"Foul on the freshmen," she cried. "Right guard used two hands to cover."

"I think you are mistaken," cried Berenice. "I wasn't playing. Hester Alden's arm was raised, but it did not touch her opponent."

"Yes; I did!" cried Hester. "I touched her and then remembered."

"I didn't know. It must have been a very slight touch," said Louise.

"We've scored," cried Berenice.

"I am refereeing the game. Foul on the freshmen." Determination shone in Helen's eyes as she gave Berenice a look that would have subdued a sensitive person. Turning about, Hester tossed the ball to Louise who made a goal from the foul of the freshmen team. The ball went back to center and the game again was on.

At the end of the first half, the score stood six to eight in favor of the sophomores.

Berenice came up to Hester while she was struggling into her sweater. "You see how it is," she whispered. Her eyes were snapping with anger and her voice fairly hissed. "You see what a little prude like you can do. If you would have sustained me, Renee's goal would have counted us two, and Louise would have had no chance to make a goal or foul. It would have been 8 to 7 in our favor."

"But I really did touch," said Hester. "It was a foul, all right. I suppose I should have remembered in time; but this is my first game, and there's a lot to learn."

"There's something that you will never learn," was the retort and Berenice turned and walked away.

Hester did not grasp all that Berenice wished to convey. She believed the girl was vexed because of the score and attributed Berenice's anger to righteous indignation at bad playing. Helen came up before the beginning of the second half. "What about playing this, Hester?" she asked. "You did some hard playing for a new girl. Do you think you can stand it for a second half? You'll be stiff to-morrow. I'll ask Renee to have Edna Bucher substitute for you."

"I'd rather finish, myself," cried Hester. "Why, I wouldn't stop now for worlds!"

"Your own sore muscles be upon yourself then, little roommate," said Helen smiling. "I have warned you. All that is left for me is to offer the use of my witch-hazel and arnica."

"I will not have Edna Bucher substitute," cried Renee coming up. "I am glad Hester has grit enough to keep to it. This evening we must make a score."

"And to-morrow there will be wailing and groaning and rubbing of muscles," said Helen. The ten minutes was up. Helen moved toward the center of the cage.

During the second half, Hester had no active work. She guarded Louise and was careful not to make another foul move. Berenice was an active player, getting so interested in the game that she forgot her special work. She never played into another's hand. Although Renee was the champion at throwing goals, Berenice risked the score rather than give the play to the center. She appeared determined that Hester should not come within touch of the ball, and she moved like a flash of light, hither and thither, across the cage, seeming to be everywhere at once.

Helen watched the game closely. She was an impartial referee; her one desire being to play a fair game. She was aware of Berenice's playing at cross purposes and watched her closely. At last she called a foul.

"I don't see why," cried Berenice. Her little beady eyes snapped as she approached Helen and looked defiantly up at her.

"Two-hand dribble—the second time you have done the same thing. The first I let pass unnoticed just—to give you time."

"I positively did not two-hand the ball. If that is a foul, I—"

"I am a referee. Get out of the game. Edna Bucher is called to substitute."

"I will not—" began Berenice.

"Get out of the game within a minute or you shall be penalized for all the games to follow." There was no disputing Helen. Her manner was calm and her voice low, but authority was in her bearing. She stood ready to give the signal to play; but before she put the whistle to her lips, she said quietly, "While I am managing, we'll play an honest game or we will not play at all."

The girls, except Berenice, cheered and clapped. She was making her way from the gymnasium. Her heart was filled with anger and a scowl was on her face. How she hated Helen Loraine! It was not the first time Helen had criticised her.

"And Hester Alden will be another one just like Helen—too goody-good to live," was her thought. Even after Berenice was being disqualified, Hester did not understand fully all that had taken place. It was not until they were at the baths, that a full understanding came to her. Outside the bath, were the lockers. Sara and Renee had come up and paused for a moment.

"Will you allow Berenice to play next game?" asked Sara.

"Miss Watson must settle that. The captain and referee may disqualify for one game; but to make it permanent penalizing, the matter must be brought before Miss Watson. It is a very difficult matter to explain. The best way would be to have Miss Watson referee for one or two games. Then she would grasp the subtleties of the situation."

They passed on. When they were almost beyond hearing, Renee's voice sounded loud and clear.

"Sara, I do wish you'd let me wear your tan shoes down town to-morrow evening. I have permission to go, and I wish to wear my brown suit, but I have no tan shoes. I wear the same size as you."

Hester smiled. She had known Renee but ten days, during which time she could not remember one instance when the conversation did not conclude with "will you lend?"

Hester was deliberate in matters of getting from a gym suit into a dress. When she was ready to appear, the corridor leading from the gymnasium baths was deserted except for the sweep-women who were putting the finishing touches to their work.

Hester hurried out. As she crossed the campus, she found Josephine Moore sitting on the steps leading up to the dormitory. From this place, there was an excellent view of the river and the mountain beyond. Josephine appeared to be spellbound by it. She was a large girl with quantities of brown hair which she drew loosely back and coiled at the back of her head. Her eyes were large, lusterless and of a weak and faded blue, but Josephine had read novels and knew what speaking eyes meant. She tried to make her eyes soulful. She was of a romantic turn of mind, and although she would not have prevaricated for the world or done another harm by repeating anything to their detriment, she was a dreamer of day-dreams. So well did she dream that it was difficult sometimes for her to know where truth ended and dreams began.

"Can you not sit a while?" she asked. She moved to make room beside herself. Her voice was low and full and had in it a pathetic quality which was in harmony with her dreams. Hester sat down beside her. Being somewhat awed by this magnificent creature with the soulful eyes, Hester sat in silence.

"I love this time of day," began Josephine in low rapturous voice. "I love the gathering twilight. I think this is the hour when poets must sit and dream. The world and work and all horrid things are passing and only the tender twilight hangs like a mantle over all." She paused and looked at her companion. Hester felt that a reply of some sort was expected. She said the first and easiest thing that came to mind. "Yes, it is sort of nice."

"'Nice' is scarcely the word. I wish I knew what would exactly express the feeling. Sublime, soulful—" She paused and raised her eyes as though to scan the heavens. "I suppose I feel differently from other people. They tell me that my singing shows soul. I myself have often noticed the difference between myself and other girls. Would you believe it? They pass here with laughter and jest. I cannot do that. I always pause and look at the trees and river. It seems as though a spell comes upon me. I cannot laugh and jest in the midst of such sublime things."

"Is Hester Alden there?" cried a gay voice. "Oh, is that you, Jo? Mooning? You had better come in. If you sit on those cold stones, you'll take cold and your nose will be red and your eyes watery. You'll not be sublime then." The cheer and good-nature in the voice robbed it of ill-feeling. Erma laughed as she appeared. No one could take exception to anything she said. She was too happy—too well satisfied with the world and the people about her to do anything or say anything in bitterness.

Josephine arose slowly as became one of a poetic and soulful temperament.

"You are the slowest mortal, Jo. You are wanted up in Philo Hall. You haven't fifteen minutes until the first study bell. The girls have been looking everywhere for you. You are on the program committee."

"I was carried away—," began Miss Moore. But Erma had turned her back upon the girl. As she was about to speak to Hester, she was diverted from her intention by the sound of wheels. Both she and Hester turned to look as a carriage with a coachman in livery, came from porte-cochere, turned down the driveway and passed within a few feet of where the girls stood. The carriage passed under an arc light and Erma and Hester saw distinctly the features of the woman in the carriage. She had a beautiful face, although marked with care. Her hair was white, yet her bearing as she sat erect, was that of a young woman.

"What a sweet face!" cried Hester. "That is the carriage that blocked our way, the day that Aunt Debby came up to school with me. I remember most distinctly."

The occupant of the carriage had not looked in their direction. Even had she done so, she could not have distinguished the girls; for they stood leaning against the pillars and the moving shadows fell dark upon them.

When the carriage had passed, Erma turned to her companion. "Helen was looking for you. I told her if I saw you, I'd tell you to go to your room. Helen has had company—at least I saw someone in her room."

"It may be Aunt Debby," cried Hester. She did not wait to explain. She paused not to excuse herself, but went racing down the corridor as fast as her feet would carry her. Her heels clattered on the hard wood floors and the sound of her labored breathing was audible at a considerable distance.

Just as she reached Number Fifteen, the door opened and Hester was taken by the arm. This was so unexpected that her first impulse was to jerk away, and hurry on. Fortunately a sober second thought overcame the impulse.

"Miss Alden, is the building burning? Why this haste?" Hester raised her eyes to those of the preceptress. Miss Burkham was the acme of all that was cultured and elegant. No imagination was strong enough to picture her, other than deliberate, low-voiced, serene of countenance. Hester who knew more of bluntness than irony, replied fearlessly, "No, there is no fire. I wished to get to my room as quickly as possible."

"So I surmised. But I see no necessity for this unladylike haste." Her restraining hand was yet upon Hester's shoulder. The girl felt herself quivering with the desire to be off down the corridor and up the stairs to Number Sixty-two. What if Aunt Debby should really be there waiting for her? Her heart beat fast with the thought.

Miss Burkham also felt the quivering of flesh under restraint. She delayed Hester yet longer while she made plain to her the unwritten by-laws of a lady's conduct.

"No lady races through the halls, in such fashion. It is the manner of a tom-boy. You may walk slowly down the corridor. I will stand here to see if you comprehend just what I mean by slowly. I trust that I may not be compelled to ask you to return in order that I may give you instructions in regard to the manner in which a lady walks."

"No, Miss Burkham," replied Hester humbly. She controlled her impatience at being thus detained. Miss Burkham released her and Hester moved forward as though by well-directed machinery.

On reaching Number Sixty-two, she found Helen standing before her dressing-table. She was alone. She turned as Hester entered.

"Little roommate," she said smiling a welcome at Hester. "Little roommate, I am vexed with you. I have been sending messengers everywhere in the hope of finding you. My dear Aunt Harriet was here and asked for you in particular. She waited until the last possible moment. And see there."

Helen pointed to a hamper which stood near the doorway. "She has brought us fruit, cake, and roasted chickens. No, I did not open the basket. Aunt Harriet told me what was there. It is for you as well as for me. I know Aunt Harriet, and I know how the basket is arranged. There will be a chicken for you and one for me; a box of fudge for you and one for me; and so on through the entire menu. Aunt Harriet is very much afraid that some girl will have her feelings hurt or feel slighted. Open up the basket, Hester. I must take off this waist. The collar hurts me. It always was too high. I'll feel more comfortable in a kimona."

She turned to her dressing table. "Aunt Harriet brought me something which pleased me. I have an old pin which belonged to mother when she was a girl. I thought I had lost it, but Aunt Harriet said I left it at her home and she brought it with her."

Helen held the pin in her hand while she talked. Then she laid it carelessly in a little pin tray on the dresser. It was a pin of unusual style, about the size of a dime. The outer band was of a peculiar gold. Within this was a yellowish-white stone which reflected the light like a flame of fire.

Hester's eyes would have opened wide at the sight of the pin, but she did not see it, for her attention was on the hamper she was unpacking.

CHAPTER VII

One day he had been particularly trying, and the sting of his words had lingered. She had it in mind to tell Helen of the bitter words Doctor Wilbur had hurled at her, simply because she could not explain the projection of a perpendicular upon a plane. So far in their school life—two months had passed—Hester and Helen had spoken to each other only of the agreeable things. But now Hester meant to express herself and be sympathized with.

But when she reached Sixty-two, she found Edna Bucher awaiting her. Edna was tall and slender; long and lank, perhaps would be more nearly her description. She was colorless and lifeless. Her one desire seemed to be to be ladylike and to go with the best people. In her lexicon, best meant those with money or influence. Her hands were always cold, and her face expressionless. She posed as being the leader in classes. She was literary and musical, if one might believe her own judgment of herself. She never played, however, for the practice tired her. When she failed to respond to an invitation to recite—sometimes the invitation was quite urgent—it was not that she was not prepared to recite, but she was so nervous that she could not control her voice.

"I've been waiting for you for half an hour," she began as Hester entered the room. Her tones implied, that although the responsibility be on Hester's head, she would be good enough to overlook it.

"Were you?" replied Hester. "You surely knew that the freshies were busy until this hour."

"I presume I did so; but it passed entirely from my mind. I was so absorbed in my work. I am editor-in-chief of the 'Dickinson Mirror.'"

"Oh," exclaimed Hester. She looked at Miss Bucher again. The glory of being editor of the "Mirror" cast a halo about the head of the otherwise unattractive girl.

"Yes, the girls selected me. I do not understand why they did. They appeared to think I had literary ability. Of course, I do not see that I have, but everyone speaks about it."

She had an unpleasant little mannerism of talking through closed teeth and but slightly parted lips. In conversation, she used her lips as little as possible. It may have been that she wished to keep them from wearing out, or perhaps, she considered it unladylike to open her mouth more than was absolutely necessary.

"I came to have you help. We always appoint four girls to collect news, write special articles and poetry. Of course everything must treat of school life. Then, when it is printed—"

"Printed," cried Hester, her eyes snapping with fire. "Do you really have it printed and do the ones who write things have their names in it?"

"Certainly. It is issued four times a year; once during each semester, and a special souvenir one for commencement. What do you think you'd like to do?"

"I'll write some poetry," said Hester. She had never written any in her life, but she had the feeling that she could do it by half trying.

"Poetry, isn't hard," she replied airily to Miss Bucher's look of surprise. "Just make out a list of rhymes like this." She took up a paper and wrote:

"Then you fill them in," she continued. She held the pencil suspended in the air. Her brow was puckered with thought. "Of course, it isn't supposed to read as sensibly as prose. That is one of the greatest differences between them. In poetry one must use imagination and poetic license." Then she fell to work upon the paper and wrote steadily and laboriously for some minutes. Her eye flashed with triumph. "Listen. Of course this is mere rough work. I'll polish up what I write for the 'Mirror.'

A peal of laughter followed this closing line. It was a merry peal without malice or guile. Hester turned. Erma was standing in the doorway.

"Oh, but that is rich! He dropped on his bended knee. Could he get on his knee if it wasn't bended?" She laughed aloud.

"You are so literal!" cried Hester with dignity. "In poetry, one is allowed—"

"Poetry," another merry laugh. "Is that poetry? Take it to Doctor Weldon's classes and let her put her seal of approval on it."

Erma had made her way to the door. With a mock courtesy and a sweep of her skirts, she vanished. But as she went down the corridor, the girls in Sixty-two caught the echo of her laugh and her song, "And dropping on his bended knee."

Miss Bucher was a lady who arose to the occasion. She did not give way to merriment. Her face was colorless and serene.

"I understand fully, Miss Alden, the point you wish to make. Miss Thomas has no literary appreciation." She paused. There is but one thing worse in the world than adverse just criticism, and that is praise so faint that it is damaging. Miss Bucher paused as though to weigh her words. Then she spoke: "Miss Thomas means well enough, but—well, nature has not gifted us all in the same way."

It was fair enough, or seemed to be. Yet Hester felt that intangible something to which one cannot respond, because one feels rather than knows of its existence.

Miss Bucher arose. She was not given to furbelows. Each line of her attire accentuated her angles and height.

"I will go now. I am glad you will help me. Could you have your poem or whatever you decide upon ready by Monday?"

"I shall have it ready to give you when we go into chapel. I shall have something. Do not fear."

Scarcely had the door closed upon the caller, when Hester was at her study-table with pencil and writing-pad. Inspiration had seized her. She would write a poem that would be worthy the name. It would appear in the "Mirror" with her name below, "Hester Alden." On second thought, decided to write it Hester Palmer Alden. The Palmer gave an added dignity to her name. How pleased Aunt Debby would be! What a pleasure it would be to write! Perhaps in time she might be editor-in-chief. Then when she left school—at that instant a part of Hester Alden which had been dormant awoke. The desire for expression came to her. What beautiful glorious things she would write—some day! Just what they would be or when she would write them, she knew not. But they were so beautiful that the tears came to her eyes as she dreamed of them.

Helen did not come back to her rooms until barely time to dress for dinner. She found Hester with her head on the table, and a huge tablet before her.

"Sick, little roommate?" asked Helen, bending over her.

"No; I have been writing a poem—that is, I have begun to write one. I have sat here for an hour and all I have written is the first line. It was easy."

"First lines usually are," said Helen smiling. In many ways, she was more years older than Hester than the calendar gave her credit for.

"What is the first line? May I read it?"

"'Doc Dixon had a Freshman Class.' It begins fairly well; but you will startle your leaders with such a sudden burst into facts. Why not lead up to the subject and break the news gently?"

"You may all ridicule; but I intend writing a poem. All the ridicule you cast upon me will make me but the more determined."

"I believe that. I have observed that trait on several occasions. You make me think of Rob Vail in that way."

"I shall finish after dinner," was Hester's sole comment. "I presume I had better prepare for it now. Are you wearing a silk dress?" she asked as she turned toward Helen and saw that she was getting into a little one-piece suit of checked silk instead of her customary white.

"Yes, mother thinks I dress too thinly. If I wear the white I cannot wear long sleeves. So I have promised to keep to this dark silk, though I do not like it nearly so well."

She had slipped into her dress and was looking about for her pins and rings. "I had a little old pin on my dresser. Did you see anything of it, Hester?"

"No, indeed. I never presume to touch anything there without your permission."

"I did not mean to suggest that, little roommate. I carelessly let it lie there several days ago, and now I cannot find it."

"I have not seen it," said Hester. She spoke quickly and perhaps, with unusual curtness. At least it seemed so to Helen, who attributed the curtness to Hester's being hurt at being asked such a question. She let the subject drop and no further word passed between them until they were called to dinner.

When study hour came again, Hester pushed aside her text books and fell to writing. The door of the study, during this time, was always open and no words were permitted between roommates. Helen, observing that her roommate was not working at her lessons, gave her several warning glances; but Hester was unaffected. The muse had laid its hands upon her and she was helpless in its clutches. She wrote and erased, only to rewrite and erase again.

It was not until the study period was over that she raised her head and with a smile of triumph read aloud:

A look of surprise flashed over Helen's face. "Surely Hester, he never would do that. He is critical and sarcastic, but surely he is a gentleman."

"Do what?" asked Hester. "Why surely he is a gentleman."

"Surely, he never would dare address one of the pupils in that way. A mule!"

Hester laughed. "You are taking matters seriously. You must remember that this is poetry, and allowance must be made. In poetry, one cannot describe matters as they are. One cannot be too realistic. One must use what fits in. I was compelled to use the word mule because it was the only one I could think of which rhymed with school. Now listen to the rest, please Helen." She continued reading wholly unconscious that her roommate was not in sympathy with her.

"There, don't you think that is fine, Helen? That will appear in the next issue of the 'Mirror' with my name at the bottom. Aunt Debby will be delighted."

There was no enthusiastic response. Hester waited a moment, then looked at her roommate, and again asked, "Don't you think she will be delighted? She has never suspected that I was poetic. Indeed, I never knew it until Miss Bucher asked me to write this."

"If Aunt Debby is the kind of woman I think she is, I am sure she will not be at all pleased." Helen spoke slowly. Then at the look of surprise in Hester's eyes, she crossed the room, and sitting down on the arm of her roommate's chair drew Hester's head close against her and held her thus in a tender protective embrace, while she continued.

"No, little roommate, I do not believe she will be pleased. I am not. It is fun—mere fun, I know. Were you and I the only two to know of it, it would do no harm at all. But consider, little roommate, the 'Mirror' goes out to all the old students. Hundreds read it. Among them, are many just as I who took the matter seriously, without considering that the poet was put to straits to find some word to rhyme with school.

"They will think that we have grown lax here. Many will wonder what sort of man this Doctor Wilbur is that he dare use such terms in addressing a student. Do you see now why I wish this would not appear in the 'Mirror'?"

"I see why you think it should not. But really people are very foolish to cavil over such matters. If I might have my way, I would pay no attention to them. I would go my way, do as I please and let such people think as they please."

"It is a very independent way of doing, but it is not at all practical. We must consider public opinion a great many times. We must hedge ourselves about with convention when we would be independent, for always there are some minds which put evil construction upon the slightest careless act."

"Perhaps you are right," said Hester slowly. Before her faded the dreams of greatness. Taking up the paper, she deliberately and slowly tore it into pieces and threw them into the wastebasket. She expressed no word of regret. She expected no expression of admiration for her fortitude. She was no weakling. If she believed a thing were right, she would have performed it, regardless of the sacrifice to herself. She was the expression of Debby Alden's high ideals and rigid discipline.

"I'll get up earlier than usual to-morrow," said Hester lightly. "I promised on my word of honor to have a copy ready for Miss Bucher. If I may not write poetry, at least I can write personals. Let us go to bed now before the retiring bell rings."

A hurried knock came to the door. Before either girl could respond, Renee entered. She wore a gay kimona of embroidered silk. Her dark wavy hair hung over her shoulders. She looked like a goddess as she paused an instant on the threshold. Then advancing, she cried, "Oh, girls, do you happen to have any cold cream? I'm out and I do need some particularly badly."

"Yes, I have some." Helen took a small box from the dresser and gave it to Renee.

"Thank you ever so much." Without further words, Renee went her way.

Hester waited until the sound of her footsteps had died away.

"I was thinking," she began slowly. Her brow was puckered as though she were greatly perplexed. "I've been thinking that I never heard Renee say anything but 'Will you lend me?' Does she not know anything else?"

"I presume she does, but she has allowed the habit to grow. Each year, she grows worse. I fancy by the time she graduates, she will borrow our diplomas and essays. It may be that by that time, Renee will have particular need of them."

Hester had prepared for bed and was sitting on the edge of her own little iron cot waiting until Helen was ready to say good-night.

"I am going to remain up some time, little roommate. But you need not wait for me." She crossed the room and kissed Hester affectionately. Somehow Helen had fallen into the older sister attitude toward her roommate. Since the first week of school, Hester had never gone to sleep without Helen's kiss warm on her lips. This had never been done after the fashion of a sentimental school girl who caresses everything which comes in her way. Helen was not demonstrative, and what her lips touched, touched strongly her affections.

"I must make a thorough search for my pin," she said, going back to her dressing-table, to begin the search. "I must not lose it. It is a peculiar design. It was once an earring belonging to Grandma Hobart. It has her hair woven about it. When Aunt Harriet and mama were babies—they were babies at the same time, you know—grandma had the earrings made into pins. Mama wore this for years, and then gave it to me. I should feel bad if I should lose it."

Hester scarcely heard what Helen said. Her mind was busy with thoughts of the literary work to be ready before chapel. She was running over in her mind all the material at hand which could be worked into personals to appear in the "Mirror."

CHAPTER VIII

Three times each week, the gymnasium work was basket-ball. The day before Thanksgiving an extra practice was called because the session in school had been shortened.

Berenice and Hester were playing right and left guard. Berenice who had never forgiven Hester for her attitude in the first game of the year, kept the ball as much as possible to herself even risking the game for the sake of annoying Hester.

"You're wasting your time on grand-stand plays," said Renee while the referee had called time. "Hester plays well at passing. Give her a show. You dribble and dribble and half the time make a foul when you might have played into Hester's hand."

Berenice shrugged her shoulders; her bead-like eyes snapped; but she made no reply.

While this conversation was going on between them, Erma Thomas had hurried up to Hester. "Berenice is determined not to play ball into your hands. It's pure jealousy. Do some playing, Hester, and make goals. Play ball to me when you wish to pass, and I'll pass it to you for a goal."

Helen put up her whistle and the game was resumed. The ball was at center with Renee and Maud. Berenice's eyes were alight, and every muscle quivering with excitement. Scarcely was the ball in air, before it was in her hand, and she was moving toward the goal. Her guard was upon her, but by a quick movement, Berenice and the ball slipped under the outstretched arm, and by deft movements, came close to goal. Making a sudden spurt with the ball in hands, she pitched for a goal. But at that instant, the whistle sounded.

"That is the third foul you've made in this game," cried Helen, "and we have played scarcely ten minutes." She tossed the ball to the opposing team. "Foul on the first subs."

Mame Cross caught the ball and took a position before the goal, but Berenice would not accept the decision of the referee.

"Helen has a spite against me. How was I foul there?"

Helen was given no opportunity to answer. Renee, who was just and severe at times, came forward.

"Foul, of course, it was. It was evident as could be. You are always stirring up a fuss and holding back the game. You are the only one on the squad who cannot play an honest game. Leave the cage, and remain out. Maude may take your place permanently."

With her own captain against her, there was nothing to be done except to obey. Already Maud was within the cage and at her place.

The game continued. Mame pitched a goal from Berenice's foul. With the ball again back to center, it was evident that Berenice in spite of her brilliant playing, had been a drag on the game. Before this, she had been the team and the others were mere fillers-in. Now each took a more active part.

Maude was not one who played for her own glory, but to score for the team. The ball came to her and she passed it to Hester, and hurried forward to receive it on its return. She reached the basket and might have made a goal, but she was short while Hester was tall and quick in movement. Those considerations came to the girl, and quick as a flash she passed the ball to Hester. There was a sudden upward movement of Hester's long arms, a slowly curving ball and a final goal. It was the first score their team had made since the beginning of the game.

This success was like wine in Hester's veins. The desire to make goals came upon her. It seized her like a mania. It was impossible to tell whether it were luck or skill. But in the second half of the game, Hester pitched a goal from every ball which was passed to her. That practice game went down in the history of Dickinson as the one in which one player made ten successive goals from the field.

The wealth of the Incas was as nothing to Hester in comparison to the congratulations of the girls who crowded upon her at the close of the game.

"You'll get on the scrub, sure," cried Erma in her high excited tones. "Remember your old friends when you rise to glory."

Their praises were very sweet; but sweetest of all was Helen's quiet commendation, when after all the excitement had passed, they were back in Sixty-two.

"I never saw a better play. I never knew a girl who learned the game so quickly, and I have coached a number during my three years. If you do as well the next game, I'll substitute you on the scrub team. I have one girl there who will never learn. She does no better than she did a year ago."

"Do you suppose I might be called then as substitute on the scheduled games," cried Hester.

"If you're the best player. I'll pick only the best. I will not risk a game even for friendship's sake—even for your sake, little roommate."

"I mean to be the best player," said Hester quietly. Helen's calmness had always the effect of quieting her in her intense excitement.

But Miss Hester had yet to learn that other powers than one's own desire, enter into results.

The first team had played eight games, four having been in their own gymnasium and the remainder at different schools. On these trips to the seminaries and normals, they were treated royally. Hester could imagine nothing finer than being met by carriages, whirled away to dormitories where the guest-chambers were at their disposal and later to be banqueted.

During the fall term, Dickinson had retained second place. Helen was determined that they should move to first and secure the pennant whose value was that of the laurel wreaths of the Olympiads. In order to put up the best game possible, Helen attended every skirmish and practice, determined that her substitutes should be the best. In addition to her regular work this self-imposed task of overlooking the substitutes' games, gave her little leisure.

Each day, before dinner and lunch, there was a quarter-hour relaxation period. To Helen, this was anything but what the name stood for. The loss of her pin troubled her. She was confident that it was somewhere in her bedroom. She very distinctly remembered removing it from her stock and placing it in the cushion which stood on her dresser. There was a possibility of its being knocked off, or being caught in ribbon and ties, and so might have been dropped somewhere. She began a systematic search. One day, she emptied the drawers in the dresser and examined every article there, to be sure that the pin was not clinging to it. She peered under and about each article of furniture. But no pin appeared. While she was on her knees searching the corners of the room and edges of the rug, Erma appeared in the doorway. She gave a peal of delight.

"Have you turned Moslem; or is it Mohammed who takes long journeys on his knees to do penance? I have passed your door twice and each time I find you crawling about on all fours like a Teddy Bear."

"I've lost my pin. I am sick about it."

"I wouldn't be. No pin is worth being even half sick about. Buy yourself another, or better yet, Christmas is coming. Throw out a few gentle hints to your friends. Tell them you have lost your pin. They would be very stupid not to understand that it was their duty to replace it. Perhaps more than one will respond as becomes friends. You may have a half dozen pins in place of one."

"This cannot be replaced. It has belonged to our family for generations. The story is that one of the Loraines who were French, for political reasons, left his country and went to Brazil. While there, he discovered valuable mines. Selecting the finest gems, he returned to France and presented them to the king, and was immediately restored to favor. Two stones of the collection were pushed aside as not worthy so great a ruler. Tourie Loraine kept these for himself and had them made into rings. Later the rings were made into earrings. I think that was done by my great-grandfather as a gift to his bride. Grandmother had twin daughters. Earrings were no longer in style and so the stones were made into brooches and set about with her hair. Each little girl was given one. My mother gave hers to me. The other which belonged to Aunt Harriet disappeared years ago."

Erma laughed with delight. She loved romance either in real life or between the pages of a book.

"How perfectly lovely to have such glorious things happen in one's family! Nothing like that ever happened in our family. My people did nothing more exciting than write charters and fight Indians. I think we were very commonplace. It is the French people who have the romantic blood. Tell me some more, Helen. You have no idea how interesting this is."

"There is little more to tell. After the stones had been in our family for several generations, it was discovered by the merest accident, that they were yellow diamonds and very valuable, on account of their size and purity. They were not really yellow, you know, but sometimes reflected a peculiar yellow light. We were sorry that we knew the value of them."

"Sorry! I should think you would have been delighted. I can imagine nothing to be sorry for in finding that what you thought was a pretty little stone, was really worth a great deal of money."

"Because if it had been worthless, someone would never have been tempted as she was. My Aunt Harriet on one of her visits South years before, had found a little colored girl who was mistreated. She brought her North and gave her a home. She fed and clothed her and trained her to be an excellent servant. When she was able to work, Aunt Harriet paid her wages. She learned the value of Aunt Harriet's pins and rings. She disappeared and the jewels with her. There were a whole lot of complications which I cannot go into detail about. But it changed Aunt Harriet's whole life. I remember Rosa so well. She was a beautiful girl. She did not look like a colored woman. She was scarcely darker than I am, and she had the most beautiful eyes and hands."

"And nothing has been heard of her?" Erma was eager to know. She could have sat there all day to listen and would have forgone both meals and lessons.

"Nothing. It was surely strange how such a thing could have happened and not be found sometime. It is not an easy matter for a woman to disappear and all traces of her be lost."

Hester had not been present during this conversation. As Helen finished, her roommate came down the corridor and joined the two girls.

"Helen has been telling me the most thrilling tales from her family history. It is worth writing to make a story. Don't you know something, Hester? Didn't your family do some wonderful things?"

"No," replied Hester. "The Aldens settled down in one place and remained there. As Aunt Debby says, they fulfilled their duty to their church and to their neighbors, but nothing happened in their lives which was not prosaic."

"But your mother's family," persisted Erma. "Surely there must be something romantic on her side of the tree."

Hester smiled at the words. There was a little touch of sadness in her smile. She had never spoken to the girls of her people. They knew that she was an Alden. The name was well known in the central part of the State. They knew that an aunt had reared her. That was all the knowledge that came to them. When other girls talked together of what their parents and grandparents had done as children and repeated the old-time stories, which had been handed down to them as part of their family history, Hester Alden had only listened and had taken no part in the recital. Now, she would have evaded Erma's direct question, but Erma was not one who would permit her inquiries to go by the board. She repeated it. Hester answered slowly.

"When I was a year old I had neither father nor mother. My mother met a horrible death. Aunt Debby took me. She never could talk of my parents, so I know little of them. Aunt Debby is mother, father, sister, and brother to me."

"Oh, forgive me, I did not know. I would not have wounded you for the world."

Erma was on her feet. Impulsive, loving and quick to act, she put her hands on Hester's shoulders and touched her lips warmly and affectionately. "But you have friends. I want to be one, Hester. You know I've always liked you and I'd love you if you'd give me half a chance."

Hester, who responded quickly to affection, returned the embrace. "I'd love to have you for a friend. Aunt Debby is always first, for she is my friend, too, but you and Helen must be the next best."

The little flow of sentiment might have continued, had not Renee at that moment, appeared in the doorway.

"I'm awfully sorry to disturb you. But could you lend me your Solid Geometry, Helen? Did you get that original? Have you really? Isn't that lovely! Would you object to letting me look over it for a moment?"

Helen took the book from the study-table and drawing out an original, handed it to Renee who, sitting down, began a thorough study of the problem she could not solve for herself.

Barely was Renee disposed of than Josephine came in. She moved languidly. Her eyes were opened very wide, but instead of brilliance or alertness, they spoke of sentiment and dreaminess. Josephine had made a study of looking so. Soulful, she thought it to be; but the girls called it by another name not so complimentary and rallied her good-naturedly about it.

Renee was quick, in action and thought. Josephine's slowness annoyed her. Now, she took her eyes from the paper which she had been studying on, and cried brusquely, "If someone would only set a fire under you, you'd get somewhere sooner, Jo. Why don't you move, when you move."

Jo was not annoyed. She moved not a whit faster. Gliding in, she seated herself on a shirt-waist box and assumed a pose of figure which she believed to be artistic. She showed no annoyance at Renee's speech. She smiled sweetly and serenely. No matter what was said to her, or done in her presence, that smile came to her. Her placidity was exceedingly annoying to this set of girls. "If Jo was not always so sugary sweet," was the general complaint. "If she would not always agree to everything. If only now and then she would express an opinion, one would know at least that she had formed one." These were the only complaints ever made against her.

"Has something been troubling you?" she asked Helen. "You appear quite disturbed."

"I am. I lost a pin." Helen told how she had placed it that evening she had last worn it, and how it had mysteriously disappeared. Both Jo and Renee had seen the heirloom, for Helen had worn it at intervals since she had entered the hall.

"I'd advertise for it. You might have dropped it in the hall somewhere. Have Doctor Weldon announce it in chapel; and put a notice on the bulletin board in the main hall." It was Renee who made the practical suggestion.

"I'm sure I did not lose it outside this room. I am quite sure of that."

"About as sure as one can be of anything. I've noticed, however, that being sure is no proof."

"What a loss it must be to you!" cried Jo softly. "Of course, the money value is of little consideration. It is the memories which cling to it which make it precious. I know how you feel about such matters. You have so much sentiment. I know what trifles may mean to one. I always wear this little chain. I have worn it since I was three years old. I never could bear to part with it. It seems a tie to bind me to my childhood. I feel as though I could never grow old while I wear it. I shall never take it off."

Renee shrugged her shoulders. "I'm glad you don't have the same sentiment toward your collars. What a beautiful sentiment you might conjure up about a waist which some dear departed chum had embroidered for you; or perhaps she buttoned it up the back the first time you wore it and died immediately afterward. I really think the last would be most touching. Then you would feel that you could never unbutton the buttons which her dear hands had buttoned."

The irony in Renee's voice was strong. While she had been speaking, she arose and moved toward the door.

Hester's face had flushed. She feared that Josephine would be angry. Erma, however, laughed merrily, and smiled and fluttered about like a gay butterfly. She thought Renee's sarcasm was the finest wit in the world. If it had been directed toward herself, she would not have cared at all, and could conceive of no reason why Jo should be hurt.

Josephine raised her brows languidly and smiled sweetly. "Renee laughs at sentiment," she said. "What is it that Shakespeare says about jesting at scars because you never felt a wound?"

"If I ever do show wounds," cried Renee, "they will not be ones made by a tin soldier with a toy pistol. It will take a cannon ball to make me know that I've been touched."

She sailed out of the room, her head high and her heels coming down with some show of feeling. Erma burst into a fresh peal of laughter.

"Isn't Renee dear and doesn't she say the most brilliant things? I often wished I could be witty. All I can do is to laugh at the jokes which other girls make."

"Why wish to be witty?" asked Josephine. "You're so sweet and womanly and tender."

"Am I all that?" cried Erma and she laughed again. "I must go and tell Mame. She has known me for years and has never suspected that I am all that."

She hurried away. Jo yet lingered.

"I had a letter from Cousin Rob Vail," said Helen to Hester. "He is coming down Saturday morning in the touring-car with Aunt Harriet and you and I are invited to take a ride and then have dinner down in the city. Aunt Harriet is disappointed that she has never been able to meet you. So be prepared to meet the sweetest woman in the world."

"Mrs. Vail is so sweet!" cried Jo. "I never look at her but there comes to my mind the picture of the 'Mater Dolorosa,' she's so sad and pensive."

"She looks sad," said Helen, "but I never knew livelier company. One cannot be dull with her. She has a sorrow which passes comprehension, yet, she never worries another with it. She has trained herself to take an interest in others."

"Saturday!" Hester cried and began prancing about the room. "Two days until Saturday. I wonder how I shall ever be able to wait until then."

The bell for luncheon rang and the girls moved from the room. As they passed down the corridor, a number of the girls spoke to Helen about the loss of her pin and expressed the belief that it had only been mislaid and would be found.

A number had seen and discussed it. Sara spoke of this. "It was so peculiar and unusual that anyone who finds it will know it is yours."

Hester walked ahead without taking part in the conversation. It came to Helen then that her little roommate had shown no interest whatever and had not assisted in the search or even expressed her sympathy for its loss.

CHAPTER IX

"'Sustain.' I wonder if that is the right word. Sustain a sprain. It sounds all right. I'll let it be that. If I don't know, the other girls will not know either."

"Hester, do you realize that you are thinking aloud?" asked Helen after this performance had continued some minutes.

"Am I? I did not know; but it does not matter. What I am saying is not private and it makes no difference if all the world hears."

"That is not the idea," said Helen. She was sweet, calm, and decided. "Has it not come to you that I might wish to study and that monotone is anything but pleasant?"

Hester's face flushed crimson. "I beg pardon. I was selfish, Helen."

Helen crossed the room and bending over the abashed, confused Hester, said tenderly, "Do not mind my speaking so, little roommate. If it were Aunt Debby you would not take it so to heart. Then why should it hurt from me? Boarding-schools and roommates serve one great purpose—they rub off the jagged edges of one's manners." She bent and kissed the girl.

"Helen Loraine, you are the dearest girl I know. I am so glad I have you for a roommate. We have never quarreled and I hope never will."

"No, we never will," said Helen. She went back to her work.

In addition to her literary efforts, Hester had other claims upon her. The Christmas season was approaching and her gifts were barely in preparation. She was embroidering a set of linen collars and cuffs for Helen, and the efforts to keep the work hidden was making life strenuous for her.

Whenever Helen left the room, Hester took up the work, took a few stitches and perhaps was compelled to put it away. There were many people passing up and down the dormitory halls. It was not always possible to distinguish Helen's step. Then she had to resort to subterfuge to get the measure of Helen's collar. She had not accomplished that yet, but she had her plans laid and meant to carry them out at the first opportunity.

It came to her sooner than she expected. Saturday morning, after a few minutes' study, Helen looked at the time, and arose from her work.

"It is almost ten o'clock. Aunt Harriet and Cousin Robert should be here. I think I'll walk down to the guests' entrance and see if I can find any trace of them. Bob would not be permitted to come to the dormitory. Perhaps, Aunt Harriet is waiting with him in the reception hall. Marshall may have been sent for us, but you know his failing. He may be fulfilling a half-dozen commissions before he comes for us. If they are not there, I shall telephone to Auntie."

Hester urged her to be gone. It was with a feeling of relief that Hester heard the click of Helen's high heels as they went down the hall. Waiting until she believed that Helen would not be interrupted, Hester hurried to the wardrobe which they had in common and taking down a waist began to measure the collar. She had just completed this when she heard the click of Helen's heels. Quick as a flash the dress was hung up. Hester was about to close the door when the dress caught. She was fussing over it and was very red in the face and visibly embarrassed when Helen entered the room.

"What is the trouble?" Helen asked.

"Nothing at all," was the reply given with unusual curtness. "What should make you think there was any trouble? I was just opening the wardrobe door."

Her long speech which was wholly unnecessary and her evident embarrassment did not pass unobserved. Helen gave her a quick look. Hester was not herself, that was evident.

"I asked the question because your face was red, and you appeared excited. That was all. I did not find it necessary to go to the guests' entrance. Marshall was coming for us. We are to go to the reception hall. You will meet Aunt Harriet at last."

"How strange it seems that I have been here almost four months and yet we have not met! She always came when I was home with Aunt Debby, or in class. I fancy the Fates do not intend that we shall meet."

"You shall meet in two minutes, or I am not a reliable prophet," was Helen's reply.

Two minutes proved that she was not. Robert Vail alone awaited them in the reception hall. His mother had not been able to come.

Hester gave a start of surprise when Helen presented the cousin to her. He was particularly fine-looking and attractive but she was not startled at that. He was the young man who had accosted her that day on the street and apologized by saying he had mistaken her for his cousin, Helen.

"You remember me, I see, Miss Alden. You must have thought I was rude, but I was confident that you were Helen. I had not seen her for three months."

"I am glad that I met you so that I can explain to Aunt Debby," said Hester naively. Then observing his look of surprise, she added, "She would not believe that you had really made a mistake. She thought you did it just to annoy me."

"How could she?" cried Helen with a show of feeling. "Cousin Rob—."

"Go slowly, Cousin," laughed the young man. "You must remember that I was a stranger to Miss Alden and her aunt. They were fully justified in believing that I was rude."

"I did not," said Hester. "I saw you and I knew that you had really mistaken me."

"How could your Aunt Debby think of such a thing? Didn't she also see Rob?" asked Helen.

"I did not believe you could show such a spirit," laughed Hester. "You are always so calm."

"When things touch myself, but not when they touch my friends," said Helen.

"Please calm yourself, Helen. You know we made a compact this very morning and promised never to quarrel or be angry with each other."

"The same old school-girl fashion," said Robert Vail. "If I am a good prophet, you'll be tearing each other's hair before the day is over."

"Why did Aunt Harriet not come?" asked Helen, abruptly changing the subject of conversation.

"She went on a little trip into Virginia," he replied. Then observing the anxious look which came to Helen's face, he continued, "We tried to persuade her not to go, but she said this might be a real clue and she could not be satisfied to remain home. Father would have insisted, for mother is really worn out, but she was so anxious to go that she and father went off last night."