Marjorie Dean, High School Sophomore

CHAPTER XI

CHOOSING HER OWN WAY

"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."

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CHAPTER XII

THE COMPACT

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."

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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.

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.

"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.

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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?"

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