she say? If she told Constance that Mary had twice
asked questions regarding her affairs, Constance might think Mary unduly
curious. Perhaps, after all, silence was wisest. Mary might forget all
about it, and, in any case, she was far too sensible to feel hurt or
indignant because she, Marjorie, was not free to tell her of the
private affairs of another.

"Promise me, Marjorie, that you won't say anything," urged Constance.
Her natural reticence made her dread taking even Mary into confidence
regarding herself.

"I promise, Connie," said Marjorie with a half sigh. "There, I guess
that flounce will stay in place. I've sewed it over and over."

The two girls returned to the dance floor arm in arm. Mary Raymond's
blue eyes were turned on them resentfully as they entered the room. They
had been having a talk together, and hadn't asked her to join them. Then
her face cleared. She thought she knew what that talk was about.
Marjorie had been asking Constance's permission to tell her everything.
She would hear the great secret on the way home, no doubt. Her spirits
rose at the prospect of the comfy chat they would have in the automobile
and for the rest of the evening she put aside all doubts and fears, and
danced as only sweet and seventeen can.




CHAPTER VIII

THE LATEST SOPHOMORE ARRIVAL


Though the evening of the dance had been deceitfully clear and balmy,
dark clouds banked the autumn sky before morning and the day broke in a
downpour of rain. It was a doubly dreary morning to poor little Mary
Raymond and over and over again Longfellow's plaintive lines,

    "Into each life some rain must fall,
     Some days must be dark and dreary,"

repeated themselves in her brain. Yes, rain had indeed fallen into her
life. The bitter rain of false friendship. All the days must from now on
be dark and dreary. Last night she had danced the hours away, secure in
the thought that Marjorie would not fail her. And Marjorie had spoken no
word of explanation. During the drive home she had talked gaily of the
dance and of the boys and girls who had attended it. She had related
bright bits of freshman history concerning them, but on the subject of
Constance Stevens and her affairs she had been mute. Mary fancied she
had purposely avoided the subject. In this respect she was quite
correct. Marjorie, still a little disturbed over her promise to
Constance, had tried to direct Mary's mind to other matters. Deeply
hurt, rather than jealous, Mary had listened to Marjorie in silence. She
managed to make a few comments on the dance, and pleading that she was
too sleepy for a night-owl talk, had kissed Marjorie good night rather
coldly and hurried to her room. Stopping only to lock the door, she had
thrown herself on her bed in her pretty evening frock and given vent to
long, tearless sobs that left her wide awake and mourning, far into the
night. It was, therefore, not strange that lack of sleep, coupled with
her supposed dire wrongs, had caused her to awaken that morning in a
mood quite suited to the gloom of the day.

A vigorous rattling of the door knob caused her to spring from her bed
with a half petulant exclamation.

"Let me in, Mary," called Marjorie's fresh young voice from the hall.
"Whatever made you lock your door? I guess you were so sleepy you didn't
know what you were about."

Mary turned the key and opened the door with a jerk. Marjorie pounced
upon her like a frolicsome puppy. Wrapping her arms around her chum, she
whirled her about and half the length of the room in a wild dance.

"Let me alone, please." Mary pulled herself pettishly from Marjorie's
clinging arms.

"Why, Lieutenant, what's the matter? You aren't sick, are you? If you
are, I'm sorry I was so rough. If you're just sleepy, then I'm not. You
needed waking up. It's a quarter to eight now and we'll have to hustle.
Captain let us sleep until the last minute. Now, which are you, sick or
sleepy?"

"Both," returned Mary laconically. "I--that is--my head aches."

"Poor darling. Was Marjorie a naughty girl to tease her when her was so
sick?" Marjorie sought to comfort her chum, but Mary eluded her
sympathetic caress and said almost crossly, "Don't baby me. I--I hate
being babied and you know it."

Marjorie's arms dropped to her sides. "I didn't mean to tease you. I'm
sorry. I'll go down and ask Captain to give you something to cure your
headache." She turned abruptly and left the room, deeply puzzled and
slightly hurt. What on earth ailed Mary?

The moment the door closed Mary pattered into the bathroom and banged
the door. She hurried through her bath and was partly dressed when
Marjorie returned with a little bottle of aspirin tablets. "One of
these will fix up your head," she declared cheerily.

"I don't want it," muttered Mary. "My head is all right now."

"That is what I would call a marvelous recovery," laughed Marjorie. "I
wish Captain's headaches would take wing so easily. You know what
dreadful sick headaches she sometimes has. She had one on the first day
I went to Sanford High, and I had to go alone."

"I remember," nodded Mary carelessly. "That was one of the things you
_did_ write me."

"I wrote you lots of things," retorted Marjorie lightly, failing to
catch the significance of Mary's words. "But now you are here, I don't
have to write them. I can _say_ them."

"Then, why don't you?" was on Mary's tongue, but she did not say it.
Instead, she maintained a half sulky silence, as she walked to the
wardrobe and began fingering the gowns hung there. Selecting a blue
serge dress, made sailor fashion, she slipped into it and began
fastening it as she walked to the mirror. Marjorie stood watching her,
with a half frown. She did not understand this new mood of Mary's. The
Mary she had formerly known had been sunny and light-hearted. The girl
who stood before the mirror, grave and unsmiling, was a stranger.

"I'm ready to go downstairs." Mary turned slowly from the mirror and
walked toward the door. Beneath her quiet exterior, a silent struggle
was going on. Should she speak her mind once and for all to Marjorie, or
should she go on enduring in silence? Perhaps it would be best to speak
and have things out. Then, at least, they would understand each other.
Then her pride whispered to her that it was Marjorie's and not her place
to speak. Marjorie must know something of her state of mind. At heart
she must be just the least bit ashamed of herself for shutting her out
of her personal affairs. Had they not sworn long ago to tell each other
their secrets. _She_ had always kept her word. It was Marjorie who had
failed to do so. No, she would not humble herself. Marjorie might keep
her secrets, for all _she_ cared. She was sorry that she had ever come
to Sanford. Now that she was here she would have to stay. If she wrote
her father to take her away, her mother would have to be told. Mary was
resolved that no matter what happened to her, her mother must be spared
all anxiety. She would try to bear it. Marjorie should never know how
deeply she was wounded. She would pretend that all was as it had been
before.

Mrs. Dean looked up from her letters, as the two girls entered the
dining room.

"Hurry, children," she admonished. "You haven't much time to spare.
These social affairs completely break up army discipline. Look out you
don't go to sleep at your post this morning."

"Who's sleepy? Not I," boasted Marjorie. "I feel as though I'd slept for
hours and hours. Your army is ready for duty, Captain. Lieutenant Mary's
headache has been put to rout and everything is lovely."

"Are you sure you feel quite well, dear?" questioned Mrs. Dean
anxiously. She noted that Mary was very pale and that her eyes looked
strained and tired.

"I'm quite well now, thank you." The ghost of a smile flickered on her
pale face.

"Did you enjoy the dance? It was nice in Connie to give it in your
honor. We are all very fond of her and of little Charlie."

Mary's wan face brightened at the mention of the child's name. "Isn't he
dear?" she asked impulsively.

"Mary has stolen Charlie from me," put in Marjorie. "He adores her
already. I don't blame him. So do I, and so does Connie, too. We three
are going to have splendid times together this winter."

During the rest of the breakfast Marjorie regaled her mother with an
account of the dance. Mary said little or nothing, but amid her friend's
merry chatter her silence passed unnoticed.

"Wear your raincoats," called Mrs. Dean after them, as, their breakfast
finished, they ran upstairs for their wraps.

Fifteen minutes later they had joined the bobbing umbrella procession
that wended its way into the high school building.

"You'll have to go to Miss Merton, Mary, and be assigned to a seat. She
didn't give you one yesterday, did she?" asked Marjorie. "You can put
your wraps in our locker. We are to have the same lockers we had last
year. Connie and I have a locker together. There is lots of room in it
for your things, too. I'll task Marcia Arnold to let you in with us. She
has charge of the lockers."

Mary's first impulse was to decline this friendly offer. On second
thought she closed her lips tightly, resolved to make no protest.
Later--well, there was no telling what might happen.

"Don't be afraid of Miss Merton," was Marjorie's whispered counsel, as
they crossed the threshold of the study hall. "She can't eat you."

"I'm not afraid." Mary's lip curled a trifle scornfully. Marjorie
treated her as though she were a baby.

"I have come to you for my seat," was her terse statement, as she paused
squarely before Miss Merton's desk.

Miss Merton glanced up to meet the unflinching gaze of two purposely
cold blue eyes. Something in their direct gaze made her answer with
undue civility, "Very well. I will assign you to one. Come with me."

She stalked down the aisle, Mary following, to the last seat in one of
the two sophomore rows, and paused before it. "This will be your seat
for the year," she said.

"Thank you." Mary sat down and took account of her surroundings. Across
the aisle on one side, Susan Atwell's dimpled face flashed her a
welcome. On the other side sat a tall, severe junior who wore
eye-glasses. The seat in front of her was vacant. Marjorie sat far down
the same row. Mary could just see the top of her curly head. It still
lacked five minutes of opening time and the students were, for the most
part, conversing in low tones. Now and then an accidentally loud note
caused Miss Merton to raise her head from her writing and glare severely
at the offender.

Susan Atwell leaned across the aisle and patted Mary's hand in friendly
fashion. "I'm so glad you are going to sit here," she said in an
undertone. "I was afraid Miss Merton would put some old slow-poke there
who wouldn't say 'boo' or pass notes or do anything to help the
sophomore cause along."

"I'm glad she put me near you," returned Mary affably. She had made up
her mind to win friends. They would be indispensable to her now that all
was over between her and Marjorie. "I don't imagine that tall girl is
very sociable."

"She's a dig and a prig," giggled Susan. "You'd get no recreation from
labor from that quarter."

Mary echoed Susan's infectious giggle. "Who sits in front of me?" she
asked.

"No one, yet. Who knows what manner of girl is in store for us? That's
the only vacant seat in the section. The first late arrival into our
midst will get it. I don't believe we'll have any more girls, though,
unless someone comes into school late as Marjorie came last year. It's
too bad. It makes an awkward stretch if one wants to pass a note. I
always am caught if I throw one. Last year I threw one and hit Miss
Merton in the back. She was standing quite a little way down the aisle.
I thought it was a splendid opportunity. I'd been waiting to send one to
Irma Linton, who sat two seats in front of me. The girl between us
wouldn't pass it. So I threw it, and it went further than I thought."
Susan's fascinating giggle burst forth anew. She rocked to and fro in
merriment at the recollection.

Mary found herself laughing in concert. Just then the opening bell
clanged forth its harsh note of warning. The low buzz of voices in the
great study hall died into silence. Every pair of eyes faced front. Miss
Merton rose from her chair to conduct the opening exercises. A sudden
murmur that swept the hall caused her to say sternly, "Silence." Then,
noting that the eyes of her pupils were fixed in concerted gaze on the
study-hall door, she turned sharply.

A black-haired, black-eyed girl, whose elfish face wore an expression of
mingled contempt and amusement, advanced into the room with a decided
air of one who wishes to create an impression.

"Mignon!" gasped Susan. "Well, _what_ do you think of that?"




CHAPTER IX

THE BLINDNESS OF JEALOUSY


At sight of the newcomer Miss Merton's severe face underwent a lightning
change. She stepped from the platform and hurried toward the dark-eyed
girl with outstretched hand. Her harsh voice sounded almost pleasant, as
she said, "Why, Mignon, I am delighted to see you!"

Mignon La Salle tossed her head with an air of triumph as she took Miss
Merton's hand. In her, at least, she had a powerful ally. Lowering her
voice, the teacher asked her several questions. Mignon answered them in
equally guarded tones, accompanied by the frequent significant gestures
which are involuntary in those of foreign birth.

A subdued buzzing arose from different parts of the study hall.
Apparently engrossed in her conversation with the girl who had been her
favorite pupil during her freshman year, Miss Merton paid no attention
to the sounds provoked by Mignon La Salle's unexpected arrival. As a
matter of fact, she was quite aware of them, but chose to ignore them
solely on Mignon's account. To rebuke the whisperers would tend toward
embarrassing the French girl.

"There is just one vacant place in the sophomore section," she informed
Mignon. "I think I must have reserved it specially for you." She
contorted her face into what she believed to be an affable smile.

Mignon answered it in kind, with an inimitable lifting of the eyebrows
and a significant shrug.

"Look at her," muttered Jerry Macy in Marjorie's ear. "Miss
Merton is taffying her up in great style. She always puts on
her cat-that-ate-the-canary expression when she's pleased.
And to think that we've got to stand for _her_ again this
year!" Jerry gave a positive snort of disgust.

"Shh! They'll hear you, Jerry," warned Marjorie.

"Don't care if they do. Wish they would," grumbled the disgruntled
Jerry. "I'll bet you ten to one she was sent home from boarding school."

There was a general turning of heads and craning of necks as Miss Merton
conducted Mignon down the aisle to the vacant seat in front of Mary
Raymond. There was a brief exchange of low-toned words between the two,
then Mignon seated herself, while Miss Merton marched stolidly back to
her desk and without further delay began the interrupted morning
exercises.

Mary Raymond viewed the black, curly head and silken-clad shoulders of
the newcomer with some curiosity. The subdued ripple of astonishment
that had passed over the roomful of girls told her that here was no
ordinary pupil. Mignon's expensive frock of dark green Georgette crepe,
elaborately trimmed, also pointed to affluence. Mary reasoned that she
must be known to the others. A stranger would not have created such a
buzz of comment. Then, she remembered Susan's amazed exclamation. She
turned to the latter and made a gesture of inquiry, Susan shook her
head. Her lips formed a silent, "After school," and Mary nodded
understandingly.

"Young ladies, you will arrange your programme of recitations this
morning as speedily as possible," was Miss Merton's command the moment
opening exercises were over. "You will be given until ten o'clock to do
so. Then there will be twenty-minute classes for the rest of the
morning. Classes will occupy the usual period of time during the
afternoon. Try to arrange your studies so that you will not have to
waste valuable time in making changes. Please avoid asking unnecessary
questions. The bulletin board will tell you everything, if you take
pains to examine it carefully. Let there be no loud talking or personal
conversation."

Miss Merton sat down with the air of one who has done her duty, and
glared severely at the rows of attentive young faces. She was not in
sympathy with these girls. Their youth was a distinct affront to her
narrow soul.

The business of arranging the term's studies began in quiet, orderly
fashion. The majority of the pupils had long since decided upon their
courses of study. Their main duty now lay in making satisfactory
arrangements of their classes and the hours on which their various
recitations fell.

Marjorie Dean studied the bulletin board with a serious face. She had
successfully carried five studies during her freshman year. She decided
that she would do so again, provided the fifth subject held interest
enough to warrant the extra effort it meant. Plane geometry, of course,
she would have to take. Then there was second year French. She and
Constance intended to go on with the language of which they were so
fond. Her General had insisted that she must begin Latin. She should
have begun it in her freshman year. That made three. Then there was
chemistry. Should she choose a fifth subject? Yes, there was English
Literature. It would not be hard work. She was sure she would love it.
Besides, she wished to be in Miss Flint's class.

Once she had decided upon her subjects, she studied the board anew for a
proper arrangement of her recitation hours. For a wonder they fitted
into one another beautifully, leaving her that last coveted period in
the afternoon, free for study. She sat back at last with a faint breath
of satisfaction. She wondered how Mary was getting on and what she
intended to study. They had agreed beforehand on Chemistry. Only the day
before Mr. Dean had half-promised to fit out a tiny laboratory for them
in a small room at the rear of the house.

Mary, however, was frowning darkly at the board. She wondered in which
section Marjorie intended to recite geometry. She had been so busy with
her own woes that gloomy morning that she had quite forgotten to plan
with Marjorie. Oh, well, she reflected, what difference did it make?
Marjorie wouldn't care whether they recited together or not. Very likely
she had already made plans with that odious Constance Stevens that would
leave her out. Marjorie had already said that she and Constance
intended to go on with French together. Then there were Cæsar's
Commentaries. She had finished first-year Latin. She would have to take
them next. Suddenly a naughty idea came into her perverse little brain.
Why not purposely leave Marjorie out of her calculations? Marjorie had
wished her to take chemistry. Very well. She would disappoint her by
choosing something else. Then if Mr. Dean fitted out a laboratory, his
daughter would have the pleasure of working in it all by herself. She
would show a certain person what it meant to cast aside a lifelong
friendship. Oh, yes, Marjorie was anxious for her to take English
literature. She would take rhetoric instead. She would go still further.
If when classes assembled she found herself in the same geometry section
with her chum she would make an excuse and change to another period of
recitation. The frown deepened on her smooth forehead as she jotted down
her subjects on the sheet of paper before her.

Suddenly conscious of the intent regard of someone, she raised her head.
A pair of elfish black eyes were fixed upon her in curious intent.

"Who are you?" asked Mignon La Salle with cool impudence. "You look like
that priggish Miss Stevens. I hope for your sake you are not a relative
of hers."

"Most certainly I am not," retorted Mary, flushing angrily. It was too
provoking. Why must she be constantly reminded of her resemblance to one
she disliked so intensely? In her annoyance at the nature of the French
girl's remarks, she quite overlooked the impertinence of her address.

A gleam of satisfaction flashed across Mignon's face. "Then there is
hope," she returned, holding up her forefinger in an impish imitation of
a world-wide advertisement. "Say it again. I can't believe the evidence
of my own ears."

"I am not a relative of Miss Stevens," repeated Mary a trifle stiffly.
The French girl's mocking tones were distinctly unpleasant. "Why do you
ask?"

"Because I wish to know," shrugged Mignon Then she added tactfully,
"Please don't think me rude. I am always too frank in expressing my
opinions. If I dislike anyone I can't smile deceitfully and pretend them
to be my dearest friend."

Mary's sullen face cleared. Here at last was a girl who seemed to be
sincere. She unbent slightly and smiled. Mignon returned the smile in
her most amiable fashion.

"Pardon me for a moment." Mignon turned in her seat and began fumbling
in a little leather bag that lay on her desk.

Mary felt a quick, light touch on her arm. Susan Atwell began making
violent signs at her behind Mignon's back. She desisted as suddenly as
she began. The French girl had turned again toward Mary with the quick,
cat-like manner that so characterized all her movements.

"Here is my card," she offered, placing a bit of engraved pasteboard on
Mary's desk.

The latter picked it up and read, "Mignon Adrienne La Salle."

"What a pretty name!" was her soft exclamation.

"I'm glad you like it," beamed Mignon. "But you haven't told me yours."

"I haven't any cards with me," apologized Mary. "My name is Mary
Raymond."

"Have you lived long in Sanford?" inquired Mignon suavely. She had
already decided that a girl who was in sympathy with her on one point
might prove to be worth cultivating.

"Only a short time. My mother is in Colorado for her health and I am
living in Marjorie Dean's home until Mother returns next summer."

Mary's innocent words had an electrical effect on the French girl. Her
heavy brows drew together in a scowl and her dark face set in hard
lines.

"Then that settles it," she said coldly. "You and I can _never_ be
friends." She switched about in her seat with an angry jerk.

Mary leaned forward and touched her on the shoulder. "I don't
understand," she murmured. "Please tell me what you mean."

The French girl swung halfway about. She regarded Mary with narrowed
eyes. Was it possible that Marjorie Dean had never mentioned her to her
friend?

"Hasn't Miss Dean ever spoken to you of me?" she asked abruptly.

Mary shook her head. "No, I am sure I never before heard of you. I don't
know many Sanford girls yet. I have met Miss Atwell and Miss Macy and a
few others who were at Miss Stevens' dance last night."

"So, Miss Stevens is doing social stunts," sneered Mignon. "Quite a
change from last year, I should say. I used to be friends with Susan
Atwell and Jerry Macy, but this Stevens girl made mischief between us
and broke up our old crowd entirely. Your friend, Miss Dean, took sides
with them, too, and helped the thing along. She made a perfect idiot of
herself over Constance Stevens. Oh, well, never mind. I'm not going to
say another word about it. I'm sorry we can't be friends. I'm sure we'd
get along famously together. It is impossible, though. Miss Dean
wouldn't let you."

Mary suddenly sat very erect. She had listened in amazement to Mignon's
recital. Could she believe her ears? Had her hitherto-beloved Marjorie
been guilty of trouble-making? And all for the sake of Constance
Stevens. Marjorie must indeed care a great deal for her. She had not
been mistaken, then, in her belief that she had been supplanted in her
chum's heart. And now Mignon was suggesting that Marjorie would not
allow her to be friends with the girl whom she had wronged. Mary did not
stop to consider that there are always two sides to a story. Swayed by
her resentment against Constance, she preferred to believe anything
which she might hear against her.

"Please understand, once and for all, that Marjorie has nothing to say
about whoever I choose to have for a friend," she said with decision. "I
hope I am free to do as I please. I shall be very glad to know you
better, Miss La Salle, and I am sorry that you have been so badly
treated."

The ringing of the first recitation-bell broke in upon the conversation.

"Oh, gracious, I haven't looked at the bulletin board. Excuse me, Miss
Raymond. I'll see you later and we'll have a nice long talk. I'm sure I
shall be pleased to have _you_ for a friend."

"Are you going to recite geometry in this first section?" asked Mary
eagerly. The students were already filing out of the great room.

"Let me see." Mignon consulted the bulletin board. "Why, yes, I might as
well."

"Oh, splendid!" glowed Mary. "Then you can show me the way to the
geometry classroom."

"Delighted, I'm sure," returned Mignon. Her black eyes sparkled with
triumph. At last she had found a way to even her score with Marjorie
Dean. With almost uncanny shrewdness she had divined what Marjorie
herself had not discovered. This blue-eyed baby of a girl, for Mignon
mentally characterized her as such, was jealous of Marjorie's friendship
with the Stevens girl. Very well. She would take a hand and help matters
along. Of course there was a strong chance that it might all come to
nothing. Marjorie might take Mary in charge the moment school was over
and tell her a few things. Yet that was hardly possible. Much as she
hated the brown-eyed girl who had worsted her at every point, in her own
cowardly heart lurked a respect for Marjorie's high standard of honor.
So far Mary knew nothing against her. Perhaps she would never know.
Perhaps if Marjorie and Jerry and Irma tried to prejudice Mary against
her, the girl would rebel and send them about their business. She had
looked stupidly obstinate when she said, "I hope I am free to do as I
please." Mignon smiled maliciously as she walked down the long aisle
ahead of Mary.

Marjorie had risen from her seat at the sound of the first bell. Now she
gazed anxiously up the aisle toward Mary's seat. She looked relieved as
she saw her chum approaching. She bowed coldly to Mignon as she passed.
"Oh, Mary," she said, "I was looking for you. If you are going to recite
geometry now, then please don't go. Wait and recite in my section. You
know, we said we'd recite it together."

Mary's blue eyes glowed resentfully. "I've made up my programme," she
answered with cool defiance. "I can't change it now. Miss La Salle is
going to show me the way to the geometry classroom. I'll see you later."

Without waiting for a reply she marched on, leaving Marjorie to stare
after her with troubled eyes.




CHAPTER X

THE VALLEY OF MISUNDERSTANDING


For a brief instant Marjorie continued to stare after the retreating
form of her chum, oblivious to the steady stream of girls passing by
her. Then, seized with a sudden idea, she slipped into her seat and
hastily consulted the bulletin board. The ringing of the third bell
found her hurrying from the aisle toward the door. That brief survey of
the schedule had resulted in an entire change of her programme. She had
decided to recite geometry in the morning section. It meant giving up
the cherished last hour in the afternoon which she had reserved for
study. She would have to recite Latin at that time. Well, that did not
matter so much. Reciting geometry in the same section with Mary was what
counted. She had experienced a curious feeling of alarm as she had
watched Mary and Mignon La Salle disappear through the big doorway side
by side. Mignon was the last person she had supposed Mary would meet. To
be sure, there was nothing particularly alarming in their meeting. As
yet they were comparative strangers to each other. She had noted that
Miss Merton had assigned the French girl to the seat in front of Mary.
It was, therefore, quite probable that Mary had inquired the way to the
geometry classroom and Mignon had volunteered to conduct her to it.

Marjorie's sober face lightened a little as she hastened down the
corridor to the geometry room. Miss Nelson, the instructor in
mathematics, was on the point of closing the door as she hurriedly
approached. She smiled as she saw the pretty sophomore, and continued to
hold the door open until Marjorie had crossed the threshold. The latter
gave an eager glance about the room. The classrooms were provided with
rows of single desks similar to those in the study hall. Mary was
occupying one of them well toward the front of the room. Directly ahead
of her sat the French girl. On one of the back seats was Jerry Macy,
glaring in her most savage manner, her angry eyes fixed on the black,
curly head of the girl she despised.

There was no vacant seat near Mary. Marjorie noted all these facts in
that one comprehensive glance. It also seemed to her that the French
girl's face wore an expression of mocking triumph. And was it her
imagination, or had Mary glanced up as she entered and then turned away
her eyes? What did it all mean? Marjorie took the nearest vacant seat at
hand, the prey of many emotions. Then, as Miss Nelson stepped forward to
address the class, she resolutely put away all personal matters and,
with the fine attention to the business of study which had endeared her
to her various teachers during her freshman year, she strove to center
her troubled mind on what Miss Nelson was saying.

After a short preliminary talk on the importance of the study the class
was about to begin, Miss Nelson proceeded to the business of registering
her pupils and giving out the text books. Miss Nelson laid particular
stress on the thorough learning of all definitions pertaining to the
study in hand. "You must know these definitions so well that you could
say them backward if I requested it," she emphasized. "They will be of
greatest importance in your work to come." Then she heartlessly gave out
several pages of them for the advance lesson. The rest of the period she
spent in going over and explaining these same definitions in her usual
thorough manner, ending with the stern injunction that she expected a
letter-perfect recitation on the following morning.

"Miss Nelson doesn't want much," grumbled Jerry Macy in Irma Linton's
ear, as they filed out of class at the ringing of the bell which ended
the period. Then, before Irma had time to reply, she continued: "_What_
do you think of Mignon? Isn't it a shame she's back again? And did you
see her march in here with Mary Raymond? It's a pretty sure thing that
neither of them knows who is who in Sanford. I suppose Mary, poor
innocent, asked her the way to the classroom. Where was Marjorie all
that time, I wonder? I'll bet you a box of Huyler's that they won't walk
into geometry again to-morrow morning. Hurry up, there's Marjorie just
ahead of us with Mary now. The fair Mignon has vanished. I can see her
away ahead of them. I guess Marjorie didn't know who piloted Mary into
class. She came in last, you know."

Irma laid a detaining hand on Jerry's arm.

"Oh, wait until after school, Jerry," she counseled. This quiet,
unobtrusive girl was a keen observer. She had noted Marjorie's
half-troubled expression as she entered the room. The suspicion that
Marjorie knew and was not pleased had already come to her.

"All right, I will. Wish school was out now. Those geometry definitions
make me tired. I'm worn out already and school hasn't fairly begun yet.
I hate mathematics. Wouldn't look at a geometry if I could graduate
without it."

But while Jerry was anathematizing mathematics, Marjorie was saying
earnestly to Mary, whom she had joined at the door, "I am so sorry I
didn't come back to your seat in the study hall before the first bell
rang. I really ought to have asked permission to do so, but I was afraid
Miss Merton would say 'no.' She never loses a chance to be horrid to me.
When you said you were going to recite in this section I hurried and
changed my programme to make things come right for us."

Marjorie's earnest little speech, so full of apparent good will, brought
a quick flush of contrition to Mary's cheeks. She experienced a swift
spasm of regret for her bitter suspicion of Marjorie. Her tense face
softened. Why not unburden herself to her chum now and find relief from
her torture of doubt?

"Marjorie," she began, laying her hand lightly on her friend's arm, "I
wish you would tell me something. Miss La Salle said that Constance
Stevens----"

"Mary!" Marjorie's sunny face had suddenly grown very stern. "I am sorry
to have to speak harshly of any girl in Sanford High, but as your chum
I feel it my duty to ask you to have nothing to do with Mignon La Salle,
or pay the slightest attention to her. She made us all very unhappy last
year, particularly Constance and myself. I can't help saying it, but I
am sorry that she has come back to Sanford. I understood that she was at
boarding school. I am sure I wish she had stayed there." Marjorie spoke
with a bitterness quite foreign to her generous nature.

Mary's lips tightened obstinately as she listened. Her brief impulse
toward a frank understanding died with Marjorie's emphatic utterance.
She was inwardly furious at her chum's sharp interruption.

"I am very well aware that you would stand up for Miss Stevens, whether
she were in the right or in the wrong," she said with cold sarcasm.
"I've been seeing that ever since I came to Sanford. But just because
she is perfect in _your_ eyes is not reason why _I_ should think so. For
my part, I like Miss La Salle. She was awfully sweet to me this morning,
and I don't think it is nice in you to talk about her behind her back."

In the intensity of the moment both girls had stopped short in the
corridor, oblivious of the passing students. Mary's flashing blue eyes
fixed Marjorie's amazed brown ones in an angry gaze.

"Why, Ma-a-ry!" stammered Marjorie. "What _is_ the matter? I don't
understand you." Her bewilderment served only to increase the rancor
that had been smouldering in Mary's heart. Now it burst forth in a fury
of words.

"Don't pretend, Marjorie Dean. You know perfectly well what I mean. It
isn't necessary for me to tell you, either. When I came to Sanford to
live with you I thought I'd be the happiest girl in the world because I
was going to live at your house and go to school with you. If I had
known as much when Father and I came to see you as I know now--well, I
wouldn't--ever--have come back again!" Her anger-choked tones faltered.
She turned away her head. Then pulling herself sharply together, she
turned and hurried down the corridor.

For a second Marjorie stood rooted to the spot. Could she believe her
ears? Was it really Mary, her soldier chum, with whom she had stood
shoulder to shoulder for so many years, who had thus arraigned her? Her
instant of inaction past, she darted down the corridor after Mary. But
the latter passed into the study hall before she could overtake her. She
could do nothing now to straighten the tangle in which they had so
suddenly become involved until the morning session of school was over.
She glanced anxiously toward Mary's seat the moment she stepped across
the threshold of the study hall, only to see her friend in earnest
conversation with Mignon La Salle. An angry little furrow settled on her
usually placid brow. Mignon had lost no time in living up to her
reputation. Mary must be rescued from her baleful influence at once.
When they reached home that day she would tell her chum the whole story
of last year. Once Mary learned Mignon's true character she would see
matters in a different light. But what had the French girl said about
Constance? If only she had held her peace and not interrupted Mary. Even
as a little girl Marjorie remembered how hard it had been, once Mary was
angry, to discover the cause. In spite of her usual good-nature she was
unyieldingly stubborn. When, at rare intervals, she became displeased or
hurt over a fancied grievance, she would nurse her anger for days in
sulky silence.

"I'll tell her all about last year the minute we get into the house this
noon," resolved Marjorie. "When she knows how badly Mignon behaved
toward Connie----" The little girl drew a sharp breath of dismay. Into
her mind flashed her recent promise to Constance Stevens. She could tell
Mary nothing until she had permission to do so. That meant that for the
day, at least, she must remain mute, for Constance was not in school
that morning, nor would she be in during the day. She had received
special permission from Miss Archer to be excused from lessons while her
foster father was at Gray Gables.

It was a very sober little girl who wended her way to the French class,
her next recitation. Out of an apparently clear sky the miserable set of
circumstances frowned upon her dawning sophomore year. But it must come
right. She would go to Gray Gables that very afternoon and ask Constance
to release her from her promise. Connie would surely be willing to do
so, when she knew all. Comforted by this thought, Marjorie brightened
again.

"_Bon jour_, Mademoiselle Dean," greeted the cheerful voice of Professor
Fontaine as she entered his classroom. "It is with a great plaisure
that I see you again. Let us 'ope that you haf not forgottaine your
French, I trost you haf sometimes remembered _la belle langue_ during
your vacation." The little man beamed delightedly upon Marjorie.

"I am afraid I have forgotten a great deal of it, Professor Fontaine."
Marjorie spoke with the pretty deference that she always accorded this
long-suffering professor, whose strongly accented English and foreign
eccentricities made him the subject of many ill-timed jests on the part
of his thoughtless pupils. "I'm going to study hard, though, and it will
soon come back to me."

"Ah! These are the words it makes happiness to hear," he returned
amiably. "Some day, when you haf learned to spik the French as the
English, you will be glad that you haf persevered."

"I'm sure I shall," smiled Marjorie. Then, as several entering pupils
claimed the little man's attention, she passed on and took a vacant seat
at the back of the room.

Professor Fontaine had begun to address the class when the door opened
and Mignon La Salle sauntered in. She threw a quick, derisive glance at
his back, which caused several girls to giggle, then strolled calmly to
a seat. A shade of annoyance clouded the instructor's genial face. He
eyed his countrywoman severely for an instant, then went on with his
speech.

Marjorie received little benefit that morning from the professor's
gallant efforts to impress the importance of the study of his language
on the minds of his class. Her thoughts were with Mary and what she had
best say to conciliate her. She had as yet no inkling of the truth. She
did not dream that jealousy of Constance had prompted Mary's outburst.
She believed that the whole trouble lay in whatever Mignon had told
Mary.

She was more hurt than surprised when at the last period in the morning
she failed to find Mary in the chemistry room. Of course she might have
expected it. Nothing would be right until she had chased away the black
clouds of misunderstanding that hung over them. Still, it grieved her to
think that Mary had not trusted her enough to weigh her loyalty against
the gossip of a stranger.

The hands of the study hall clock, pointing the hour of twelve, brought
relief to the worried sophomore. The instant the closing bell rang she
made for the locker room. It would be better to wait for Mary there,
rather than in the corridor. If Mary's mood had not changed, she
preferred not to run the risk of a possible rebuff in so prominent a
place. There were too many curious eyes ready to note their slightest
act. It would be dreadful if some lynx-eyed girl were to mark them and
circulate a report that they were quarreling.

Arrived at the locker-room, she opened her locker and took out her
wraps. A faint gasp of astonishment broke from her. Only one rain-coat,
one hat and one pair of rubbers were there, where at the beginning of
the morning there had been two. Mary Raymond's belongings were gone.




CHAPTER XI

CHOOSING HER OWN WAY


Marjorie stood staring at her locker as one in a dream.

"Hurry up, Marjorie!" Jerry Macy's loud, matter-of-fact tones broke the
spell. Behind her were Irma Linton and Susan Atwell. The faces of the
three were alive with suppressed excitement. Jerry caught sight of the
tell-tale locker and emitted an indignant snort.

"Mary took her advice, Susie! If I were the President of the United
States I'd have that Mignon La Salle deported to the South Sea Islands,
or Kamchatka, or some place where she couldn't get back in a hurry. It
would be a good deal farther than boarding school, I can just tell you,"
she ended with an angry sputter.

Marjorie faced the battery of indignant young faces. "What is the
trouble, girls?" She tried to keep her voice steady, though she was at
the point of tears.

"What's the matter with your friend, Mary Raymond, Marjorie?" continued
Jerry in a slightly lower key. "Has she gone suddenly crazy or--or----"
Jerry hesitated. She could not voice the other question which rose to
her lips.

"Girls," Marjorie viewed her friends with brave, direct eyes, "you know
something that I don't about Mary. What is it?"

"It's about Mignon," blurted Jerry. "Susie says that the minute she
landed in her seat she began talking to Mary."

"I made signs to Mary to pay no attention to her," broke in Susan
Atwell, "but she didn't understand what I meant and I couldn't explain,
with Mignon sitting right there. The next thing I saw, they were walking
down the aisle together as though they'd known each other all their
lives."

"Yes, and they came into geometry together, too," supplemented Jerry.
"But that's not the worst. Tell Marjorie what you overheard, Susie."

"Well," began Susan, looking important, "when I came back to the study
hall just before the last class was called, they were both there ahead
of me. Just as I was going to sit down at my desk I heard Mignon tell
Mary she'd love to have her share her locker. Mary was looking awfully
sober and pretty cross, too, as though she were mad about something. I
heard her say, 'How can I get my wraps?' and Mignon said, 'Go to Marcia
Arnold and see if you can borrow Miss Stevens' key for a minute. If she
hasn't come back to school yet, very likely Marcia has it. Tell her you
want to take something from it and don't care to bother Miss Dean. You
can easily do it, because you haven't a recitation at this hour. I'd get
it for you, but I haven't any good reason for asking her for it.' I
couldn't hear what Mary said, but she left her seat and I saw her stop
at Miss Merton's desk. Miss Merton nodded her head and Mary went on out
of the study hall. Mignon saw me looking after her and smiled that
hateful smile of hers. I was so cross I made a face at her. Then the
third bell rang and I had to go to class. I wasn't sure whether Mary did
as Mignon told her to do until we saw you staring into your locker and
Jerry called my attention to it."

Marjorie listened gravely to Susan's recital. She stood surveying the
three girls in silence.

"What has happened, Marjorie?" questioned Jerry impatiently. "Or isn't
it any of our business? If it isn't, then forget that I asked you."

"Girls," Marjorie's clear voice trembled a little, "I think I'd better
tell you about it. At first I thought I couldn't bear to tell anyone,
but as long as you all know something of what happened to Connie and I
last year, you might as well know this, too. Miss Archer made a remark
to me about our misunderstanding yesterday when Mary was with me. Mary
asked me afterward what she meant. I wanted to tell her, but I didn't
feel as though I had the right to, until I asked Connie if I could. I
was going to ask her last night, but before I had a chance she asked me
not to tell Mary about it. She was afraid Mary might not understand
and--and blame her. Of course, I knew that Mary wouldn't mind in the
least, but Connie seemed so worried that I promised I wouldn't."

Jerry Macy's frown deepened. Susan Atwell made a faint gesture of
consternation, while Irma Linton looked distressed and sympathetic.

"I thought perhaps Mary would forget about Constance," went on Marjorie.
"I never dreamed that Mignon was coming back, let alone she and Mary
becoming friendly. I saw them go down the aisle to geometry class
together and followed them. You see, Mary and I had planned to recite in
the same section. I asked her to wait and recite later, but she
wouldn't. Then I changed my hour so as to be in her class. After class I
caught up with her. She began to tell me something about what Mignon had
said of Connie. It made me so cross that I interrupted her, almost
before she had started. I told her she must have nothing to say to
Mignon and--she--I guess I hurt her feelings, for she walked off
and--left--me." Marjorie ended with a half sob. She turned her face to
the locker and leaned against it. The tears that she had bravely forced
back now came thick and fast.

"What a shame!" burst forth Jerry. "Don't cry, dear. We'll straighten
things out for you. I'll go to Mary my own self and give her Mignon's
history in a few well chosen words." She patted the shoulder of the
weeping girl.

"You might know that Mignon would bring trouble, hateful girl," was
Susan's indignant cry. "Never mind, we'll fix her."

"I'll do all I can to help you, Marjorie," soothed Irma, who was known
throughout the school as a peace-maker.

With a long, quivering sigh Marjorie turned slowly and faced her
friends.

"You are very sweet to me, every one of you," she said gratefully, "but,
girls, you mustn't say a word. I promised Connie, and I'll keep my word
until she releases me from that promise. I'm going over to see her
to-night to ask her to do that very thing. She'll say 'yes,' I know.
Then I can tell Mary and it will be all right. I'm sorry I made such a
baby of myself, but Mary and I have been chums for years--and----" Her
voice broke again.

Jerry wound her plump arms about the girl she adored. "You poor kid,"
she comforted slangily. "If you must cry, cry on my shoulder. It's nice
and fat and not half so hard as that old locker."

"You are a ridiculous Jerry," Marjorie laughed through her tears.
"There, I feel better now. I'm not going to cry another tear. Are my
eyes very red? I don't care to have the public gape at my grief. Come
on, children. It must be long after twelve. I suppose Mary is home by
this time. Naturally she wouldn't wait for me," she added wistfully.

As a matter of fact, Mary had waited. Once she had removed her wraps to
Mignon's locker she had been seized with a sharp attack of conscience.
She felt a trifle ashamed of herself and decided that she would ask her
chum to forgive her and allow her to put her wraps in Marjorie's locker
again. At the close of the session she made a hasty excuse to Mignon,
seized her belongings and hurrying out of the building, took up her
stand across the street. When at twenty minutes past twelve Marjorie did
not appear, her good resolutions took wing, and sulkily setting her face
toward home, Mary left the school and the chance for reconciliation
behind, and angrily went her way alone, thus widening the gap that
already yawned between herself and Marjorie.

It was twenty minutes to one when the latter ran up the steps of her
home in an almost cheerful frame of mind. The hall door yielded to her
touch and she rushed into the hall, her clear call of "Mary!" re-echoing
through the quiet house.

"I'll be down in a minute," answered a cold voice from the head of the
stairs.

"I'll be up in a second," laughed Marjorie, making a dive for the
stairs. The next instant she had caught the immovable little figure at
the landing in an impulsive embrace. "Poor old Lieutenant, I'm so
sorry," was her contrite cry. "I didn't mean to hurt your feelings.
Listen, dear. I'm going over to see Connie this afternoon after school
and ask her to let me tell you everything you wished to know about last
year. Then you will understand why----"

Mary freed herself from the clinging arms with a jerk. "If you say a
word to Constance Stevens, I'll never forgive you!" she cried
passionately. "I won't be made ridiculous. Do you understand me? You
could tell me without asking her, if you cared to. I'd never say a word
and she'd never know the difference."

"But, Mary, I promised her----" Marjorie stopped in confusion. She had
not meant to mention her promise to Constance. She had spoken before she
thought.

"So _that's_ the reason, is it?" choked Mary, her cheeks flaming with
the humiliating knowledge. "Thank you, I don't care to hear your old
secrets. You may keep them, for all I care!" She whirled and started
toward her room.

Marjorie caught her arm. "I haven't any secrets that I wish to keep from
you, Mary," she said with quiet dignity. "Last night at the dance
Constance asked me to promise I wouldn't say anything to you about the
trouble she had with Mignon La Salle during our freshman year. We were
upstairs in her room. I was mending my flounce. It got torn when we were
dancing. I had intended asking her permission then to tell you, and when
she spoke of it first I hardly knew what to do. I didn't like to let her
think that you were curious and----"

"How dare you call me curious!" Mary stamped her foot in a sudden fury
of temper. "I'm not. I wouldn't listen to your miserable secret if you
begged me to. Now I truly believe what Miss La Salle told me. You and
your friend Constance ought to be ashamed of the way you treated that
poor girl last year. I'm sorry I ever came to your house to live. I'd
write to Father to come and take me away, but Mother would have to know.
She sha'n't be worried, no matter what I have to stand. You needn't be
afraid, I'll not make a fuss, either, so that General and Captain will
know. I'll try to pretend before them that we're just the same chums as
ever, and you'd better pretend it, too. But we won't be. From to-day on
I'll go _my_ way and choose _my_ friends and you can do the same."

"Mary Raymond, listen to me." Marjorie's hands found the shoulders of
her angry chum. The brown eyes held the blue ones in a long, steadfast
gaze. "Mignon La Salle is only trying to make trouble. If you knew her
as well as I know her, you wouldn't pay any attention to her. We've
been best friends and comrades since we were little tots, Mary, and I
think you ought to trust me. No one can ever be so dear to me as you
are."

"Except Constance Stevens," put in Mary sarcastically, twisting from
Marjorie's hold. "Why, that very first day when you came to the train to
meet me I could see you liked her best. You can imagine how I felt when
even your friends spoke of it. If you really cared about me, you would
have written to me of every single thing that happened last year. You
promised you would. You are very anxious to keep a promise to Constance,
but you didn't care whether you kept one to me. As for what you say of
Miss La Salle, I don't believe you. I'd far rather trust her than your
dear Miss Stevens!"

"What has happened to my brigade?" called Mrs. Dean from the foot of the
stairs. "It is five minutes to one, girls. Come to luncheon at once."

"We are coming, Captain," answered Marjorie in as steady a tone as she
could command. Then she said sorrowfully to her companion, "Mary, I feel
just the same toward you as always, only I am terribly hurt. I wish your
way to be my way and your friends mine. If you are sure that you would
like Mignon for a friend, then I am going to try to like her for your
sake. But we mustn't quarrel or--not--not speak--or--let General and
Captain know--that----" Marjorie's words died in a half-sob.

"It doesn't make any difference to me whether you like Miss La Salle or
not," retorted Mary, ignoring Marjorie's distress, "but if you say a
single word to either General or Captain about us, I'll never speak to
you again." With this threat the incensed lieutenant ran heartlessly
down the stairs, leaving her sadly wounded comrade to follow when she
would.

Luncheon was a dismal failure as far as Marjorie was concerned. She
tried to talk and laugh in her usual cheery manner, but she was unused
to dissembling, and it hurt her to play a part before her Captain, of
all persons. Mary, however, found a certain wicked satisfaction in the
situation she had brought about. Now that she had spoken her mind she
would go on in the way she had chosen. Marjorie would be very sorry.
There would come a time when she would be only too glad to plead for the
friendship she had cast aside. But it would be too late.

The moment the two girls left the house for the afternoon session of
school, a blank silence fell upon them. It was broken only by a cool
"Good-bye" from Mary as they separated in the locker room. But during
that silent walk Marjorie had been thinking busily. Hers was a nature
that no amount of disagreeable shocks could dismay for long. No sooner
did a pet ideal totter than she steadied it with patient, tender hands.
True always to the highest, she was laying a foundation that would
weather the stress of years. Now she dwelt not so much upon her own
hurts, but rather on how she should bind up the wounds of her comrades.
What had been obscure was now plain. Mary was jealous of her friendship
with Constance. She had completely misunderstood. If only she, Marjorie,
had known in the beginning! And then there was Mignon. If she had stayed
away from Sanford, all might have been well in time. Mary was determined
to be friends with her. Marjorie knew her friend too well not to believe
that Mary would now cultivate the French girl from sheer obstinacy.
There was just one thing to do. She had said to Mary that she would try
to like Mignon for her sake. She stood ready to keep her promise.
Perhaps, far under her mischief-making exterior, Mignon's better self
lay dormant, waiting for some chance, kindly word or act to awaken it
into life. What was it her General had said about the worst person
having some good in his nature that sooner or later was sure to manifest
itself? How glorious it would be to help Mignon find that better self!
But she could not accomplish much alone. She needed the support of the
girls of her own particular little circle. She was fairly sure they
would help her. But how had they better begin? Suddenly Marjorie's sober
face broke into a radiant smile. She gave a chuckle born of sheer
good-will. "I know the very way," she murmured, half aloud. "If only the
girls will see it, too. But they _must_! It's a splendid plan, and if it
doesn't work it won't be from lack of trying on my part."




CHAPTER XII

THE COMPACT


    "DEAR IRMA," wrote Marjorie, the moment she reached her desk,
    "will you meet me across the street from school this afternoon?
    I have something very important to say to you.

        "MARJORIE."

She wrote similar notes to Muriel Harding, Susan Atwell and Jerry Macy,
managing in spite of the watchful eyes of Miss Merton to convey them,
through the medium of willing hands, to her schoolmates. This done, she
made a valiant effort to dismiss her personal affairs from her thoughts
and settled down to her lessons. The first period in the afternoon was
now her study hour, due to the change she had made in her geometry
recitation.

Marjorie managed to study diligently for at least twenty minutes, on the
definitions in geometry given out by Miss Nelson as an advance lesson.
Then her attention flagged. She found herself wondering what she had
better do in regard to asking Constance to release her from her promise.
She was sure Connie would do it. Then, if Mary could be coaxed to listen
to her, she would---- Marjorie took a deep breath of sheer dismay. Of
what use would it be to plan to help Mignon find her better self, then
deliberately turn the one girl who liked her against her by relating
her past misdeeds? Here indeed was a problem. She knitted her brows in
troubled thought over this new knot in the tangle. One thing she was
resolved upon, however. She would open her heart to Connie. Perhaps she
might be able to suggest a satisfactory adjustment.

The afternoon dragged interminably to the perplexed sophomore and she
hailed the ringing of the closing bell with thankfulness. She had caught
distant glimpses of Mary during the session and in each instance had
seen her in conversation with the French girl. Mignon was losing no
time. That was certain.

As Marjorie rose from her seat to leave the study hall she had half a
mind to wait just outside the door for Mary. Then a flash of wounded
pride held her back. Mary would undoubtedly pass out with Mignon. If she
spoke to her chum, she was almost sure to be rebuffed. She could imagine
just how delighted Mignon would look at her discomfiture. Unconsciously
lifting her head, Marjorie left the study hall without so much as a
backward glance.

Outside the door she encountered Jerry Macy.

"Your note said, 'Wait across the street,' but this is a lot better,"
greeted Jerry. "Let's hurry and get our wraps. Irma and Susie will
probably steer straight for your locker. I haven't seen Muriel to speak
to this afternoon, but she'll be on the scene, I guess. The sooner we
collect the sooner we'll hear what's on your mind. I can just about tell
you what you're going to say, though."

"Then you're a mind-reader," laughed Marjorie. Nevertheless, a quick
flash rose to her face at Jerry's significant speech.

"I can add two and two, anyhow," asserted Jerry.

True to Jerry's prediction, three curious young women stood grouped in
front of Marjorie's locker, impatiently awaiting her arrival.

"Wait until we are outside, girls. I'll be ready in a jiffy." Marjorie
slipped into her raincoat and pulled her blue velour hat over her curls.
"We can't talk here. Miss Merton is likely to wander down, and then you
know what will happen."

"Oh, bother Miss Merton!" grumbled Jerry. "I can stand anything she says
and live. Still, I don't blame you, Marjorie. It tickles her to pieces
to get a chance to snap at you. Now if Mignon La Salle wanted to sing a
solo in front of her locker at the top of her voice, Miss Merton would
encore it."

Susan Atwell giggled. "I can just hear Mignon lifting up her voice in
song with Miss Merton as an appreciative audience."

The quartette thoughtlessly echoed her merriment. So intent were they
upon their own affairs that they did not notice the two girls who were
almost hidden behind an open locker at the end of the room. The black
eyes of one of them gleamed with rage. She turned to the fair-haired
girl at her side with a gesture which said more plainly than words, "You
see for yourself." The other nodded. Mignon laid a finger on her lips.
Then noiselessly as two shadows they flitted through the open door
without having been observed by the group at the other end.

For the moment Marjorie's back had been turned toward that end of the
room. She whirled about just too late to see Mignon and Mary as they
hurried away. Unusually sensitive to impressions, she had perhaps felt
their presence, for she asked abruptly, "Girls, have you seen Mary? She
can't have gone, for I'm sure I left the study hall before she did. I
ought to wait for her, but I don't know what to do." She glanced
irresolutely about her. Then, her pride again coming to her rescue, she
said, "Never mind. Suppose we go on. Perhaps I'd better not try to see
her now, because I must tell you my plan and I--well--I can't--if she is
with us."

Muriel Harding elevated her eyebrows in surprise. Of the four girls who
had received Marjorie's notes, she alone had no suspicion of the purpose
which had brought them together.

Five pairs of bright eyes scanned the street across from the school
building as the little party came down the wide stone steps.

"The coast is clear," commented Jerry. "Now do tell us what's the
matter, Marjorie. No, wait a minute." Jerry fumbled energetically in a
small leather bag. "Hooray! Here's a real life fifty-cent piece! I can
see it vanishing in the shape of five sundaes, at ten cents per eat. We
can't go to Sargent's. They cost fifteen----"

"I've a quarter," insinuated Irma.

"All contributions thankfully received," beamed Jerry. "On to Sargent's!
We'll talk about the weather until we get there. It's been such a
lovely day," she grimaced. "If it rains much more we'll have to do as
they do in Spain."

"What do they do in Spain?" Susan Atwell rose to the bait, despite a
warning poke from Irma.

"They let it rain," grinned Jerry. "Aren't you an innocent child?"

Well pleased with her success in putting over this time-worn joke on one
more victim, Jerry continued with a lively stream of nonsense that
lasted during the brief walk to Sargent's.

Once seated about a small round table at the back of the room, which
from long patronage they had come to look upon almost as their own, an
expectant murmur went the round of the little circle as Marjorie leaned
forward a trifle and began in a low, earnest tone. "Girls, I am going to
ask you to do something for me that perhaps you won't wish to do. All of
you know what happened last year to Connie and me. You know, too, that
if anyone has good reason to cut Mignon La Salle's acquaintance, we
would be justified in doing it. I was awfully surprised to see her come
into the study hall this morning, and I said to myself that aside from
bowing to her if I met her on the street, I would steer clear of her.
But since then something has happened to make me change my mind. Mary
wishes Mignon for a friend, and so----"

"What a little goose!" interrupted Jerry disgustedly. "I beg your
pardon, Marjorie, but I can't help saying it."

"This _is_ news!" exclaimed Muriel Harding. "Come to think of it, I
_did_ see your friend Mary walking into geometry with Mignon, Marjorie.
Why don't you enlighten her on the subject of Mignon and her doings?"

"That's just it." Marjorie repeated briefly what she had said to the
others at noon. "I'm going to Gray Gables to see Constance before I go
home," she continued, addressing the group. "You see, it's like this.
Even if Connie says I may tell Mary everything, will it be quite fair to
Mignon? And now I'm coming to the reason I asked you to come here with
me. Sometimes when a girl has done wrong and been hateful and no one
likes her, another girl comes along and begins to be friendly with her.
That makes the girl who has done wrong feel ashamed of herself and then
perhaps she resolves to be more agreeable because of it."

"Not Mignon, if you mean her," muttered Jerry.

"I do mean Mignon," was Marjorie's grave response. "Every girl has a
better self, I'm sure, but if she doesn't know it she will never find it
unless someone helps her. We've never even stopped to consider whether
Mignon had any good qualities. We've judged her for the dishonorable
things she has done. I can't help saying that I don't like her very
well. You can't blame me, either. Still, if we are going to be sophomore
sisters we must all stand together." She glanced appealingly about her
circle, but on each young face she read plain disapproval.

"You might as well try to carry water in a sieve as to reform Mignon,"
shrugged Muriel Harding.

"You can't tame a wildcat," commented Susan Atwell.

"Look here, Marjorie," burst forth Jerry Macy. "We know that you are the
dearest, nicest girl ever, but you are going to waste your time if you
try to go exploring for Mignon's better self. She never had one. If you
try to be nice to her she'll just take advantage of your goodness and
make fun of you behind your back. Let me tell you something. You know
Miss Elkins, who sews for people. Well, she's at our house to-day. She
is making some silk blouses for me, and when I went upstairs to the
sewing-room for a fitting to-day she asked me if Mignon was in school.
Her sister is the housekeeper at the La Salle's and she told Miss Elkins
that Mignon was expelled from boarding school because she wouldn't pay
attention to the rules. She was threatened with dismissal twice, and the
other night she coaxed a lot of the girls to slip out of the dormitory
and go to the city to the theatre without a sign of a chaperon. One of
the girls had a key to the front door and she lost it. They didn't get
home until after one o'clock, and then they couldn't get into the
dormitory. The night watchman finally had to let them in and he reported
them. She and two others were expelled because they planned the affair.
I don't know what happened to the rest of them. Anyway, that's why our
dear Mignon is with us once more. I only wish that girl hadn't lost the
key." Jerry's face registered her disgust.

"I don't believe Mother would like to have me associate with Mignon."
This from gentle Irma Linton, who was usually the soul of toleration.

"And you, too, Irma!" was Marjorie's reproachful cry. "Then there isn't
much use is asking you girls to help me."

This was too much for the impulsive Jerry.

"Don't look at us like that. As though you had lost your last friend.
Just let me tell you, you haven't. I take it all back. I'll promise to
go on a hunting expedition for Mignon's better self any old time you
say."

"Sieves _have_ been known to hold water," acknowledged Muriel, not to be
outdone by Jerry's burst of loyalty.

"And wildcats have sometimes become household pets," added Susan with
her infectious giggle.

"So have mothers been known to change their minds," put in Irma. "I'm
ashamed of myself for being a quitter before I've even heard your plan."

Marjorie's dark eyes shone with affection. "You are splendid," she
praised with a little catch in her voice. "I can't help telling you now.
After all, it isn't a very great plan, but it's the best I could think
of just now, and this is it. Mother said I might give a party for Mary
when she first came to live with us, but I wished to wait until she got
acquainted with the girls in school. Then Connie gave her dance. So I
thought it would be nice to have mine in about two weeks, after we were
settled in our classes and didn't have so much to worry us. But now I've
changed my mind. I'm going to give my party next week and I shall invite
Mignon to it You girls can help me by being nice to her and making her
have a pleasant evening. If we are really determined to carry out our
plan we will have to invite her to our parties and luncheons, too, and
ask her to share our good times. The only way we can help her is to make
her one of us. If we draw away from her she will never be different. She
will just become more disagreeable and some day we might be very sorry
we didn't do our best for her."

The eloquence of Marjorie's plea had its effect on her listeners.

"I guess you are on the right track," conceded Jerry Macy warmly. "I am
willing to try to be a busy little helper. We might call ourselves the
S. F. R. M.--Society For Reforming Mignon, you know."

This proposal evoked a ripple of laughter.

"Irma, do you suppose your mother wouldn't like you to--to--be friendly
with Mignon?" asked Marjorie anxiously. "We mustn't pledge ourselves to
anything to which our mothers might say 'no.'"

"I think I can fix that part of it," said Irma slowly. "If I explain
things to Mother, she'll understand."

"Perhaps we all ought to talk it over with our mothers," suggested
Susan.

"I guess we'd better," nodded Jerry. "But what about Connie? Suppose she
shouldn't be in favor of the S. F. R. M.? You couldn't blame her much if
she wasn't."

"I'm going to see her to-night, after dinner. I intended to go to Gray
Gables after school, but you see me here instead," returned Marjorie.
"I am almost sure she'll say 'yes.'"

"How are we going to begin our reform movement?" asked Muriel Harding.

"That's what I'd like to know. Who is willing to be the first martyr to
the cause? Let me tell you right now, I'd just as soon make friends with
a snapping turtle. Only the snapper would probably be more polite."

"You are a wicked Jerry," reproved Marjorie smilingly, "and you know you
don't mean half you say."

"Maybe I do, and maybe I don't. Anyhow, on in the cause of Mignon! I
feel like one of the knights of old who buckled on his armor and went
forth to the fray with his lady's colors tied to his sleeve, or his
lance, or some of his belongings. I've forgotten just what the style
was. We are gallant knights, going forth to battle, wearing Marjorie's
colors, and Mignon will have to look out or she'll be reformed before
she has time to turn up her nose and shrug her shoulders."

"Suppose we start by being as nice to her as we can in school
to-morrow," proposed Irma Linton thoughtfully. "If she meets us in the
same spirit, maybe something will happen that will show us what to do
next."

"That wouldn't be a bad idea," declared Susan Atwell. "I sit near her,
so I'll be the first one to hold out the olive branch. But if you hear
something drop on the floor with a dull, sickening thud, you'll know
that my particular variety of olive branch was rejected."

"Somehow, I have an idea she won't be so very scornful," said Marjorie
hopefully.

"Being expelled from boarding school may have a soothing effect on her,"
agreed Jerry grimly. "I suppose it really isn't very knightly to say
snippy things about a person one intends to reform."

"I think you are right, Jerry," broke in Marjorie with sweet
earnestness. "We must try to think and say only kind things of Mignon if
we are to succeed." Taking in the circle of girls with a quick, bright
glance, she asked: "Then you are agreed to my plan? It is really a
compact?"

Four emphatic nods answered her questions.

"Hurrah for the S. F. R. M.!" exclaimed Jerry. "Long may it wave! Only
there's one glorious truth that I feel it my duty to impress on your
minds. The way of the reformer is hard."




CHAPTER XIII

IN DEFENCE OF MIGNON


"Here are two letters for you, Lieutenant," called her mother, as
Marjorie burst into the living-room, her cheeks pink from a brisk run up
the drive. After leaving her schoolmates Marjorie had set off for home
as fast as her light feet would carry her. She managed to keep to a
decorous walk until she had swung the gate behind her, then she had
sped up the drive like a fawn.

"Oh, lovely!" cried Marjorie. "Your permission, Captain." She touched
her hand to her hat brim in a gay little salute. Her spirits had been
rising from the moment she had left the girls, carrying with her the
precious security that they were now banded together in a worthy cause.
Surely the snarl would straighten itself in a short time. Mary would
soon see that she intended to keep her word about being friends with
Mignon. Then she would understand that she, Marjorie, was loyal in spite
of her unjust accusations. Then all would be as it had been before.
Perhaps Mary wouldn't be quite her old, sunny self for a few days, but
the shadow would pass--it must.

"Why, it's from Connie!" she cried out in surprise, as her eyes sought
the writing on the upper-most envelope. It was in Constance's irregular,
girlish hand. She hastily tore it open and read.

    "DEAREST MARJORIE:

    "Last night at my dance I didn't know that father was to be
    concertmeister in the symphony orchestra. It is a great honor
    and we are all very happy over it. He kept it to himself until
    the last minute, because he knew that if he told me, I would
    insist on going back to New York with him for his opening
    concert. But I'm going with him just the same. I shall be away
    from Sanford for a week or so, for I want to be with him until
    he goes to Boston. I'll study hard and catch up in school when
    I come back. I wish you were going, too, but later in the season
    he will be in New York City again. Then Auntie says she will
    take you and Mary and me there to hear him play. Won't that be
    glorious? I'll write you again as soon as I reach New York and
    you must answer with a long letter, telling me about school and
    everything. I am so sorry I can't see you to say good-bye, but I
    won't have time. Don't forget to answer as soon as I write you.

        "Lovingly,
            "CONSTANCE."

Marjorie's cheerful face grew blank. Certainly she was glad that Connie
would experience the happiness of hearing her father play before a vast
assemblage who would gather to do him honor. Nevertheless she was just a
trifle cast down over the unexpected flight of her friend to New York.
With a start of dismay she remembered that she had intended going to see
Constance with the object of clearing away the clouds of
misunderstanding. Now she would have to wait until Connie returned. And
then, there was Mignon. She felt that it would be hardly fair to begin
her crusade without consulting the girl whom Mignon had wronged most
deeply. She had perfect faith in the quality of her friend's charity.
Constance was too generous of spirit to hold a grudge. Through suffering
she had grown great of soul. Still, it was right that she should be
asked to decide the question. If she refused outright to sanction the
proposed campaign for reform, or even demurred at the proposal, Marjorie
was resolved not to carry it forward, even for Mary's or Mignon's sake.

Suddenly she recollected her adjuration to the girls to gain their
mothers' consent before going on with their plan. Her brows drew
together in a perplexed frown. Had not Mary threatened, in the heat of
her anger, that if Marjorie told her mother of their disagreement she
would never speak to her again? How could she inform Captain of the
compact she and her friends had made without involving Mary in it? Her
mother would naturally inquire the reason for this rather remarkable
movement. She might be displeased, as well as surprised, over Mary's
strange predilection for the French girl. Her Captain knew all that had
happened during her freshman year. On that memorable day when she had
leaped into the river to rescue Marcia Arnold, and afterward come home,
a curious little figure clad in Jerry Macy's ample garments, the recital
of those stormy days when she had doubted, yet clung to Constance, had
taken place. She recalled that long, confidential talk at her mother's
knee, and the peace it had brought her.

All at once her face cleared. She would tell her mother about the
compact, but she would leave out the disagreeable scenes that had
occurred between herself and Mary. "I'll tell her now and have it over
with," she decided.

"What makes you look so solemn, dear?" Her mother had glanced up from
her embroidery, and was affectionately scanning her daughter's grave
face. "Does your letter from Connie contain bad news? I hope nothing
unpleasant has happened to the child."

"Oh, no, Captain. Quite the contrary. It's something nice," returned
Marjorie quickly. "Let me read you her letter." She turned to the first
page and read aloud rapidly Constance's little note. "I'm so glad for
her sake," she sighed, as she finished, "but I shall miss her
dreadfully."

"I suppose you will. Good fortune seems to have followed the Stevens
family since the day when my lieutenant went out of her way to help a
little girl in distress."

"Perhaps I'm a mascot, Captain. If I am, then you ought to take good
care of me, feed me on a special diet of plum pudding and chocolate
cake, keep me on your best embroidered cushion and cherish me
generally," laughed Marjorie, with a view toward turning the subject
from her own generous acts, the mention of which invariably embarrassed
her.

"And give you indigestion and see you ossify for want of exercise under
my indulgent eye," retorted her mother.

"I guess you had better go on cherishing me in the good old way,"
decided Marjorie. "But you won't mind my sitting on one of your everyday
cushions, just as close to you as I can get, will you?" Reaching for one
of the fat green velvet cushions which stood up sturdily at each end of
the davenport, Marjorie dropped it beside her mother's chair and curled
up on it.

"I've something to report, Captain," she said, her bantering tone
changing to seriousness. "You remember last year--and Mignon La Salle?"

Mrs. Dean frowned slightly at the mention of the French girl's name.
Mother-like, she had never quite forgiven Mignon for the needless sorrow
she had wrought in the lives of those she held so dear.

Marjorie caught the significance of that frown. "I know how you feel
about things, dearest," she nodded. "Perhaps you won't give your consent
to the plan I--that is, we--have made. But I have to tell you, anyway,
so here goes. Mignon La Salle went away to boarding school, but
she--well she was sent home, and now she's back in Sanford High again.
This afternoon Jerry, Irma, Susan, Muriel Harding and I went together to
Sargent's for ice cream. While we were there we decided that we ought to
forgive the past and try to help Mignon find her better self. The only
way we can help her is to treat her well and invite her to our parties
and luncheons. If she finds we are ready to begin all over again with
her, perhaps she'll be different. We made a solemn compact to do it,
provided our mothers were willing we should. So to be very slangy, 'It's
up to you, Captain!'"

"But suppose this girl merely takes advantage of your kindness and
involves you all in another tangle?" remarked Mrs. Dean quietly. "It
seems to me that she proved herself wholly untrustworthy last year."

"I know it." Marjorie sighed. She would have liked to say that Mignon
had already tied an ugly snarl in her affairs. But loyalty to Mary
forbade the utterance. Then, brightening, she went on hopefully: "If we
never try to help her, we'll never know whether she really has a better
self. Sometimes it takes just a little thing to change a person's
heart."

"You are a dear child," Mrs. Dean bent to press a kiss on Marjorie's
curly head, "and your argument is too generous to be downed. I give my
official consent to the proposed reform, and I hope, for all concerned,
that it will turn out beautifully."

"Oh, Captain," Marjorie nestled closer, "you're too dear for words.
There's another reason for my wishing to be friendly with Mignon. Mary
has met her and likes her."

"Mary!" Mrs. Dean looked her astonishment. "By the way, Marjorie, where
is Mary? I had quite forgotten her for the time being. You didn't
mention her as being with you at Sargent's."

"She wasn't there," explained Marjorie. "She didn't wait for me after
school. She must have gone on with--with someone and stopped to talk.
I--I think she'll be here soon." A hurt look, of which she was entirely
unconscious, had driven the brightness from the face Marjorie turned to
her mother.

Mrs. Dean was a wise woman. She discerned that there had been a hitch in
the programme of her daughter's daily affairs, but she asked no
questions. She never intruded upon Marjorie's little reserves. She knew
now that whatever her daughter had kept back had been done in accordance
with a code of living, the uprightness of which was seldom equalled in
a girl of her years. She, therefore, respected the reservation and made
no attempt to discover its nature.

"What are you going to do first in the way of reform, Lieutenant?" she
inquired brightly.

"Well, I thought I would invite Mignon to my party, the one you said I
could give for Mary. I'd like to have it next Friday night. Friday's the
best time. We can all sleep a little later the next morning, you know."

"Very well, you may," assented Mrs. Dean. "Does Mary know of the
contemplated reform?"

"No. You see I hated to say much to her about Mignon, because it
wouldn't be very nice to discredit someone you were trying to help.
Don't you agree with me?"

"I suppose I must. But what of Constance?"

"That's the part that bothers me," was Marjorie's troubled reply. "I'm
going to write her all about it. I know she'll be with us. She's too
splendid to hold spite. I think it would be all right to invite Mignon
to my party, at any rate. But there's just one thing about it, Captain,
if Connie objects, then the reform will have to go on without me. You
understand the way I feel, don't you?"

"Yes. I believe you owe it to Constance to respect her wishes. She was
the chief sufferer at Mignon's hands."

The confidential talk came to a sudden end with the ringing of the
doorbell.

"It's Mary." Marjorie sprang to her feet. "I'll let her in."

Hurrying to the door, Marjorie opened it to admit Mary Raymond. She
entered with an air of sulkiness that brought dread to Marjorie's heart.

"Oh, Mary, where were you?" she asked, trying to appear ignorant of her
chum's forbidding aspect.

"I was with Mignon La Salle," returned Mary briefly. "Will you come
upstairs with me, please?"

"I'd love to, Lieutenant Raymond. Thank you for your kind invitation."
Marjorie assumed a gaiety she did not feel.

Without further remark Mary stolidly mounted the stairs. Marjorie
followed her in a distinctly worried state of mind. The quarrel was
going to begin over again. She was sure of that.

Mary stalked past the half-open door of Marjorie's room and paused
before her own. "I'd rather talk to you in _my_ room, if you please,"
she said distantly.

"All right," agreed Marjorie, with ready cheerfulness. She intended to
go on ignoring her chum's hostile attitude until she was forced to do
otherwise.

Mary closed the door behind them and faced Marjorie with compressed
lips. The latter met her offended gaze with steady eyes.

"I heard you and your friends making fun of Miss La Salle this
afternoon, and I am going to say right here that I think you were all
extremely unkind. She heard you, too. You ought to be ashamed of
yourself, Marjorie Dean!"

"Why, I don't remember making fun of Mignon!" exclaimed Marjorie. "What
do you mean?"

"Then your memory is very short," sneered Mary. "But I might have
expected you to deny it."

It was Marjorie's turn to grow indignant. "How can you accuse me of not
telling the truth?" she flashed. "I did not----" She stopped, flushing
deeply. She recalled Jerry Macy's humorous remark about Mignon as they
stood talking in front of her locker. "I beg your pardon, Mary," she
apologized. "I _do_ remember now that Mignon's name was mentioned while
we were standing there. But it was nothing very dreadful. We were saying
that if Miss Merton heard us talking she would scold us, and Jerry only
said that if Mignon chose to sing a solo at the top of her voice, in
front of _her_ locker, Miss Merton wouldn't mind in the least. Everyone
knows that Mignon has always been a favorite of Miss Merton. I am sorry
if she overheard it, for truly we hadn't the least idea of making fun of
her. It was Jerry's funny way of saying it that made us laugh. I'll
explain that to her the first time I see her."

Mary's tense features relaxed a trifle. She was not yet so firmly in the
toils of the French girl as to be entirely blind to Marjorie's
sincerity. Her good sense told her that she was making a mountain of a
mole hill. There was a ring of truth in Marjorie's voice that brought a
flush of shame to her cheeks. Still she would not allow it to sway her.

"It wasn't nice in you to laugh," she muttered. "She was dreadfully
hurt. She feels very sensitive about being sent home from school. Of
course, she knows she deserved it. She said so. But----"

"Did she really say that?" interrupted Marjorie eagerly.

"I am not in the habit of saying what isn't true," retorted Mary coldly.

"Listen, Mary." Marjorie's face was aglow with honest purpose. "I said
to you, you know, that if you wished Mignon for a friend I would be nice
to her, too. Captain has promised to let me give my party for you on
next Friday night. I am going to invite Mignon to it, and we are all
going to try to make her feel friendly toward us."

"She won't come," predicted Mary contemptuously. "I wouldn't, either, if
I were in her place. I shall tell her not to come, too."

"Then you will be proving yourself anything but a friend to her," flung
back Marjorie hotly, "because you will be advising her against doing
something that is for her good." With this clinching argument Marjorie
walked to the door and opened it.

"Whether I say a word or not, she won't come," called Mary after her.
But Marjorie was halfway down the stairs, too greatly exasperated to
trust herself to further speech.




CHAPTER XIV

THE COMMON FATE OF REFORMERS


Nevertheless the session behind closed doors had one beneficial effect.
It broke the ice that had lately formed over the long comradeship of the
two girls, and, although nothing was as of old, they were both secretly
relieved to still be on terms of conversation. Out of pure regard for
Mary, Marjorie treated her exactly as she had always done, and Mary
pretended to respond, simply because she had determined that Mr. and
Mrs. Dean should not become aware of any difference in their relations.
She affected an interest in planning for the party and kept up a pretty
show of concern which Marjorie alone knew to be false. Privately Mary's
deceitful attitude was a sore trial to her. Honest to the core, she felt
that she would rather her chum had maintained open hostility than a
farce of good will which was dropped the moment they chanced to be
alone. Still she resolved to bear it and look forward to a happier day
when Mary would relent.

The invitations to the party had been mailed and duly accepted. Much to
Mary's secret surprise and chagrin, Mignon had not declined to shed the
light of her countenance upon the proposed festivity, but had written a
formal note of acceptance which amused Marjorie considerably, inasmuch
as the acceptances of the others had been verbal. Despite her hatred
for Marjorie Dean and her friends, Mignon had resolved to profit by the
sudden show of friendliness which, true to their compact, the five girls
had lost no time in carrying out. Ignoble of soul, she did not value the
favor of these girls as a concession which she had been fortunate enough
to receive. She decided to use it only as a wedge to reinstate herself
in a certain leadership which her bad behavior of last year had lost
her. She had no idea of the real reason for their interest in her. She
preferred to think that they had come to a realization of her vast
importance in the social life of Sanford. Was not her father the richest
man in the town? She had an idea that perhaps Mary Raymond might be
responsible for her sudden accession to favor. She had taken care to
impress her own importance upon Mary's mind, together with certain vague
insinuations as to her wrongs. After her first brief outburst against
Marjorie and Constance Stevens, she had decided that she would gain
infinitely more by playing the part of wronged innocence. When she
received her invitation she had already heard that Constance was in New
York and likely to remain there for a time. This influenced her to
accept Marjorie's hospitality. Her own consciousness of guilt would not
permit her to go to any place where she would meet the accusing scorn of
Constance's blue eyes. Then, too, she had still another motive in
attending the party. She had always looked upon Lawrence Armitage with
eyes of favor. He had never paid her a great deal of attention, but he
had shown her less since the advent of Constance Stevens in Sanford.
She resolved to show him that she was far more clever and likable than
the quiet girl who had taken such a strong hold on his boyish interest,
and with that end in view Mignon planned to make her reinstatement a
sweeping success.

Friday afternoon was a lost session, so far as study went, to the
Sanford girls who were to make up the feminine portion of Marjorie's
party.

"Good gracious, I thought half-past three would never come!" grumbled
Jerry Macy in Marjorie's ear as they filed decorously through the
corridor. "Let's make a quick dash for the locker-room. I've a pressing
engagement with the hair-dresser and I'm dying to get through with it
and sweep down to dinner in my new silver net party dress. It's a dream
and makes me look positively thin. You won't know me when you see me."

"You're not the only one," put in Muriel Harding. "You won't be one,
two, three when I appear to-night in all my glory."

"Listen to the conceited things," laughed Irma Linton. "'I won't speak
of myself,' as H. C. Anderson beautifully puts it."

"Who's he?" demanded Jerry. "I know every boy in Sanford High, but I
never heard of him."

A shout of laughter greeted her earnest assertion.

"Wake up, Jerry," dimpled Susan Atwell. "H. C. stands for Hans
Christian. Now does the light begin to break?"

"Oh, you make me tired," retorted Jerry. "Irma did that on purpose.
That's worse than my favorite trap about letting it rain in Spain. How
was I to know what she meant?"

"That's all because you don't cultivate literary tastes," teased Muriel.

"I do cultivate them," grinned Jerry. "I've read the dictionary through
twice, without skipping a page!"

"It must have been a pocket edition," murmured Marjorie.

"Stop teasing me or I'll get cross and not come to your party,"
threatened Jerry.

"You mean nothing could keep you away," laughed Irma.

"You're right. Nothing could. I'll be there, clad in costly raiment, to
spur the reform party on to deeds of might."

"Do come early, all of you," urged Marjorie as she paused at her corner
to say good-bye.

"We'll be there," chorused the quartette after her.

"I hope everyone will have a nice time," was Marjorie's fervent
reflection as she hurried on her way. "I do wish Mary would walk home
with me once in a while, instead of always waiting for Mignon. I
wouldn't ask her to for worlds, though."

To see Mary walk away with Mignon at the end of every session of school
had been a heavy cross for Marjorie to bear. Surrounded as she always
was with the four faithful members of her own little set, she was often
lonely. If only Constance had been in school she could have better borne
Mary's disloyalty, although the latter could never quite fill the niche
which years of companionship had carved in her heart for Mary. But
Connie was far away, so she must go on enduring this bitter sorrow and
make no outward sign.

Usually ready to bubble over with exhilaration when on the eve of
participating in so delightful an occasion as a party, it was a very
quiet Marjorie who tripped into the living-room that afternoon. The big,
cosy apartment had undergone a marked change. It was practically bare,
save for the piano in one corner, which had been moved from the
drawing-room, and a phonograph which was to do occasional duty, so that
the patient musicians might now and then rest from their labor.

Mrs. Dean was giving a last direction to the men who had been hired to
move the furniture about as Marjorie entered.

"Everything is ready, Lieutenant," smiled her mother. "We have all done
a strenuous day's work in a good cause."

"Thank you over and over again, Captain. It's dear in you to take so
much trouble for me. I'm afraid you've worked too hard." Her lately
pensive mood vanishing as she viewed the newly waxed floor, Marjorie
executed a gay little _pas-seul_ on its smooth surface and made a
running slide toward her mother, striking against her with considerable
force.

"Steady, Lieutenant." Her mother passed an arm about her and gave her a
loving little squeeze. "Please have proper respect for the aged."

"There are no such persons here," retorted Marjorie, "I see a young and
beautiful lady, who----"

"Must go straight to the kitchen and see what Delia is doing in the way
of dinner," finished Mrs. Dean. "Remember, we are to have it at
half-past five to-night, so don't wander away and be late. Your frock is
laid out on your bed, dear. You had better run along and dress before
dinner. Then you will be ready. The time will fairly fly afterward.
Where is Mary? Why doesn't she come home with you in the afternoon? For
the past week she has come in long after school is out."

"Oh, she stops to talk and walk with Mignon," replied Marjorie, with an
air of elaborate carelessness. "They are very good friends."

Mrs. Dean seemed about to comment further on the subject when Delia
appeared in the doorway and distracted her attention to other matters.

Marjorie breathed a sigh of relief as she went upstairs. She was glad to
escape the further questions concerning Mary which her mother seemed
disposed to ask. Her gaiety had been evanescent and she now experienced
a feeling of positive gloom as she entered her pretty room and prepared
to bathe and dress for the evening. She could not resist a thrill of
pleasure at the sheer beauty of the white chiffon frock spread out on
her bed. She wondered if Mary would wear her pale blue silk evening
frock, or the white one with the lace over-frock. They were both
beautiful. But she had always loved Mary in white. She wondered if she
dared ask her to wear the white lace gown.

While she was dressing, through her half-opened door she heard Mary's
voice in the hall in conversation with her mother. Hastily slipping
into her pretty frock, she went to the door hooking it as she walked.
Mary was just appearing on the landing.

"Oh, Mary," she called genially, "do wear your white. You will look so
lovely in it."

"I'm going to wear my blue gown," returned Mary stolidly, and marched on
down the hall to her room, closing the door with a bang. "Just as though
I'd let her dictate to me what to wear," she muttered.

The two young girls made a pretty picture as they took their places at
the dinner table.

"I wish General were here to see you," sighed Mrs. Dean. Mr. Dean had
been called away on a business trip east.

"So do I," echoed Marjorie. "Things won't be quite perfect without him."

Neither girl ate much dinner. They were far too highly excited to do
justice to the meal. In spite of their estrangement they were both
looking forward to the dance.

At half-past seven o'clock Jerry and the rest of the reform party
arrived, buzzing like a hive of bees.

"Is she here yet?" whispered Jerry Macy in Marjorie's ear, after paying
her respects to Mrs. Dean and Mary, who, with Marjorie, received their
guests in the palm-decorated hall.

"No, she hasn't come. I suppose she will arrive late. You know she loves
to make a sensation." Marjorie could not resist this one little fling,
despite her good resolutions.

The guests continued to arrive in twos and threes and Marjorie was kept
busy greeting them. True to her prediction, it was after eight o'clock
when Mignon appeared. She wore an imported gown of peachblow satin that
must have been a considerable item of expense to her doting father. Her
elfish face glowed with suppressed excitement and her black eyes roved
about, with lightning glances, born of a curiosity to inspect every
detail of her unfamiliar surroundings.

"I am glad you came," greeted Marjorie graciously, and presented Mignon
to her mother.

The French girl acknowledged the introduction, then turning to Mary
began an eager, low-toned conversation, apparently forgetting her
hostess.

Mrs. Dean betrayed no sign of what went on in her mind, but her thoughts
on the subject of Mignon were not flattering. Ill-bred, she mentally
styled her, and decided that she would look into the matter of her
growing friendship with Mary.

The dancing had already begun when, piloted by Mary, who had apparently
forgotten that she was of the receiving party, the two girls strolled
into the impromptu ballroom. Mary was immediately claimed as a partner
by Lawrence Armitage, who tried to console himself with the thought
that, at least, she looked like Constance. Mignon's face darkened as
they danced off. Lawrie had merely bowed to her. But he had asked Mary
to dance. That was because she resembled that odious Stevens girl. Her
resentment against Constance blazed forth afresh. She hoped Constance
would never return to Sanford.

Thanks to a long lecture which Jerry had read to her brother Hal, Mignon
was not neglected. Although none of the Weston High boys really liked
her, she was asked to dance almost every number. Later in the evening
Lawrence Armitage asked her for a one-step, and she vainly imagined
that, after all, she had made an impression on him. Radiant with triumph
over her social success, Mignon saw herself firmly entrenched in the
leadership she dreamed would be hers. But her triumph was to be
short-lived.

After supper, which was served at two long tables in the dining-room,
the guests returned to their dancing with the tireless ardor of first
youth. Chancing to be without a partner, Mignon slipped into a
palm-screened nook under the stairs for a chat with Mary, who had
followed her about all evening, more with a view of hurting Marjorie
than from an excess of devotion. From their position they could see all
that went on about them, yet be quite hidden from the unobservant. The
unobservant happened to be Marjorie and Jerry Macy, who had come from
the ballroom for a confidential talk and taken up their station directly
in front of the alcove. Save for the two girls behind the palms, the
hall was deserted.

"Well, I guess Mignon's having a good time," declared Jerry Macy in her
brisk, loud tones. "She ought to. I nearly talked myself hoarse to Hal
before he'd promise to see that the boys asked her to dance. This reform
business is no joke."

"Lower your voice, Jerry," warned Marjorie. "Someone might hear you."

Mary Raymond made a sudden movement to rise. Stubborn she might be, but
she was not so dishonorable as to listen to a conversation not intended
for her ears. Mignon pulled her back with sudden savage strength. She
laid her finger to her lips, her black eyes gleaming with anger.

"Oh, there's no one around. Say, Marjorie, do you think it's really
worth while to go out of our way to reform Mignon? Look at her to-night.
You'd think she had conquered the universe. She was all smiles when
Laurie Armitage asked her to dance. He can't bear her, he told me so
last Hallowe'en, after she made all that fuss about her old bracelet. If
we hadn't banded ourselves together to find that better self which you
are so sure she's carrying around with her, I'd say call it off and
forget it. None of us really likes her. You know that, even if you won't
say so. She is----"

The waltz time ended in a soft chord and the dancers began trooping
through the doorway to the big punch-bowl of lemonade in one corner of
the hall. They were just in time to see a lithe figure in pink spring
out, catlike, from behind the palm-screened alcove and hear a furious
voice cry out, "How dare you insult a guest by talking about her, the
moment her back is turned?"




CHAPTER XV

AN IRATE GUEST


Jerry Macy and Marjorie Dean whirled about at the sound of that wrathful
voice. Mignon La Salle confronted them, her eyes flashing, her fingers
closing and unclosing in nervous rage, looking for all the world like a
young tigress.

"Oh, for goodness' sake, some one lead her away!" muttered the Crane to
Irma Linton. "I told Hal to-day that, with Mignon aboard the good old
party ship, we'd be sure to have fireworks. Real dynamite, too, and no
mistake. I wonder what's upset her sweet, retiring disposition?" His
boyish face indicated his deep disgust.

"I heard every word you said!" screamed Mignon. Rage had stripped her of
the thin veneer of civilization. She was the same young savage who had
kicked and screamed her way to whatever she desired when years before
she had been the terror of the neighborhood. "So, that's the reason you
invited me to your old party! You got together and picked me to pieces
and decided to reform me! Just let me tell you that you had better look
to yourselves. I don't need your kind offices. You are a crowd of
hateful, deceitful, mean, horrible girls! I despise you all! Everyone of
you! Do you hear me? I despise you! And _you_, Jerry Macy, had better be
a little careful as to what you gossip about me. I can tell you----"

There came a sudden interruption to the tirade. Through the amazed
groups of young people who could not resist lingering to find out what
it was all about, Mrs. Dean resolutely made her way.

"That will do, Miss La Salle," she commanded sternly. "I cannot allow
you to make such a disgraceful scene in my home, or insult my daughter
and her guests. If you will come quietly upstairs with me and state your
grievance, I shall do all in my power to rectify it. Marjorie," she
turned to her daughter, who stood looking on in wide-eyed distress, "ask
the musicians to start the music for the next dance."

Marjorie obeyed and, somewhat ashamed of their curiosity, the dancers
forgot their thirst for lemonade and flocked into the ballroom. Only
Jerry Macy and Mary Raymond remained.

"It's all my fault, Mrs. Dean," began Jerry contritely. "I didn't know
Mignon was in the alcove. I can't help saying she had no business to
listen, but----"

"It _is_ my business," began Mignon furiously. "I have a right----"

"Don't begin this quarrel all over again." Mrs. Dean held up her hand
for silence. "I repeat," she continued, regarding Mignon with marked
displeasure, "if you will come upstairs with me----"

"Mrs. Dean, it's a shame the way Mignon has been treated to-night,"
burst forth Mary Raymond, "and I for one don't intend to stand by and
see her insulted. Miss Macy said perfectly hateful things about her. I
heard them. Marjorie is just as much to blame. She listened to them and
never said a word to stop them."

"Mary Raymond!" Mrs. Dean's voice held an ominous note that should have
warned Mary to hold her peace. Instead it angered her to open rebellion.

"Don't 'Mary Raymond' me," she mocked in angry sarcasm. "I meant what I
said, every word of it. Mignon is my dear friend and I shall stand up
for her."

"Oh, let me alone, all of you!" With an agile spring, Mignon gained the
stairway and sped up the stairs on winged feet. Two minutes later,
wrapped in her evening coat and scarf, she reappeared at the head and
ran down the steps two at a time. "Thank you so much for a delightful
evening," she bowed ironically. "I'm so sorry I haven't time to stay and
be lectured. It's too bad, isn't it, Miss Mary, that the reform couldn't
go on?" To Mary she held out her hand. "Come and spend the day with me
to-morrow, Mary. You may like it so well, you'll decide to stay. If you
do, why just come along whenever you feel disposed. I can assure you
that our house is a pleasanter place to live in than the one you are in
now." With this pointed fling she bowed again in mock courtesy to the
silent woman who had offended her and flounced out the door and into the
starlit night to where her own electric runabout was standing.

"Can you beat that?" was the tribute that fell from Jerry Macy's lips.

Mrs. Dean looked from one to the other of the three girls. "Now, girls,
I demand an explanation of all this. Who of you is at fault in the
matter?"

"I told you it was I," answered Jerry. "Marjorie and I were talking
about Mignon and saying that she was having a good time. Then I had to
go on and say some more things that I don't take back, but that weren't
intended for listeners. I didn't know Mignon and Mary were hidden in
that alcove. Do you suppose I'd have spoiled our reform, after all the
trouble we've had making it go, if I'd known they were there?"

Mrs. Dean could not repress a faint smile at Jerry's rueful admissions.
She liked this stout, matter-of-fact girl in spite of her rough, brusque
ways.

"No, I don't suppose you would, but you were in the wrong, I am afraid.
You must learn to curb that sharp tongue, Jerry. It is likely, some day,
to involve you in serious trouble."

"I know it." Jerry hung her head. "But, you see, Marjorie understands
me. That's why I say to her whatever I think."

"Mary," Mrs. Dean gravely studied Mary's sulky face, "I am deeply hurt
and surprised. Later I shall have something to say to you and Marjorie.
Now go back to your friends, all of you, and try to make up to them for
this unpleasantness."

Marjorie, who all this time had said nothing, now began timidly. She had
seldom seen her beloved Captain so stern. "Captain, we are----"

"Not another word. I said, 'later.'"

Jerry and Marjorie turned to the ballroom. Mary however, with a scornful
glance at Mrs. Dean, faced about and went upstairs. She had been imbued
with a naughty resolve and she determined to proceed at once to carry it
out.

The dancing went on for a little, but the disagreeable happening had
dampened the ardor of the guests and they began leaving for home soon
afterward.

It was midnight when the last sound of the footsteps of the departing
youngsters echoed down the walk. Side by side, Marjorie and her mother
watched them go, then the latter slipped her arm through that of her
daughter and said, "Now, Marjorie, we will get to the bottom of this
affair. Come with me to Mary's room."

They reached it to find the door closed. Mrs. Dean knocked upon one of
the panels.

"What do you want?" inquired an angry voice.

"We wish to come in, Mary," was Mrs. Dean's even response.

There was a muttered exclamation, a hurry of light feet, then the door
was flung open.

"You can come in for all I care," was Mary's rude greeting. "You might
as well know now that I'm not going to live here after to-night. I'm
going to Mignon's house to live." Piles of clothing scattered about and
a significantly yawning trunk bore out the assertion.

Mrs. Dean knew that the time for action had come. Walking over to the
girl, she placed deliberate hands on her shoulders. "Listen to me, Mary
Raymond," she said decisively. "You are _not_ going one step out of this
house without my consent. Your father intrusted you to my care, and I
shall endeavor to carry out his wishes. You know as well as I that he
would be displeased and sorry over your behavior. I had intended to talk
matters over with you and Marjorie now, but you are in no mood for
reason. Therefore we will allow this affair to rest until to-morrow.
But, once and for all, unless your father sanctions your removal in a
letter to me, you will stay here, under my roof. Come, Marjorie."

With a sorrowful glance toward the tense, angry little figure, Marjorie
followed her mother from the room.




CHAPTER XVI

THE PENALTY


Marjorie awoke the next morning with a dull ache in her heart. It was as
though she had been the victim of a bad dream. She stared gloomily about
her, struggling to recollect the cause of her depression. Then
remembrance rushed over her like a wave. No, she had not dreamed. Last
night had been only too real. If anyone had even intimated to her
beforehand that the party which had promised so much was fated to end so
disagreeably, she would have laughed the prediction to scorn. If only
Jerry had kept her unpleasantly candid remarks to herself! Yet, after
all, she could hardly blame her very much. What Jerry had said had been
intended for her ears alone. As hostess, however, she should not have
permitted Jerry to continue. Marjorie blamed herself heavily for this.
To be sure, it had been hardly fair in Mary and Mignon to listen. They
should have made known their presence. She wondered what she would have
done under the same circumstances. Her sense of honor answered her. She
knew she would have immediately come forward. She could not understand
why Mary had not done so. Loyal to the core, Marjorie's faith in her
chum refused to die. The Mary she had known for so many years had not
been lacking in honor. What she had feared from the first had come to
pass. Mary had been swayed by Mignon's baleful personality. The
much-talked-of reform had ended in a glaring fizzle.

For some time Marjorie lay still, her thoughts busy with the disquieting
events of the previous night. She had longed to turn and comfort the
tense little figure standing immovable in the middle of her room, but
her Captain's word was law, and Marjorie could but sadly acknowledge to
herself that her mother had acted for the best. So she could do nothing
but follow her from the room with a heavy heart.

What was to be the outcome of the affair she dared not even imagine. A
reconciliation with Mary was her earnest desire. This, however, could
hardly be brought about. Perhaps they would never again be friends. A
rush of tears blinded her brown eyes. Burying her face in the pillow,
Marjorie gave vent to the sorrow which overflowed her soul.

The sound of light, tapping fingers on the door caused her to sit up
hastily. "Come in," she called, trying to steady her voice.

The door opened to admit Mary Raymond. Her babyish face looked white and
wan in the clear morning light. For hours after her door had closed upon
Marjorie and her mother she had sat on the edge of her bed in her pretty
blue party frock, brooding on her wrongs. When she had finally prepared
for sleep, it was only to toss and turn in her bed, wide-awake and
resentful. At daylight she had risen listlessly, then fixing upon a
certain plan of action, had bathed, put on a simple house gown and
knocked at Marjorie's door.

A single glance at Marjorie's face was sufficient for her to determine
that her chum had been crying. She decided that she was glad of it.
Marjorie had made _her_ unhappy, now she deserved a similar fate.

"Why, Mary!" Marjorie sprang from the bed and advanced to meet her.
Involuntarily both arms were outstretched in tender appeal.

Mary took no notice of the mutely pleading arms, save to step back with
a cold gesture of avoidance.

"I haven't come here to be friends," she said with deliberate cruelty.
"I've come to ask you what you intend to say to your mother."

"What _can_ I say to her?" Marjorie's voice had a despairing note.

"You can say nothing," retorted Mary. "That is what _I_ intend to do.
Your friend, Jerry Macy, said too much last night. I cannot see why our
school affairs should be discussed in this house. I am sorry that
Mignon made a--a--disturbance last night. I didn't intend to listen,
but----" Her old-time frankness had almost overcome her newly hostile
bearing. She was on the point of saying that she had been ready to step
forth from behind the palms at Jerry's first speech. Then loyalty to
Mignon prevailed and she paused.

Marjorie caught at a straw. "I _knew_ you didn't intend to listen,
Mary." The assurance rang out earnestly. "I couldn't make myself believe
that you would. I wanted to stay last night and tell you how sorry I was
for--for everything, but I owed it to Captain to obey orders. Mary,
dear, can't we start over again? I'm sure it's all been a stupid
mistake. Let's be good soldiers and resolve to face that dreadful enemy,
Misunderstanding, together. Let's go to Captain and tell her every
single thing! Think how much better we'll both feel. It almost broke my
heart, last night, when you said you were going to Mignon's to live. If
Captain thinks it best, I'll break my promise to Connie and tell
you----"

At the mention of Constance Stevens' name Mary's face darkened. Touched
by Marjorie's impassioned appeal she had been tempted to break down the
barrier that rose between them and take the girl she still adored into
her stubborn heart again. But the mere name of Constance had acted as a
spur to her rancor.

"Don't trouble yourself about begging permission of Miss Stevens on _my_
account," she sneered. "I know a great deal too much of her already.
What do you suppose the girls and boys of Franklin High, who gave you
your butterfly pin, would say if they knew that you let the girl who
stole it from you wear it for months? If you had been honorable you
would have made her give it back and then dropped her forever."

Marjorie's sorrow disappeared in wrath. "Mary Raymond, you don't know
what you are talking about," she flamed. "I can guess who told you that
untruth. It was Mignon La Salle. It was _not_ Constance who took my
butterfly pin. It was----"

Again she remembered her promise.

"Well," jeered Mary, "who was it, then?"

"I shall not say another word until I see Captain." Marjorie's tones
were freighted with decision.

"You mean that you can't deny that your friend Constance was guilty,"
cut in Mary scornfully. "Never mind. I don't care to hear anything more.
You needn't consult your mother, either. I'm never going to be friends
with you again, so it doesn't matter. But if you ever cared the least
bit for me you'll do as I ask and not tell tales to Captain--I mean Mrs.
Dean," she corrected haughtily. "If you do, then I repeat what I said
the other day. I'll never speak to you again--no, not if I live here
forever. But I won't have to do that, for I shall write to Father and
ask him to let me go to Mignon's to live. So there!"

With this dire threat Mary flounced angrily from the room, well pleased
with the stand she had taken.

It was a most unsociable trio that gathered at the breakfast table that
Saturday morning. Mary carried herself with open belligerence. Marjorie
looked as though she was on the point of bursting into tears, while Mrs.
Dean was unusually grave. A delicate task lay before her and she was
wondering as she poured the coffee how she had best begin. Still she had
determined to thresh the matter out speedily, and as soon as Delia had
served the breakfast and retired to the kitchen, she glanced from one to
the other of the two principals and said, "Now, girls, I am waiting to
hear about last night."

A blank silence fell. Marjorie fixed her eyes on Mary. To her belonged
the first word.

The silence continued.

"Well, Mary," Mrs. Dean spoke at last, "what have you to say for
yourself?"

"Nothing," came the mutinous reply.

"I am sorry that you won't meet me frankly," commented Mrs. Dean. "I had
hoped to find you on duty." Her searching gaze rested on Marjorie
"Lieutenant, it is your turn, I think."

Marjorie flushed with distress. She was between two fires. Obedience
won. She related what had transpired in the hall in a few brief words,
shielding Mary as far as was possible.

"But I know all this," said Mrs. Dean, a trifle impatiently. "Jerry told
me last night. There is more to this affair than appears on the surface.
What has happened to estrange you two, who have been chums for so many
years? I have seen for some time that matters were not progressing
smoothly between you. Things cannot go on in this way. You must take me
into your confidence. It is evident that a reform is needed here at
home."

Mary stared fixedly at her plate. She was resolved not to be a party to
that reform. If Marjorie failed her, well--she knew the consequences.

Marjorie saw the sullen, mutinous face through a mist of tears. She
tried to speak, but speech refused to come.

"I am ashamed of my soldiers." Mrs. Dean spoke sadly. "What would
General say, if he were here?"

The grave question rang like a clarion call in Marjorie's soul. A vision
of her father's merry, quizzical eyes grown suddenly sober and hurt over
the stubborn resistance of his little army was too much for her. One
mournfully appealing glance at the unyielding Mary and she burst forth
with, "I can't stand it any longer. I must speak. Last year,
when--when--Connie and I had so many unhappy days over my lost butterfly
pin I didn't write Mary about what was happening, because I felt
terribly and wished her to know only the pleasant side of my school
life. So she hadn't the least idea that Connie and I had become such
friends. She thought Connie was just a poor girl whom I tried to help
because I was sorry for her. When I asked Connie to come with us to the
station to meet Mary I was so happy to think they were going to meet
that I am afraid I made Mary believe that Connie had taken her place
with me. You know, Captain, that it couldn't be so. Mary has been and
always will be my dearest friend. I never dreamed she would become----"
Marjorie hesitated. She could not bring herself to say "jealous."

A smile of contempt curved Mary's lips. "Why don't you say 'jealous'?
That's what you mean," she supplemented.

"Very well, I will say it," rejoined Marjorie quietly. "I never dreamed
Mary would become jealous of my friendship with Connie. Before long I
noticed she was not quite her own dear self. Then she said something
that made me see that I ought to tell her all about last year, but I
didn't feel that it would be right until I had asked Connie's
permission. I told Mary I would do that very thing, but at Connie's
dance before I ever had a chance _she_ asked me not to say anything. She
was still so hurt over that affair of my pin that she was afraid Mary
might not like her so much if she knew. I didn't know what to do, then.
If I were to say that Mary had asked me to tell her, well--I thought
Connie might think her curious."

Mary made a half-stifled exclamation of anger. Then she shrugged her
shoulders with inimitable contempt and fixed her gaze on the opposite
wall, assuming an air of boredom she was far from feeling.

"Go on," commanded Mrs. Dean. Marjorie had hesitated at the
interruption.

"There isn't much more to tell," continued Marjorie bravely, "only that
Mignon came back to school and met Mary and made mischief. You know the
rest, Captain. You remember what I said to you the other day----"

"Then you _had_ told your mother things about me, already!" burst forth
Mary furiously. "Very well. You know what I said this morning. Just
remember it."

Marjorie gazed piteously at the angry girl. She could not believe that
Mary intended to carry out her threat of the morning.

"What did you say to Marjorie this morning?" inquired Mrs. Dean in cold
displeasure. She was endeavoring to be impartial, but her clear mental
vision pointed that it was not her daughter who was at fault.

Mary's reply was flung defiantly forth. "I said I'd never speak to her
again, and I won't! I won't!"

If Mary had expected Mrs. Dean either to order her to reconsider her
rash words or plead with her for reconciliation, she was doomed to
disappointment. "We will take you at your word, Mary," came the calm
answer. "Hereafter Marjorie must not speak to you unless you address her
first. Of course, it will be unpleasant for all of us, but I can see
nothing else to be done. You may write to your father if you choose. He
will undoubtedly write me in return, and naturally I shall tell him the
plain, unvarnished truth, together with several items of interest
concerning Mignon La Salle which cannot be withheld from him. I shall
not forbid you to continue your friendship with her. You are old enough
now to know right from wrong. So long as she does nothing to break the
conventions of society, I can condemn her only as a trouble-maker. My
advice to you would be to drop her acquaintance. When Constance returns
it would be well for you and Marjorie to invite her here and clear up
this difficulty. However, that rests with you. So far as General and I
are concerned, nothing is changed. We shall continue to the utmost to
fulfill your father's trust in us. Now, once and for all, we will drop
the subject. I must insist on no more bickering and quarreling in my
house. That applies to both of you."

"Please let me say just one thing more, Captain." Marjorie turned
imploring eyes upon her mother. "If Mary will let me bring Connie here,
when she comes back, I'm sure every cloud can be cleared away. Mary,"
her vibrant tones throbbed with tender sympathy, "won't you take back
what you've said and believe in me?"

For answer Mary Raymond rose from the table and left the room,
obstinately trampling friendship and good will under her wayward feet.
She had begun to keep her vow.




CHAPTER XVII

A STEP IN THE RIGHT DIRECTION


The days following the final break in the friendship between the two
sophomores were dark indeed for Marjorie. The tale of Mignon's stormy
outbreak at her party had been retailed far and wide. It furnished
material for much speculative gossip among the students of Sanford High
School, and, as is always the case, grew out of proportion to truth with
each subsequent recital. Although the five girls who had banded
themselves together in the reform that met with such signal failure
refused to commit themselves, nevertheless the purpose of their compact,
revealed by Mignon's sarcastic tirade at the party, was no longer a
secret. Regarding the conscientiousness of their motives, opinions were
divided. Certain girls who had a wholesome respect for wealth,
personified in Mignon, murmured among themselves that it was a shame she
had been so badly treated, while under the Deans' roof. A few still
bolder spirits went so far as to criticize Mrs. Dean for interfering in
a school-girl's quarrel. They asserted that Mary Raymond had behaved
wisely in openly defending her. Marjorie Dean was a great baby to allow
her mother to run her affairs. There was no one quite so tiresome as a
goody-goody.

On the other hand, Marjorie possessed many firm friends who defended
her, to the last word. For the time being discussion ran rife, for youth
loves to take up arms in any cause that promises excitement, without
stopping to consider dispassionately both sides of a story.

After the party Mignon had lost no time in imparting to those who would
listen to her that the Deans had treated their guest with the utmost
cruelty and it was for her invalid mother's sake alone that Mary had
resigned herself to remain under their roof and go on with her school.
Her distortion of the truth grew with each recital and, as the autumn
days came and went, she found she had succeeded in dividing the
sophomore class far more effectually than she had divided it the
preceding year, when in its freshman infancy.

At the Hallowe'en dance which the Weston boys always gave to their fair
Sanford schoolmates, dissension had reigned and broken forth in so many
petty jealousies that the boyish hosts had been filled with gloomy
disgust "at the way some of those girls acted," and vowed among
themselves never to give another party. There were exceptions, of
course, they had moodily agreed. Marjorie Dean and _her_ crowd were "all
right" girls and "nothing was too good for them." As for some others,
well--"they'd wait a long time before the fellows broke their necks to
show 'em another good time."

After a three weeks' absence Constance Stevens had returned to Sanford
and school. To her Marjorie confided her sorrows. So distressed was the
latter at the part she had unw

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