Jane Allen, Right Guard

Outside Wellington Hall, Laura and Selina stopped long enough to hold a hurried conversation. As a result they both set their faces toward Madison Hall to inform Marian Seaton of what was in store for her.

"It's simply outrageous!" she stormed, when Selina had gloomily finished relating the dire news. "I won't go to the gym to-morrow. Miss Rutledge has no right to interfere with the teams."

"She seems to think she has," shrugged Selina. "You'll have to do one of two things. Either resign now from the team, or go to the try-out to-morrow and take your chance of winning against Miss Stearns."

"I won't do either," flatly declared Marian. "I made the team and I won't be cheated of my position on it."

"Do you think you can outplay Miss Stearns?" asked Laura anxiously. "You didn't the other day, you know."

"You'd best resign," cut in Selina sharply, without giving Marian time to answer Laura's question. "If you go to the gym to-morrow it's going to create a lot of gossip about Laura and me. Dorothy Martin hasn't made a secret of her opinion of the other try-out. With Miss Rutledge there to-morrow as one of the judges and neither Laura nor I acting with her, it's going to look pretty bad for us."

"I tell you I sha'n't be there to-morrow," snapped Marian.

"Then you'll get yourself into trouble with Miss Rutledge and lose your position anyway," returned Selina with equal asperity. "I've already told you that I have received instructions to post a notice calling the sophomore team to practice by her order. If you resign now, that will end the whole thing. Of course the Stearns girl will get your position on the team. Still you can save your own dignity and ours by pretending in your resignation that you are deeply hurt. You can say, too, that you would have been very willing to give up your position on the team to Miss Stearns if you'd understood that she wanted it so much."

"But I'm not willing to do any such thing," angrily contended Marian. "I'll take my chance against Judith Stearns to-morrow before I'll tamely resign like that. Come to think of it, it would be much more dignified on my part to go to the gym. You, not I, have been accused of unfairness. You put me on the team, you know."

"Yes, and why did I?" flung back Selina hotly. "Because you asked me to do it. Now you think you can hang the unfairness on my shoulders and slip free of it yourself. Well, you can't. I know that Judith Stearns can outplay you. If I thought she couldn't, I'd say go ahead. But she can. As you won't resign of your own accord, I'm going to demand your resignation. If you don't give it to me in writing, I'll go straight back to Miss Rutledge and tell her the whole thing. I'd rather confess to her than have everybody down on Laura and me after to-morrow."

"You wouldn't do that. You can't scare me," sneered Marian.

"Oh, wouldn't I? Wait a little. You'll see."

"You'd be expelled from college. Just remember that. You'd find yourself worse off than if you kept still," triumphantly prophesied Marian.

"We wouldn't be expelled. You probably would be. We'd be severely reprimanded and Miss Rutledge would be down on us for the rest of the year. But you started the whole thing. You're the real offender. It would go hard with you."

"I'm sorry I asked you to help me, Selina Brown!" Marian exclaimed bitterly. "You're a treacherous snake! After all I've done for you, you turn against me like this."

For the next five minutes she continued to express her candid and very uncomplimentary opinion of Selina.

When she paused to take breath, Selina's only retaliation was, "Come on, Laura. We'll have to hurry if we expect to catch Miss Rutledge in her office. I suppose we'd best go to her house and wait for her. We'll be surer of seeing her then."

It had the desired effect. Marian crumpled, shed a few tears of pure rage, but finally wrote the resignation which Selina dictated.

"It worked!" was Selina's relieved exclamation, the moment they were out of Madison Hall. "She's a great coward, for all her boldness. She gave in more easily than I'd expected. You can imagine me confessing anything like that to Miss Rutledge, now can't you?"

Selina accompanied the query with a derisive laugh. It was echoed by Laura, though rather nervously.

"It was horrid to have to bully her." Laura made a gesture of distaste. "I'm glad we're safely out of it. We'd best keep out of such tangles hereafter, and let the sophs alone."

"I intend to," Selina said with grim decision. "I shall keep the managership of the teams, but I'll steer clear of trouble after this. Now let's hustle home. I must write Miss Rutledge a note and enclose Marian's resignation. I'll ask her to answer, stating whether it is satisfactory and asking what I am to do. I'll pretend that I found the resignation waiting for me at Creston Hall."

Half an hour later, Selina had written her letter and dispatched it to Warburton Hall, the faculty house where Miss Rutledge lived, by the small son of Mrs. Ingram, the matron of Creston Hall.

When the dean had read and re-read the two communications, she looked decidedly grave. After a brief interval of thoughtful meditation, she wrote Selina the following reply:

When the next morning's mail brought Judith the amazing news, unwillingly penned by Selina Brown, she was literally dumfounded. The mail arriving while she was at breakfast, she garnered the note from the house bulletin board on her way upstairs from the dining-room.

"For goodness' sake, read this!" she almost shouted, bursting in upon Jane, who was preparing to go to her first recitation. "I don't know what to make of it!"

A slow smile dawned on Jane's lips as she perused the agitating note.

"Marian never resigned by her own accord," she said. "It looks as though her scheme had somehow proved a boomerang. Someone stood up for you, Judy, mighty loyally. Miss Rutledge's name being mentioned in the note tells me that. Was it Dorothy, I wonder? No; it wasn't. She promised us that she wouldn't go to Miss Rutledge about it."

"It's a mystery to me," declared Judith. "I don't know what to do. I wonder——"

A rapping at the door sent her scurrying to open it.

"Why, Dorothy!" she exclaimed. "How did you know I wanted to see you?"

"I didn't know. I came because I have a special message for you from Miss Rutledge. She sent for me to come to her last night after dinner. I spent the evening with her and arrived here too late to see you. I was dying to tell Jane this morning at breakfast, but couldn't, of course, until I'd seen you. I'm glad you're both here. By the way, Judy, did you receive a note from Selina Brown?"

"I certainly did," emphasized Judith. "What's the answer to all this, Dorothy? I was never more astonished in all my life than when I read her note. What made Marian Seaton resign from the team, and why does Miss Rutledge want me to take her place? I'd just about made up my mind to go and ask her, when you came."

"You needn't," smiled Dorothy. "She has asked me to explain things to you in confidence. I'm going to take the liberty of including Jane. I'll explain why presently."

"I won't feel hurt if you don't, Dorothy," Jane said earnestly. "Perhaps you'd really rather tell Judy alone."

"No. I want you to hear the whole thing," Dorothy insisted. Whereupon she recounted what had occurred on the previous afternoon in the dean's office.

"I wanted you to know, Jane, just why I told Miss Rutledge that this affair was a hang-over from last year. I know she has no idea of whom I meant by the girl who was standing up for right. She may suspect Marian as being the other girl. I can't say as to that. I'm glad she knows now that there is such a condition of affairs at Wellington. She will not forget it if anything else comes up. She will be very well able to put two and two together, if need be."

"I'd never go to her of my own accord," Jane said with an emphatic shake of her russet head.

"You might be sent for some day, just as I was yesterday," returned Dorothy.

"But you haven't yet explained why Marian resigned, Dorothy," reminded Judith. "What did Miss Rutledge say about it?"

"She said that she had received a note from Selina, with Marian's resignation enclosed. Marian's reason for resigning was that she had learned you were dissatisfied over her appointment on the team. She preferred to give you her position rather than have you continue to make trouble about it."

Dorothy's lips curled scornfully as she said this.

"Then I won't accept it!" Judith blazed into sudden anger. "The idea of her writing such things about me! How can Miss Rutledge ask me to replace Marian after that? I won't do it."

"Yes, Judy, you must," Jane declared quietly. "Marian wrote that hoping you'd hear of it and refuse. She knew you'd insist on learning the particulars before you accepted. Miss Rutledge has shown her faith in you by asking you to replace Marian on the team."

"Selina Brown is behind the whole thing," asserted Dorothy.

"I believe it," quickly concurred Jane. "It's easy to see through things. She didn't want another try-out; so she made Marian resign. She must have used a pretty strong argument to do it. It was a case of the biter being bitten, I imagine."

"Exactly," Dorothy agreed. "Selina Brown and Laura Nelson ought to have more principle than engage in anything so dishonorable. They've managed to wriggle out of it at Marian's expense, but they have both lost caste by it. Depend upon it, a great many girls here will have their own opinion of the whole affair and it won't be complimentary to Marian, Selina and Laura."

"Someone may say that I am to blame for Marian's resigning," advanced Judith doubtfully.

"Someone undoubtedly will," concurred Jane, "but it won't carry much weight. You have too many friends, Judy, to bother your head about the spiteful minority. You were unfairly dealt with at the try-out. That's generally known. Now you've come into your own through a hitch in Marian's plans. She couldn't get back on the team again under any circumstances. You're not standing in her way. Don't stand in your own."

"I guess I'd better accept," Judith reluctantly conceded. "From now on I shall go armed to the teeth. Marian Seaton is apt to camp on my trail," she added with a giggle. "Good gracious, girls! Look at the time! We'll be late to chapel."

Absorbed in conversation, the trio had completely forgotten how swiftly time was scudding along.

"Late to chapel! Chapel will be over before ever we get there if you don't hurry!" exclaimed Jane ruefully.

Accordingly the three made a hasty exit from the room and the Hall, hurrying chapelwards at a most undignified pace.

That afternoon Judith sent her letter of acceptance to Selina Brown. The next day she reported in the gymnasium for practice with her old teammates. It was a joyful reunion, made more conspicuous by the attendance of a goodly number of sophomores, who had got wind of the news and who cheered Judith lustily when she appeared. The freshman team, who had so loyally fought for her, also made it a point to drop in on the practice and offer their congratulations.

The jubilant majority was undoubtedly heart and soul for Judith. Whatever the "spiteful minority," as Jane had put it, thought of her, she quite forgot in the delight of being at last really and truly on the official team.

"We certainly are a fine combination!" exulted Christine at the end of an hour's spirited work with the ball. "The freshmen will have to look out. And to think they were the ones to give Judy back to us!"

Christine, Adrienne and Barbara were among the few who knew that the freshman team had protested to Miss Rutledge. The five freshmen themselves had kept the matter fairly quiet. They had been sent for and privately informed by Miss Rutledge that Miss Seaton had resigned from the sophomore team of her own accord and that Miss Stearns was entitled to the vacancy.

They had also been gravely charged to let that end all discussion of the subject. Their point gained, they obeyed orders, except for a certain amount of curious speculation among themselves as to how it had come about.

In the end they agreed that Marian must have heard of their visit to Miss Rutledge and resigned out of pure mortification.

Jane, Judith and Dorothy kept the greater knowledge of the affair to themselves. Not even Adrienne knew the true facts. Selina Brown and Laura Nelson also found wisdom in silence. They were not hunting further trouble. They had had enough.

Selina had been allowed to keep her managership of the teams, and was shrewd enough to appreciate that another slip would be decidedly disastrous to her. Thereafter she became such a stickler for fair play as to prove decidedly amusing to at least three girls.

Marian Seaton found refuge in the "hurt feelings" policy as dictated to her by Selina. To her particular satellites she posed as a martyr and affected a lofty disdain for "certain girls who have no principle."

Inwardly she was seething with resentment against Judith. She confided to Maizie, her stand-by, that she didn't know which of the two she hated most, Judith Stearns or Jane Allen. She laid her latest defeat, however, at Judith's door. She believed that Judith had been the secret means of inciting the freshman team to protest and she was determined to be even. Furthermore, she confided to Maizie that it would be only a matter of time until Judith Stearns must lose every friend she had.

Following on the heels of Judith's advent into the team came an unheralded and wonderful surprise for Dorothy Martin.

One crisp Saturday afternoon in early November, Jane Allen ran up the steps of Madison Hall, her face radiant. Attired in riding clothes, she had just come from the stable, where she had left Firefly after a long canter across country.

Into the house and up the stairs she dashed at top speed, bound for Dorothy Martin's room.

"Come," called a cheerful voice, in answer to her energetic rapping.

"Oh, Dorothy!" Jane fairly bounced into the room. "Get on your hat and coat and come along. I've something to show you."

"What is it? Where is it?" gaily queried Dorothy. "To mend or not to mend, that is also the question. Shall I go on mending my pet blouse that's falling to pieces altogether too fast to suit me, or drop it and go gallivanting off with you?"

"There's no question about it. You must come. If you don't, you'll be sorry all the rest of the year," predicted Jane. "Now sit and mend your old pet blouse if you dare!"

"I dare—not," Dorothy laughed. Rising she laid aside the silk blouse she was darning and went to the wardrobe for her wraps. "I'm a very poor senior these days," she added. "I can't buy a new blouse every day in the week. I have to make my old ones last a long time."

"You always look sweet, Dorothy," praised Jane, "so you don't need to care whether your blouses are old or new. They're never anything but dainty and trim."

"Thank you for those glorious words of praise," was Dorothy's light retort.

"You're welcome, but do hurry," urged Jane.

"Where do we go from here?" quizzed Dorothy as they started down the drive.

"I sha'n't tell you. Wait and see, Miss Impatience. This is a very mysterious journey."

In this bantering strain the two continued on to the western gate of the campus, passed through and started down the highway.

"I know where we're going!" finally exclaimed Dorothy. "We're going to the stable to see Firefly! Funny I didn't guess it before, with you in riding clothes. You're going to show me some new trick you've taught Firefly. There! Did I guess right?"

"Yes, and no. That's all I'll tell you. Come on. One minute more and you'll see the great sight."

Jane caught Dorothy's hand and rushed her toward the stable. Still keeping firm hold on her friend, she led her straight to the roomy box-stall which accommodated Firefly.

"Oh, Jane!" Dorothy cried out in sudden rapture. "What a beautiful horse. Why, he looks almost enough like Firefly to be his brother. Where did you get him? What in the world are you going to do with two horses?"

"He's not mine," Jane replied. "He is——" She stopped, her gray eyes dancing. "He belongs to a dear friend of mine. Her name is Dorothy Martin."

Dorothy stared, as though wondering if Jane had suddenly taken leave of her senses.

"Wake up, Dorothy!" Jane laid an affectionate hand on Dorothy's shoulder. "He's yours. Dad sent him to you. He's come all the way from Capitan to see you. Aren't you going to say 'How de do' to him?"

"Jane—I——"

Dorothy turned and hid her head against Jane's shoulder.

"This is a nice way to welcome poor Midnight," laughed Jane, as her arm went round Dorothy. Her own voice was not quite steady.

"I—I—it's too much," quavered Dorothy, raising her head. "I can't believe that beauty is for me. It's too wonderful to be true. I must be dreaming."

"But it is true. If you don't believe me, read this."

Jane drew a square, white envelope from the pocket of her riding coat and offered it to Dorothy.

"It's for you, from Dad," she explained. "I've been keeping it until Midnight came. This is the outcome of a plot. A real plot between Dad and me."

Dorothy took the letter, her eyes still misty.

"We'll read it together, Jane," she said.

Arms entwined about each other's waists, the two girls read Henry Allen's letter to his daughter's friend.

"It's just like good old Dad!" Jane cried out enthusiastically. "You'll love Midnight, Dorothy. Come and get acquainted with him. I've a whole pocketful of sugar for him and Firefly."

In a daze of happiness Dorothy followed Jane into the roomy stall and was soon making friendly overtures to Midnight, who responded most amiably.

There was still one more feature of the program, however, which Jane hardly knew how to bring forward.

"Dorothy," she began rather hesitatingly. "I hardly know how to say it, but—well—this stall is large enough for both Midnight and Firefly. They were chums at home and will get along beautifully together. Won't you let me look after them both? You know what I mean?"

"I'm glad you came out frankly with that, Jane." Dorothy's color had heightened. "No, I couldn't let you do that. I shouldn't feel right about it. I've been thinking hard ever since I read your father's letter. I believe it's right for me to accept Midnight, because you both want me to have him and have gone to so much trouble to bring him here. I've thought of a way out of the difficulty. Only yesterday a freshman came to me and asked me to tutor her in trigonometry. She's been conditioned already and needs help. I told her I'd let her know. I wasn't sure whether I wanted to do it. I've never tutored and I could get along without the extra money. But now, it will come in just beautifully. I can earn enough to pay for Midnight's keep. You understand how I feel about it."

"Yes. I know I'd feel the same," nodded Jane. "That's why I hated to say anything. I want you to do whatever you think best. Anyway, Firefly and Midnight can be in the same stall and that will help some. You must let me do that much."

"It will help a great deal. I'm not sure that I ought to let you do even that," demurred Dorothy.

"Of course you ought," Jane said sturdily. "You must mind Dad, you know. He depends on you to look after Midnight's welfare. This is the largest, nicest stall in the stable. Now you must see your saddle. It's Mexican and almost like mine. I put it in the locker with mine. They're too valuable to be left lying about loose."

Lingering for some little time while Dorothy made further acquaintance with her new possession, the two girls strolled back to the Hall through the November dusk.

Dorothy was exuberantly joyful over the wonderful thing that had happened to her, and correspondingly grateful to those responsible for it. Jane was also brimming with quiet happiness. She wished every other day of her sophomore year could be as delightful as this one. What splendid rides she and Dorothy would have together!

Jane left Dorothy at the door of the latter's room and went on to her own in a beatific state of mind. It was certainly far more blessed to give than to receive.

"Well, how did the gift party come off?" was Judith's question, as Jane closed the door behind her. Judith was the only one who had been let into the secret.

"Oh, splendidly!" Jane exclaimed. "She fell in love with Midnight the minute she saw him. I wish you rode, Judy. I'd have Dad send you a horse, too."

"Of course you would, generous old thing," was the affectionate reply. "But I'm not to be trusted with a noble steed. Neither would I trust said steed. I can admire Firefly, but at a safe distance. I'd rather stick to the lowly taxi or my two feet to carry me over the ground. By the way, did you look at the bulletin board on your way upstairs?"

"No; I didn't stop. I saw a couple of the girls reading a notice. What's happened?"

"Our dear Marian has met with a loss." Judith's grin belied her mournful accents. "Not her position on the team. Oh, my, no! She's not advertising that. She's lost a valuable diamond ring, and has offered twenty-five dollars reward to the finder. The very idea! Just as if a Wellington girl would accept a reward if she happened to find the ring. I call that an insult."

"It's bad taste, to say the least." Jane looked slightly scornful. "Does the notice state where she believes she lost the ring?"

"Yes; it says, 'Somewhere between Madison Hall and the library, or in Madison Hall.' Between you and me, I wonder if she really did lose a ring? It would be just like her to start this new excitement about herself on purpose to get sympathy. She must be awfully peeved yet over basket-ball. I feel almost like a villain at practice. Still, it certainly wasn't my fault."

"I'm thankful there's no one here at the Hall she could lay suspicion upon," frowned Jane. "Norma's beyond reach of injustice now. I'd rather hope it was a real loss than a camouflage."

"Well, she might say that I had stolen it. Wouldn't that be a glorious revenge?" Judith jokingly inquired.

"Don't be so ridiculous, Judy Stearns." Jane's frown changed to a smile at this far-fetched supposition on Judith's part.

"Oh, she'll probably find it again one of these days, after everyone's forgotten about it and gone on to some other great piece of news," Judith unfeelingly asserted. "You see how sympathetic I am."

"I see. I also see the clock. It's time I changed these riding togs for a dress. I'll barely have time before the dinner gong sounds."

Jane rose from the chair she had briefly occupied while listening to Judith, and began hurriedly to remove her riding habit.

Quickly rearranging her thick, curling hair, she dived into the closet that held her own and Judith's dresses. Selecting a fur-trimmed frock of dark green broadcloth, she hastily got into it.

As she hooked it a little smile played about her lips. The news of Marian's loss already forgotten, Jane was again thinking of the pleasant little scene enacted in the boarding stable, where Firefly and Midnight now stood side by side.

"You must go down to the stable with us to-morrow and look Midnight over, Judy," she suddenly remarked, then went on with an enthusiastic description of Dorothy's new treasure.

While she thus dwelt at length upon Midnight's good points, in a room not far distant two girls were conducting a most confidential session.

"How long do you think we ought to wait before—well, you know?" Marian Seaton was asking.

"Oh, about three weeks, I should say," lazily returned Maizie Gilbert. "We'll have to go slowly. It will take three or four months to do the thing properly. If we rushed it, it wouldn't be half as effective as to take our time. What about Elsie?"

"We'll tell her about the dress business, but no more than that. She mustn't know a word about the rest. She has a frightful temper, you know. If she happened to get good and mad at me, she'd tell everything she knew to the very first person she ran across. She'll be properly shocked when she hears about the dress. We'll tell it to her as a great secret," planned Marian. "I won't say anything outright about the ring. I'll leave it to her to draw her own conclusions. She's rabid about Judy Stearns. It seems she has heard that Judy nicknamed her the 'ignoble Noble.'"

"That's a funny one!"

Maizie appeared to derive signal enjoyment from this revelation.

"I fail to see anything funny about it." Marian stiffened perceptibly. "Please remember, Maiz, that Elsie is my cousin."

"Oh, I haven't forgotten it. That's a funny nickname, just the same."

Maizie calmly declined to be thus easily suppressed.

"It suits me to know that Elsie heard about it," Marian said, after an instant's vexed silence.

She knew better than to continue to oppose Maizie. For one of her sluggish temperament, Maizie could turn decidedly disagreeable when she chose.

"Yes, it comes in very nicely just now," drawled Maizie. "Elsie needs a spur to keep her going. Keep her in a rage and she's a fine little mischief-maker. Let her calm down and she's likely to crumple. She really has some idea of principle, only she doesn't know it. I wonder if she'll ever find it out."

"Do you mean to insinuate that I haven't?" demanded Marian crossly.

"No; I say it plainly. Neither you nor I have any principle," declared Maizie with her slow smile. "We might as well be honest about it. We never are about anything else, you know. It doesn't worry me. It's rather interesting, I think. Keeping things stirred up relieves the dull monotony. There's always the chance that we may win. We have never won yet, you know. We're still here, though, and that's a consolation. This latest idea of yours ought to amount to something in the long run."

"Really, Maiz, you are the most cold-blooded girl I ever met!" Marian cried out in exasperation. "Sometimes I feel as if I didn't understand you at all."

"I don't pretend to understand myself," returned Maizie tranquilly. "It would be too much trouble to try. Besides, self-analysis might be fatal to my comfort. I might dig up a conscience, and that would be a bore. I'd rather take it easy and smile and be a villain still. Changes are so disagreeable. You'd find that out, if one came over me. You'd be minus a valuable ally."

"Do you mean that as a threat?"

Marian laughed. There was, however, a note of anxiety in her question. She had no desire to lose so valuable an ally as Maizie.

"A threat? No. Don't be scared. I'm still wandering along under the Seaton banner. I suppose I'm rather fond of you, Marian. Don't know why, I'm sure. You're thoroughly selfish, and we quarrel continually. That's the real reason for it, I suspect. You keep things going. That's your chief charm. Then, too, you've been fair enough with me. Whatever you may do to others isn't my concern. I don't intend that it shall be. If I were to start in the other direction I couldn't stop halfway. I'd keep on going. Then where would you be? As I said before, 'Changes are disagreeable.' So I'm going to stay on your side and, take my word for it, it's a mighty good thing for you."

In spite of the peculiarly sinister talk between Marian Seaton and Maizie Gilbert, nothing unusual occurred during the next few weeks to disturb the peace of either Judith or Jane.

Thanksgiving came and went with the usual round of college gaieties. Four days being too short a holiday to permit the majority of the Wellington girls going home, they remained at college and did much celebrating.

On Thanksgiving Day the first in the series of three basket-ball games was played between the sophomores and the freshmen. The sophomores won, though the freshmen gave them a hard tussle, the score standing 22-18 in favor of the sophs when the hotly contested game ended. Both teams made a fine appearance on the floor. Neither team had adhered to class colors that year in choosing their basket-ball suits. The freshmen wore suits of navy blue, decorated with an old rose "F" on the front of the blouse. A wide rolling sailor collar of the same color further added to the effect. The sophomores had elected to be patriotic, and wore khaki-colored suits, unrelieved by a contrasting color. It was a decided innovation of its kind and they liked it.

Afterward the sophomore team privately agreed that the girls of the freshman team were real thoroughbreds. They accepted their defeat in the most good-humored fashion and heartily congratulated their opponents on their playing.

As Right Guard, Jane proved herself worthy of the position. She played with a dash and skill that was noticeable even above the good work of the other players. Her mind was too fully centered on the contest to realize this until at the end of the game she was mobbed by a crowd of enthusiastic sophs. They marched her in triumph twice around the gymnasium to the cheering, ringing accompaniment of "Who's Jane Allen? Right, right, right Guard!"

Jane never forgot that stirring cry of "Right Guard!" It conveyed to her a higher meaning than mere basket-ball glorification. It fell upon her ears as an admonition to do well. To do right, to be right, and to stay right. It was almost as if she had been elected by her own soul to be a guardian of right.

That night the losing freshman team did something unprecedented in the history of Wellington. They entertained their conquerors at dinner at Rutherford Inn. More, Jane was amazed to find herself the guest of honor and had to respond to the highly complimentary toast, "Right Guard Jane," given by Florence Durham, the freshman captain.

So Jane's Thanksgiving holiday came and went in a blaze of well-earned glory. Happy in this unexpected appreciation of herself, which appeared to be steadily growing, she came to feel that things had at last begun to take an upward turn.

With Christmas rapidly approaching and everything still serene, pleasant immunity from the disagreeable was still hers. Neither had Judith met with anything disturbing to her happiness, beyond an occasional spiteful glance from Marian Seaton when she chanced to encounter the latter in the Hall or on the campus.

"I guess Marian has given up the ghost," Judith suddenly remarked to Jane one evening before dinner, as the two sat in their room going over their long Christmas lists. "I believe I ought to send her a consolation present. A wooden tiger on wheels would be nice. I saw some lovely ones in the Ten-Cent Store at Chesterford. All painted with dashing yellow and black stripes and fixed so that they waggle their heads when you touch 'em."

"Don't mention her," grimaced Jane. "You'll break the spell. We've had absolute peace and rest since her last uprising. I wonder if she ever found her ring?"

"I don't believe so. A girl told me not long ago that she saw Marian take the notice from the bulletin board and tear it up. She overheard her say that she might just as well have not posted it, for all the good it had done. That she had hoped that the reward she offered might count. But evidently it hadn't. Now what did she mean by that?"

"Nothing or everything," shrugged Jane, and again turned her attention to her list of names.

"More likely everything," Judith declared uncharitably. "She probably meant something dark and insinuating. I guess that the only person who could earn the reward would be herself. I can just imagine her returning the ring to herself and paying herself twenty-five dollars reward."

Judith chuckled as she mentally visioned Marian Seaton graciously bestowing a reward upon herself.

Jane smiled a little, also, but made no comment. Engaged in the delightful occupation of planning pleasure for her friends, she did not wish the subject of Marian Seaton to intrude upon it.

"I don't have to worry about my present-buying this year," she presently remarked. "Aunt Mary will buy everything for me that I need. All I have to do is to send her a list of the presents I'm going to give and she will shop for me."

"It was splendid in your father and your aunt to come to New York for the holidays," approved Judith warmly.

"They both knew how disappointed I was last year because I couldn't go home for Christmas," Jane answered. "They are doing this for my special benefit. I surely appreciate it, for Dad loathes the East, and Aunt Mary hates railway traveling. I'm awfully sorry that neither you nor Dorothy can be with us. We'd love to have you, but I know that you want to be with your father, and Dorothy, of course, wants to be at home with her folks."

"Yes, Father wants me at home this year. I'm glad we are to have the full three weeks' vacation. I don't imagine that twelve days business last year worked very well. The girls made such a fuss about it, and a lot of them came back late. I'm going to ask my aunt to give a house party for me at Easter. Then I'll invite all our crowd and we'll have a great old celebration. Christmas is a bad time for a college girl house party. Everyone's anxious to be at home with her own people. Easter's different."

"Yes, that's true," nodded Jane. "What are you going to give our four freshmen, Judy?"

"Long white gloves; a pair apiece," was the prompt reply. "They have none, I know, or they would have worn them at the freshman frolic."

"That will be nice. I know what I'd like to give them. I believe they'd be pleased, too."

"What?" Judith eyed Jane interestedly.

"Furs. Not the most expensive, of course. I wouldn't care to overwhelm them. I thought of black fox muffs and scarfs for Kathie and Freda, and gray squirrel for Ida and Marie. None of them have furs. I have four or five sets and a fur coat, too. I feel selfish to have so much, when they have nothing."

"That's perfectly sweet in you, Jane," lauded Judith. "You're always a generous old dear, though."

"Why shouldn't I be generous?" demanded Jane. "Dad wants me to be. He never cares how much money I spend, but he likes to have me think about others. He's a great old giver himself. He says that the only way to take the curse off of having a lot of money is to use it in helping to make the other fellow happy. I wish I could take time to tell you all the kind things he's done with his money. It seems as though the more he gives the more he has."

"If everyone who had money were like him we'd have an ideal world, I guess," declared Judith. "I have quite a lot of money coming to me when I'm twenty-one. I was named for my grandmother and she left it to me. When I get it I shall try to do as much good with it as I can. I don't want to be selfish. I'm afraid I think too much about my own pleasure, though."

Jane smiled at this rueful confession. Judith was generous to a fault. She was always far happier in giving than in receiving.

"You're not selfish, Judy," she assured. "We all think a good deal more about our own fun than we should, perhaps. We spend lots of money on spreads and dinners and treats. I've been thinking seriously about it lately. After Christmas, I'm going to invite our crowd to our room some evening and propose something that I believe we might agree to do. You needn't ask me what it is, for I sha'n't tell you."

"All right, don't," grinned Judith. "I've enough on my mind now to keep me busy until after the holidays. I was never curious, even in my infancy. If I was, I don't recall it. In fact, I don't remember much about that particular period of my young life. I was born absent-minded, you know, and have never outgrown it."

"You've done pretty well this year," smiled Jane. "You haven't committed a single crime, so far, along that line."

"Shh!" Judith warned. "Praise is fatal. I'll surely do something now to offset it. I'm on the verge. Only yesterday noon I laid my little leather purse on my wash stand. After classes I met Mary Ashton on the campus and invited her to go to the drugstore with me to have hot chocolate. When I went to pay for it, I took my little silver soap dish out of my coat pocket. I'd grabbed it up and stuffed it in there instead of my purse. You can imagine how silly I felt! Mary had to pay for our chocolate. So I know that I'm on the verge. This Christmas rush has gone to my head. I'm going to make you censor every last package I send. I'm not to be trusted," Judith ended with a deep sigh.

"I'll keep my eye on you," promised Jane, much amused at the affair of the soap dish.

"Thank you; thank you!" Judith responded with exaggerated gratitude. "Now I must leave you. I promised Mrs. Weatherbee to go to her room before dinner. She just finished a perfectly darling white silk sweater she's been knitting for her niece. It has a pale blue collar and it's a dream. She wants to try it on me. I am about the same build as her niece."

With this Judith departed, leaving Jane in rapt contemplation of her Christmas list. She was well satisfied with the selection of gifts she purposed to lay on the altar of friendship. She hoped she had forgotten no one. She decided to write at once to her Aunt Mary, who was already in New York, and enclose a list of the articles she wished her aunt to purchase for her.

Judith presently returned to dwell animatedly on the beauties of the silk sweater.

"It's the sweetest thing ever," she glowed. "It's awfully becoming to me. It's all finished and after dinner I'm going to take it out to mail for Mrs. Weatherbee. I told her I didn't know whether I could be trusted with it or not. I might run away with it."

"Are you going to take it to the postoffice?" asked Jane. "If you are I have a letter I wish you'd mail there for me. I'd go with you but I have a frightfully long translation in French prose for to-morrow. I can't spare the time."

"Oh, I'm only going as far as the package box at the east end of the campus. Mrs. Weatherbee's going to weigh and stamp the package here and send it special delivery instead of registering it."

"Then you can drop my letter in the post box. That is, if I finish it before the dinner gong rings."

Glancing up at the clock, which showed a quarter to six, Jane hastily resumed her writing. The gong sounding before the letter was completed, Judith obligingly volunteered to "hang around" after dinner until it was ready for mailing.

"Now don't put this letter in your coat pocket, Judy," cautioned Jane, when half an hour after dinner she delivered it into Judith's keeping. "If you do, you'll forget it, mail the package and come marching back to the Hall with my letter still in your pocket. I'm anxious for it to be collected to-night; then Aunt Mary will get it some time to-morrow."

"I'll mail it. Don't you worry," Judith assured. "I'll carry it in my hand every step of the way. It's raining. Did you know it? I hope it will turn to snow by to-morrow. I like the weather good and cold around Christmas time."

"Oh, well, it's over a week until Christmas. We'll probably have plenty of snow by then," Jane commented. "Better take your umbrella."

"Never!" refused Judith. "One package and a letter are about as much as I can safely carry at a time. I might jam the umbrella into the package box and come home with Mrs. Weatherbee's package held over my head. Let well enough alone, Jane. I'll wear my raincoat and run for it."

Slipping on her raincoat and pulling a fur cap over her head, Judith took the letter and started off, stopping in the matron's room for the package she had offered to mail.

"Whew!" was her salutation on reappearing in her room perhaps twenty minutes later. "Maybe it isn't raining, though, and it's as dark as can be. I put your letter and the package under my coat and made a mad dash for the mail box. Got rid of them both in a hurry, and made a still madder dash back home. Another time, I'll consult the weather before I offer my noble services as runner. Any way, your letter is on its way. So is the sweater, and the girl who gets it is lucky."

"I'm ever so much obliged to you, Judy. I hope Aunt Mary sends my stuff right away, so that I'll have it on hand to give before I go to New York. It won't take more than two days to buy it. Allowing three for it to arrive, I'll have it in good season, I guess."

The next few days were fraught with considerable anxiety for Jane, until the arrival of numerous huge express packages, set her doubts at rest. Then a busy season of wrapping and beribboning gifts ensued. The blessed fever of giving was abroad at Wellington and the cheerful bustle and stir of Christmas pervaded every nook and corner of college.

Two evenings before Christmas, Jane and Judith invited their particular chums to their room for a good-bye spread. The party spent a jubilant evening, feasting and exchanging gifts and good wishes. On the next day, Jane and Judith bade each other an affectionate farewell and departed for their respective destinations.

Adrienne and Norma accompanied Jane to New York, there to spend the holidays with the Duprees. Adrienne's distinguished mother was filling a long engagement at a theater there, and the Duprees had opened their home in New York for the time being. Norma expected to fill a two-weeks' engagement in a stock company, obtained for her by Mr. Dupree, and was to be the guest of the kindly Frenchman and his little family.

The three girls were delighted at this state of affairs, as Jane looked forward to meeting the Duprees and Adrienne was equally eager to know Jane's father and aunt. In consequence, the trio had made countless holiday plans which they purposed to carry out.

All in all, it was a red-letter three weeks for the three Wellington girls. Jane found New York a vastly different city when peopled by those dear to her. During her brief shopping trip there the previous winter she had not liked New York. Now she discovered that it was a most wonderful place in which to spend a holiday.

In spite of the constant round of theaters, dinners, luncheons and sight-seeing into which she was whirled, she took time to look sharply about her for those to whom Christmas meant only a name. Accompanied by Mrs. Dupree, she and Adrienne made several visits to poverty-stricken sections of the great city, leaving substantial good cheer behind them.

She also discovered a special protégé in a meek-faced young girl who occupied the position of public stenographer in the hotel where the Allens were staying. Dressed in deep mourning, the girl at once enlisted Jane's sympathy. She promptly made her acquaintance and the two girls became instantly friendly. It needed but the information that Eleanor Lane had recently, lost her mother to strengthen the bond of acquaintance to actual friendship.

Democratic Henry Allen and his sister quite approved of Jane's interest in the lonely little stranger, and Eleanor was invited frequently to dine or lunch with them.

"It seems odd," she said to Jane one afternoon near the end of the blissful holiday as Jane lingered beside her desk, "but your name has sounded familiar to me from the first. I've heard it before but I can't think when or where. I only know it's familiar. It bothers me not to be able to place it."

"It's awfully aggravating to have a dim recollection of something and not be able to make it come clear," Jane agreed. "My name isn't an uncommon one. There may be dozens of Jane Allens in the world, for all I know."

"Yes, there may be. I hear and see so many names, I wonder that I can ever keep any of them straight in my mind," smiled Eleanor. "Perhaps it will come to me all of a sudden some day. If it does, I'll write you about it."

"Yes, do. You know we are going to correspond. When I come to New York again I shall surely look you up," declared Jane. "And you must come and spend a week-end with me at Wellington."

Girl-fashion, the two had advanced to the "visiting" stage of friendship. Sad little Eleanor regarded Jane as a bright and wonderful star that had suddenly dawned upon her gray horizon.

Jane liked Eleanor for her sweet amiability and pleasant, unassuming manner. She also admired her intensely, because Eleanor was actually engaged in successfully earning her own living. This, in itself, seemed quite marvelous to Jane, who had never earned a penny in her life.

"Girls are really wonderful, after all, Dad," she confided to her father, as the two sat side by side on a big leather davenport in the sitting room of the Allens' private suite, indulging in a confidential talk.

It was the last night of Jane's stay in New York. The next day would find her saying fond farewells to her father and aunt. They intended to remain in New York for a few days after Jane's departure for Wellington College, then make a brief tour of the larger eastern cities before returning to the West.

"It seems queer to me now that I used to dislike them so much," Jane continued, shaking a deprecating head at her former adverse opinion of girls in general. "I wouldn't know what to do now without my girl friends. I seem to be making new ones all the time, too. There's Eleanor, for instance. I've grown ever so fond of her. I think it would be fine to have her make me a visit next summer. She never goes anywhere in particular. She just works hard all the time. Dorothy thinks she can't come to Capitan until August, so I could have Eleanor there in July."

"Invite whom you please, Janie. The more the merrier. All I want is to see my girl happy," was the affectionate response.

"And I am happy, Dad," Jane ardently assured. "You and Aunt Mary have given me the finest Christmas I could possibly have. I'll go back to Wellington feeling as if I owned the earth. After such a glorious vacation as this has been, I'll have every reason in the world to be a good pioneer. I'll re-tackle my bit of college land for all I'm worth, and improve it as much as I can through the rest of my sophomore year. It looks a lot better already than it did last year."

Jane spoke with the glowing enthusiasm of perfect happiness. The joy of Christmas had temporarily driven from her mind even the vexatious memory of Marian Seaton and her petty spite.

Quite the contrary, Christmas had not reduced Marian to any such beatific state. She accepted it as a mere matter of course, and spent it in Buffalo, as the guest of Maizie Gilbert. Privately, she wished it over and done with. For once, she was impatient to return to Wellington, there to further a certain enterprise of her own from which she expected to gain decided results.