“You don’t mean to say she came in when there was no one here, and just took it!” gasped Dorothy.

“Oh, Vivian was here, I guess, but Viv hasn’t the nerve of a rabbit. If Her Highness had chosen to take the room, Viv would have gone along. But I’m going to do something very soon. I’m sick of this!”

An imperious knock sounded on the door, and without waiting to be bidden, the knocker entered. It was Miss Van Rensaelar herself, who, late in coming to St. Helen’s, had arrived two weeks before. She was dressed in dark blue velvet with ermine furs, and looked undeniably handsome, with her blue eyes and faultless complexion. In one white-gloved hand she gingerly held an ink-bottle, which she extended.

“Here is your ink,” she announced somewhat haughtily. “I’m sure I’m obliged. I forgot the hammer, but you can get it from my room if you need it. I go to the city for dinner. Good-by.”

Imogene did not rise. “Good-by,” she said in a tone which quite matched Miss Van Rensaelar’s. “You might have the goodness to place the ink on my desk. It belongs there.”

“Indeed!” Miss Van Rensaelar sniffed the air, but crossed the room with the ink-bottle, which she deposited upon the desk. Then she crossed again, her head a trifle higher if possible, and went out the door, which she left wide open.

Imogene was furious. She rose from the couch to give vent to her feelings by slamming the door, but encountered Priscilla and Virginia just about to enter. Had she not wished to share her rage, she might not have been so gracious.

“Come in,” she said, “and hear the latest!”

“What’s she done now?” Priscilla whispered. “We met her in the hall, but she didn’t deign to speak. Is she going to town to dine with the Holland ambassador, or what?”

“I don’t know or care whom she’s going to see,” stormed Imogene, “but I know one thing! I’m not going to stand this sort of thing any longer. Borrowing everything is bad enough; but when it comes to lording it over the whole house, it’s time to do something! Besides, she’s a Freshman!”

“She isn’t exactly a Freshman,” said Virginia, not noting Imogene’s displeasure. “Miss Wallace says she’s been to several girls’ schools on the Hudson already, but she doesn’t stay. She’s sort of a special, I guess. She’s nearly eighteen, you know.”

“I wasn’t favored with a knowledge of her age,” Imogene continued frigidly. “But I repeat, it’s time to do something!”

“But what can we do?” asked Priscilla. “Of course we can refuse to lend our things, but that—”

“That isn’t what I mean. I mean we ought to show her that she isn’t everything in The Hermitage, or in all St. Helen’s. She thinks she is! But she isn’t! In college she’d be made to black boots, or run errands. I have a friend at Harvard and he told me all about the things they make fresh Freshmen do.”

The thought of the haughty, velvet-clad Miss Van Rensaelar blacking boots was too much for Virginia and she laughed, thereby increasing Imogene’s displeasure. Vivian arrived just at this point of the conversation, falling over the rug as she entered, which awkward proceeding greatly disturbed her room-mate.

“For mercy’s sake, Viv, save the furniture, and do close the door! This isn’t open house!”

Poor Vivian, a little uncertain as to whether or not she was welcome, straightened the rug and closed the door. Then she sat beside Virginia, who had made room for her on the couch.

“We might ask Mary. Maybe she’d have an idea,” Priscilla suggested a little timidly, but Imogene did not receive the suggestion very kindly.

“Oh, I’m sick of this monitor business! Don’t say a word to Mary. Whatever is done can be done without her first assistance. I’m going to think of something before I go to bed to-night.”

“She makes me think of Dick when he first came to the ranch,” said Virginia. “He acted as though he were better than the other men, and knew a lot more, though he was only eighteen. He used to like to dress up and go to town at night, as though he were above them all. The men grew tired of his overbearing ways, and Jim and Alex decided he needed some discipline. So, one night when he had gone to town in his best clothes, they placed a big bucket of water over the bunk-house door, and arranged it so that when any one opened the door from the outside it would fall and drench him. Dick came home about midnight; and the men all lay in bed, waiting for him to open the door. He opened it, and down came all the water. Jim told father the next day that Dick just stood there wet through, and never said a word. But he understood, and after that he wasn’t snobbish any more, but just one of the men, and they liked him a great deal better. I know I thought ’twas mean when Jim told father, but father said it was just what Dick needed to help make a man of him.”

They had all listened to Virginia’s story. Somehow they always did listen when Virginia told a story for it was sure to be interesting. Imogene, though she stared out of the window while Virginia told it, was really listening most attentively of all; for, as Virginia talked, into her scheming mind flashed an idea, by the carrying out of which she might attain a two-fold purpose—namely, the desired disciplining of Miss Van Rensaelar, and the revenging of certain wrongs for which she held Virginia responsible.

Imogene did dislike Virginia, for no other reasons in the world than that the other girls liked her, and that their friendliness gave Virginia prominence at St. Helen’s. Virginia did not seek popularity or influence, therefore she had both; but Imogene for two years had sought for both, and moreover had used every means to attain them. This year she saw her popularity waning. Even Dorothy did not seem to care so much for her. Instead she liked Virginia—a bitter pill for Imogene to swallow. As for influence, Imogene Meredith did possess a strong influence over her associates, but its strength did not lie in its goodness. Moreover, Imogene remembered a certain talk with Miss Wallace on the occasion of Virginia’s trouble with Miss Green; and the memory of that talk still rankled bitterly. She would get even with Virginia, and show St. Helen’s that this Wyoming girl was not such a wonder after all. So as Virginia told her story and the others listened, Imogene smiled to herself and planned her revenge, Miss Van Rensaelar for the moment almost forgotten.

“Aren’t you going to play tennis, Dorothy?” Virginia asked as she finished.

Dorothy hesitated. “Can’t we play to-morrow, Virginia?” she asked, embarrassed. “I promised Imogene I’d walk to the village with her.”

“Of course. It doesn’t matter. Come on, Vivian. Priscilla and you and I’ll play; and if Lucile doesn’t want to make a fourth, we’ll get Bess Shepard from Overlook. She said this morning that she’d like to play.”

So while the others crossed the campus toward the gymnasium, Imogene and Dorothy started for Hillcrest, and upon arriving went to the “Forget-me-not,” while the sallow-faced youth before mentioned served them hot chocolate, and lingered unnecessarily in Imogene’s neighborhood. On the way home, peace having been restored between them, Imogene divulged her secret plan to Dorothy, or at least the half of it which she cared to divulge,—namely that upon their arrival home while every one was preparing for dinner, a pail of water be suspended over Miss Van Rensaelar’s door, so that upon her return she might be surprised into a more docile manner toward her housemates.

Dorothy giggled at the picture of the soaked Katrina, but obstacles presented themselves to her mind.

“It will be funny, but I think you’ll get the worst of it instead of Katrina.”

“How, I’d like to know?”

“Well, you’re sure to be found out, because you can’t fib about it, and there’s so few of us in The Hermitage that all of us will be asked. Then, besides, it’s funny, but I’m not so sure it’s a joke. I think it’s sort of mean.” Dorothy said the last somewhat hesitatingly, noting the expression coming over Imogene’s face.

“Don’t be such a wet-blanket, Dot! Besides, I don’t see how you’re so sure I’ll be found out. You certainly won’t tell, and Viv won’t dare to; and you know how St. Helen’s feels about telling tales anyway. Besides, it’s not my plan. You know who suggested it just this afternoon.” And into Imogene’s eyes crept a crafty expression, which told Dorothy more than her words.

“Oh, Imogene!” she cried, really indignant. “You know that isn’t true! Virginia didn’t propose it at all! She was just telling a story! You don’t mean you’d do it yourself, and then lay the blame on Virginia!”

Imogene saw that she had made a mistake.

“Who’s talking about blaming anybody? I guess I’m willing to take the blame for my own actions. Don’t get so excited! I didn’t exactly mean she proposed it. I just meant that I’d never have thought of such a good plan if it hadn’t been for her.”

Dorothy was not convinced. She never felt quite sure of Imogene, though she couldn’t seem to help being fascinated by her.

“You see,” she said hesitatingly, “if you had meant that Virginia suggested it, I’d think—”

“Well, think what?”

“I’d think that—? that maybe you laughed on purpose that night down-stairs.”

Imogene shrugged her shoulders, and looked, for her, rather uncomfortable.

“Isn’t any one allowed to laugh, if anything strikes her funny? You’re suspicious, Dorothy!”

But quarreling would not do if Dorothy’s help were to be relied upon. Besides, the subject was distasteful, not to say dangerous. Imogene changed it hurriedly, and, by the time they reached The Hermitage, the plan had once more assumed at least an honest aspect, and Dorothy was once more laughing at the thought of the drenched Katrina.

Meanwhile Miss Van Rensaelar was being entertained in the city, and regaling her friends with tales of the hopelessness of St. Helen’s in general, and The Hermitage in particular. Such regulations as to hours! Such babyish girls! No style! No callers! No amusements, except tennis and basketball, and riding on impossible horses!

The truth was the trouble lay in Katrina Van Rensaelar, and not in St. Helen’s. Katrina, “on account of having been detained by illness at a Long Island house-party,” had not arrived at St. Helen’s until after Thanksgiving. She was too late to enter any of the regular classes, and had been ranked as a “Special.” The term really suited Katrina, for she was a special type of girl to which St. Helen’s had not often been accustomed. She had too little desire for study and too much money—too little friendliness and too many ancestors.

Now, the possession of too many ancestors is difficult property to handle, especially in boarding-school, unless you are very expert in concealing your ownership. Katrina was not expert. On the contrary, disdaining concealment, she openly avowed her ownership, and on the few occasions in which she had been known to engage in conversation, had announced that she was of the only original Dutch patroon stock of New York. There were girls at St. Helen’s who were every bit as snobbish as Katrina with perhaps less to be snobbish about—Imogene was one—but somehow they had learned that if one wished to be popular, she concealed as far as possible her personal prejudices toward family and fortune.

Katrina, glad to be away from St. Helen’s and to see some “life,” as she termed it, accepted with thanks an invitation to remain over night in the city. Her friends telegraphed her intention to Miss King, promising to bring her in by machine early in the morning. Miss Green and Miss Wallace were accordingly informed of the fact that she would not return, but, as such irregularities were not encouraged, said nothing of her absence to the girls.

That night Vivian was a trifle late for supper, for truth to tell it had been Vivian whom Imogene had delegated to creep up-stairs with the water-filled pail, and hang it on a nail already provided above the door.

“You’re lighter on your feet than I am, Viv,” she had explained, “and no one will hear you. Just because you hang it there doesn’t mean that you’re to blame at all. And remember, if to-night Miss Green questions you, you’re to say, ‘That’s the way they discipline snobbish cow-boys in Wyoming.’”

Poor, short-sighted little Vivian, glad to be again in the favor of her adored Imogene, obediently hung the pail upon the nail, and descended to the dining-room, looking embarrassed as she took her seat. Miss Wallace’s keen eyes noted the embarrassment, and caught also a shade of disapproval cross Imogene’s face.

“You must have washed in a hurry, Vivian,” whispered the unconscious Virginia, who sat next her. “There are drops all over your collar.”

Vivian, more embarrassed than ever, raised her napkin to wipe the drops. Supper proceeded, but Miss Wallace had her clew.

All through study-hours, while the others worked, unconscious of any excitement, Dorothy, Imogene, and Vivian waited with bated breath for the return of Miss Van Rensaelar. But she did not come. At nine-thirty she had not returned, and there was nothing to do but go to bed and lie awake listening. The clock struck ten, and stealthy steps were heard in the corridor. Could that be Katrina returning? No, for she would never soften her tread for fear of disturbing the sleepers. Who could it be? Whoever it was was going up the stairs, for they creaked a little. The girls held their breaths for one long moment. Then—a frightful splash, followed immediately by a crash and an unearthly shriek, rent The Hermitage. Those awake and those who had been sleeping rushed into the hall, in which the light was still burning. Down the-stairs came a person in a gray flannel wrapper, which clung in wet folds about her shivering figure, and from every fold of which ran rivulets of water. The person’s scant locks were plastered to her head, save in front, where from every curl-paper dripped drops as from an icicle. It was Miss Green! Frightened, furious, forbidding Miss Green!

Simultaneously the girls laughed—innocent and guilty alike. No one could have helped it—at least not they, who were, for the most part, completely surprised. And Miss Green, it must be admitted, was excruciatingly funny. She stood in the middle of the hall, dripped and glared. When she could command her trembling voice:

“Mary Williams, you are a Senior monitor, and do you laugh at such outrageous conduct?”

“I—I beg your pardon, Miss Green,” stammered Mary. “I really couldn’t help it. I’m sorry.”

“Will you explain this occurrence?”

“I really can’t, Miss Green. I don’t know anything about it.”

At this juncture, hurried steps were heard on the stairs, and Miss Wallace mercifully appeared. When she saw Miss Green, her own lips quivered, but she restrained them. The shivering Miss Green explained the situation in a voice quivering with cold and anger. Then, as if her own conduct needed explanation:

“I went up-stairs merely to—to see if the windows were lowered, and this is what I received. Let us probe this disgusting matter to the bottom, Miss Wallace.”

“I think you should first get into dry things,” Miss Wallace suggested gently. “Then we will talk matters over. Girls, please go to your rooms.”

The girls obeyed.

“One moment, please,” Miss Green called imperiously. “Vivian, you were late at supper. Can you explain this matter. Answer me, can you?”

Poor frightened Vivian tried to look into Miss Green’s glaring eyes, but failed miserably. She stammered, hesitated, was silent.

“Answer me, Vivian. What sort of a method of procedure is this?”

“Please—please, Miss Green, it’s—it’s—”

“Well, it’s what?”

“It’s the way they discipline sn-snobbish c-cow-boys in Wyoming.”

Utter silence reigned for a few long seconds. Miss Green stared at each of the mystified girls, until her eye fell upon Virginia, most mystified of all.

“For the present, Virginia,” she said in measured tones, each one distinct, “I will inform you that methods which are in vogue upon a Wyoming ranch are not suitable in a young ladies’ boarding-school. I will see you later.”

She turned to go with Miss Wallace, still dripping, still glaring. Miss Wallace’s face had become stern.

“Go to your rooms, girls. There will be no talking to-night. Please remember, Mary.”

“Yes, Miss Wallace,” promised the Senior monitor.

But the mystified Virginia and her wholly indignant room-mate could not resist some whispers.

“It’s Imogene,” whispered Priscilla, on Virginia’s bed. “She made Vivian do it; and now she means to put the blame on you, just because you told that story about Dick.”

“Oh, she couldn’t be so mean, Priscilla!”

“Yes, she could. She’s just that kind. And if Miss Green blames you, I’m going to tell. I am!”

This, and much more, went on in whispers in their room, and, for that matter, in every other. No one could sleep, and a half hour later every girl heard Miss Wallace’s voice at Imogene’s door.

“Imogene, you are to come to my room at once. No, I don’t wish you, Vivian. At once, please, Imogene.”

It was fully an hour later when they heard Imogene reenter her room, but no one ventured either that night or in the morning to ask any questions. As for Virginia, she was summoned to no interview, and suffered no unjust reprimand, save Miss Green’s piercing words, which she wrote, with a half-smile, in the chapter, “Pertaining Especially to Decorum”:

“I will inform you that methods in vogue upon a Wyoming ranch are not suitable in a young ladies’ boarding-school.”

Miss Van Rensaelar, who returned the next morning, never knew what deluge she escaped. Imogene’s manner forbade any interferences, but apparently Vivian’s life with her room-mate for the next few days was anything but a happy one. Secret discussions were held in The Hermitage, and likewise in the other cottages, for the news had spread; but Imogene and Vivian never attended, and Dorothy, if present, was silent and strangely embarrassed.

A week later when the newness of the affair had passed away, and when other topics occasionally came up for conversation, some news announced by Miss Green to her classes swept through St. Helen’s like wild-fire. In recognition of years of faithful service, St. Helen’s had presented Miss Green with a fund, with the request that she go to Athens for two years’ study at the Classical School.

“Another vocation thrust upon her! Horrors! What will she do?” exclaimed Dorothy, at a meeting held in The Hermitage to discuss this unexpected, and, I am forced to say, welcome piece of information.

“Three cheers for St. Helen’s!” cried one Blackmore twin.

“And groans for Athens!” cried the other.

So just before Christmas, Miss Green departed for Athens; and at the same time, Katrina Van Rensaelar, deciding to seek education elsewhere, left for a place in which her ancestors would be more appreciated.

“And to be perfectly frank, daddy dear,” wrote Virginia, “it’s a welcome exodus!”

CHAPTER XII—THE VIGILANTES

The weeks immediately following the Christmas holidays were always hard ones at St. Helen’s. This year was no exception to the experience of every other year. The weather was cold and snowy, the girls were homesick, or, as was too often the case, half ill and listless from too many sweets and too much gayety during the vacation. Lessons were often poorly learned or not learned at all. In short, the St. Helen’s faculty dreaded January, and the St. Helen’s girls hated it.

“It’s the worst month in the whole year,” remarked Priscilla, standing by her window one Saturday afternoon, and watching a cold northeast storm whirl the snow-flakes from a gray, forbidding sky. “January’s the out-of-sorts month, and every one in this whole school is out-of-sorts, too. I wish it were Christmas over again!”

“So do I,” said Virginia from the other window.

Virginia had just caught the out-of-sorts epidemic. For a week at least after her return from Vermont, the memory of her own joyous Christmas had kept her happy. It had been such a lovely two weeks! She and her grandmother had grown to be such good friends. Virginia actually dared believe that her grandmother did not now disapprove of her in the least. She and Aunt Nan had had such a happy, jolly vacation; and even the Rev. Samuel Baxter had been most gracious, not once mentioning Korean missions or the sale of Bibles. But even memories were not proof against a general atmosphere of discontent, and she was beginning to be infected.

“There goes Dorothy in all this snow,” announced Priscilla a moment later. “She’s carrying books, too. Where’s she going, I wonder?”

She rapped on the window. Dorothy either did not hear or did not choose to. The latter would be more thoroughly in keeping with her January disposition.

“I know. She’s failed in geometry every day since we came back, and has to take private lessons with Miss Wells. Of course she didn’t tell me, but I know she’s failed because she’s in my division. Bess Shepard told me yesterday that Dorothy was going to take lessons with her of Miss Wells in the afternoon. Bess was sick, you know, and she’s making up lost time. That’s how I know.”

Priscilla turned suddenly from the window and sat down on the couch.

“Virginia,” she said, “I’m desperately worried about Dorothy. It isn’t being untrue to her to talk with you about her, because you are her friend, too. She isn’t a bit the way she was last year. She doesn’t seem to care about lots of things the way she did then and when she was at our house this summer. Don’t you think she’s different from what she was even in September?”

Virginia left the window and sat beside her roommate.

“Yes,” she said, “she is different. She laughs at things now that she didn’t then; and she seems to be afraid of taking sides about things. I mean, whether anything’s fair or not. She never likes to say what she thinks any more, like she used to.”

“That’s Imogene. I think it’s almost all Imogene.” Priscilla’s voice was lowered to a whisper. “Dorothy likes Imogene because she has such a don’t-care way about things, and because she has so much money, and dresses better than any girl in school, though I think her clothes are a sight! Mother thought Dorothy was different when she was here Thanksgiving. She noticed it. I wish Imogene Meredith had never come here!”

Virginia’s voice was also lowered. “She doesn’t give Vivian a chance either. I think Vivian’s dear and sweet; but Imogene makes her do everything she says, and poor Vivian’s so easily influenced, she does it. You know what I’m thinking about especially?”

Priscilla nodded. She knew. They were both thinking of the “Flood,” as St. Helen’s now termed it, and of how Imogene had tried to shift the blame from her own shoulders on those of poor Vivian and unconscious Virginia.

“Of course I know. I told you then ’twas just like her. And Dorothy knew about that, too. I’m sure she did! She’s so quiet whenever it’s mentioned, and looks ashamed. And lately Dorothy’s even been teasing Vivian, just as Imogene does, about that silly Leslie, who always gives Vivian extra large cakes at the ‘Forget-me-not.’ Oh, dear! I don’t suppose there’s anything I can do, but it worries me. Dorothy’s my best friend along with you, and I don’t want her to grow like Imogene. Can you keep a secret if I tell you one?”

“Of course, I can.”

“Well, Dorothy visited Imogene at Christmas time. Not the whole vacation, because she spent most of it with her aunt in New York. You know, her mother is dead, and her father is in California most of the time, so she spends vacations with her aunt. She was there for a week and a half, and then she went to Albany and visited Imogene, and that is why they came back together. They were late, too, because they stayed for a party Imogene gave. And the thing I mind most is that Dorothy never told she’d been there at all, just as though it were a secret. Only Vivian was at the party, and she mentioned it just as though I knew. Mother asked Dorothy to come home with me—mother feels sorry that she hasn’t really any family like ours—but Dorothy said her aunt wasn’t going to let her go anywhere this vacation. It isn’t that I minded her not coming to us, you know, but I don’t like to have her so much with Imogene, and, besides, I can’t see why they keep it so secret.”

Priscilla finished, troubled. Virginia was troubled, too, for she loved Dorothy, even though of late Dorothy had not seemed to care so much for her. She remembered the day she had first seen Priscilla and Dorothy at the station, and Dorothy’s resolutions in regard to grades.

“Dorothy hasn’t gotten all A’s the way she planned in September, has she?”

“I think she had B’s on her fall card, because she was ashamed of it, and wouldn’t show it to mother at Thanksgiving. I know she hasn’t done so well in class as she did last year. Miss Wallace and Miss Allan have reproved her more than once. And you know the house-meeting we had when Mary said The Hermitage couldn’t win the scholarship cup away from Hathaway unless some of us who were getting B’s, got A’s for a change? Well, Dorothy just cut Mary for two days after that, and she isn’t nice to her now. It does seem too bad when we’ve decided to try extra hard for the cup that Imogene and Dorothy pull us down. Even Vivian’s been getting A’s, and Lucile’s doing better all the time, isn’t she?”

“Yes, she is. Even in English she’s really trying; and she’s fine in French and Latin and geometry. Do you think Dorothy likes Miss Wallace as much as she used?”

“That’s Imogene again. She called Miss Wallace Dorothy’s ‘idol’ all the fall in that sneering way she has, and now Dorothy acts ashamed to show she loves Miss Wallace. She doesn’t go to see her the way she did last year. Last year, if she were troubled about anything, she went right to Miss Wallace. Oh, dear, what shall we do?”

Virginia did not answer for a moment. She was thinking.

“Isn’t life queer?” she said at last thoughtfully. “It all goes crooked when you most want it to go straight. But I have an idea, Priscilla. Let’s be Vigilantes!”

“Vi-gi-lan-tes! What’s that?”

“Why, don’t you know about the Vigilantes? No, I don’t suppose you do. Even Miss Wallace didn’t till I told her. Why, the Vigilantes were brave men in the early days when the Pioneers were just going into Montana and Wyoming and the other States out there. You see, when they discovered that those States had such rich lands for wheat, and hills for cattle, and gold mines—especially the gold—people just flocked there by thousands. And, of course, there were many thieves and cutthroats and lawless men who went, too, and they just became the terror of the country.

“They rode swift horses, and they knew all the passes in the mountains. When they heard a train of men and horses was coming from the mines, they would lie in wait in the mountains and come down upon them, steal their gold and horses and murder any who resisted. It wasn’t safe to take any journeys in those days.”

“Well, but why did the people allow it? Why weren’t they arrested?” Priscilla in her interest had forgotten all about being out-of-sorts.

“Why, you see the people couldn’t help it at first. The country was so very new that law hadn’t been made. The government did send judges out there; but there were so many lawless men that they threatened even the judges; and, besides, these robbers were perfectly wonderful shots, and they would scare the people so terribly that they were glad to get away with their lives.

“But by and by things grew so bad, and so many innocent persons who dared oppose the robbers were shot down, that some men banded together, and called themselves the Vigilantes. They pledged themselves to watch out for evil-doers, to stand for fair play, and to put a stop to robbery and murder. Of course, it was very hard at first, and many of the Vigilantes lost their lives; but pretty soon other bands were formed in the other towns, and they kept on, no matter how discouraged they were at times. They used to post signs on the roads that led to towns; and sometimes they would draw in red chalk on a cliff or even on the paving in town, warning the robbers and murderers that if they came into that place they would be captured.”

“What did they do if they captured them?”

“They most usually hung them to a tree. The big tall cottonwoods out there are called ‘gallows trees,’ because they used to hang so many to their branches. It seems wicked now, of course,” Virginia explained, seeing the horror on Priscilla’s face, “to kill them like that—sometimes even without a trial. But really, Priscilla, they couldn’t do anything else in order to save the good people from danger.”

“No, of course, they couldn’t. Mustn’t it have been exciting?”

“Exciting? I rather think it was exciting! Jim used to tell me about it. There was one place in Montana named Virginia City where there were many of the Vigilantes. You see, there were very rich gold mines there, and that meant there were lawless men, too. Jim was there once, and he could remember some of the Vigilantes. He said there was one awful man who had killed scores of persons, and who was the terror of the whole country. And the strangest part of it was, he was nice-looking and talked like a gentleman. The Vigilantes watched for him for ten years before they got him.”

“Did they hang him from a cottonwood, too?”

“Yes; and Jim said when they had put the rope around his neck, and were just going to lead his horse from under him he burst out laughing at them all, and said, ‘Good-by, boys. I’m mighty sorry I can’t tell you by and by how it feels to be hung. It’s the only Western experience I’ve never enjoyed.’”

“After all he certainly was brave to die like that, laughing. He had Margaret of Salisbury’s spirit. I always loved her, especially when she said if they wanted her head they must take it with her standing. Virginia, you know more thrilling stories than any one I ever knew. It just makes me wild to go away out there and visit you. Do you suppose I ever shall?”

“Yes, I just know you’re coming. I shouldn’t wonder if this very next summer. I feel it inside me. We can be Vigilantes for sure out there. That’s just where they belong. But don’t you think we could be sort of Vigilantes here—standing as they did for fair play and ”—she lowered her voice “watching out for evil-doers?”

Priscilla was enthusiastic over the idea. It seemed so different and original. Besides, it really did mean something to try to stand for fair play, and to watch out for anything—any evil influence, for example—that might harm those you loved.

“We’ll especially try to see that Vivian isn’t so easily influenced,” Virginia whispered, “and we’ll try our best to help Dorothy to be like she used to be. Only they mustn’t know we’re trying. That would spoil it all.”

“Shall we ask any one else to join?” asked Priscilla.

“We might ask Mary. She’s really a Vigilante anyway, being a monitor.”

“Suppose we tell her about it, and ask her to be adviser. You see, where she’s monitor, she can’t take sides just as we can, and maybe she’d think she’d better not join. It’s going to be a Secret Organization, isn’t it?”

“Oh, of course. Secret things always seem more important. Let’s draw up the constitution this minute. I like to feel settled.”

Pen and ink were found, and within fifteen minutes the composition of the organization was complete, Virginia being the Thomas Jefferson of the occasion.

“I’ll read it aloud,” said the author, “so that we can tell if it sounds right.

“‘We, the undersigned, on this 20th day of a sad January, do hereby announce in the sacred presence of each other, that we are Vigilantes of St. Helen’s. We are bound by our honor as friends and room-mates to secrecy, and to an earnest performance of our work as true Vigilantes. We deplore the evil influence of —— ——, and we promise to strive to off-set that influence especially in regard to —— —— and —— ——. We are going to try to stand at all times for fair play, and real friendship. We appoint —— —— as our trusted adviser. At present we are the sole members of the Vigilante Order.

“‘Signed

“‘Priscilla Alden Winthrop.

”‘Virginia Webster Hunter.’

“I put blanks instead of names,” explained Virginia, signing her name after Priscilla. “It seems more like an organization some way, and, besides, we understand. Now, we are real Vigilantes, Priscilla.”

They shook hands solemnly. The paper was sealed with an extravagant amount of sealing wax, and stuffed with much secrecy into a rent of Virginia’s mattress. Then the two Vigilantes, feeling much revived in spirits, invited the disconsolate Vivian to join them, and went for a walk in the snow.

CHAPTER XIII—THE TEST OF CARVER STANDISH III

“Don’t they hurt a bit, Jean?”

“No, of course not.”

“Don’t you feel at all sick either?”

“No, just mad! What’s in that bag, Virginia?”

“Pop-corn. Can you eat it?”

“I should say I can. Haven’t had anything but disgusting cream toast for four days. Put it under the letters so no one will see. What’s that in the box, Priscilla?”

“Peggy Norris’ white mice she bought down town. They’re only a loan for to-day. Open the box right off or they’ll smother.”

“What do you do all day, Jean?”

“Oh, learn things by heart mostly. Miss Wood won’t let me read, so I just glance and then recite. It’s a comfort. I’ve learned the Ninety-first Psalm and ‘Annabel Lee’ and ‘Drink to Me Only with Thine Eyes’ and the ‘Address at Gettysburg’ and ‘One Thought of Marcus Aurelius.’ I call that quite good.”

“How do you know you’re going to have them anyway, Jean?”

“Oh, you hate everybody for two days, and your eyes water the third. Is it all ready? Shall I pull? Be sure the mice are right side up. Here goes then!”

The taller Blackmore twin in a red wrapper and a bandaged throat leaned out of her window and pulled on a rope, at the end of which dangled a waste-basket filled with bags, envelopes, and boxes. Below, in the snow, stood half a dozen sympathizers who had brought the “morning post” to their comrade, confined to her room with the German Measles.

Judging from the patient’s alacrity in securing the basket she was not suffering. In fact she might have been called most indiscreet, as the morning air was cold. However, the flower of discretion does not bloom in boarding-school; and the afflicted Jean, after depositing the basket on the floor, and giving some air to the half-suffocated mice, leaned farther out of the window.

“Don’t go. I’ll look my mail over later. It’s fine of you to come. Any more caught?”

“Yes, Bess Shepard has them for sure, and Elinor Brooks has a sore throat.”

“Then she’s probably just starting out.”

“My room-mate is awfully cross without any reason.” This from Vivian.

“Look behind her ears. Probably there are specks and lumps, too.”

“Are you all over speckles, Jean?”

“Pretty much so!”

The patient appeared to listen, drawing herself farther into the room. All at once she waved a corner of her red bath-robe, a signal of danger, and slunk back toward the couch. The six sympathizers with one accord withdrew to the other side of the lilac bushes. They heard the closet door open and close, after something had been hurriedly placed therein, then foot-steps, and a peremptory rap on Jean’s door. Then Jean’s voice, pathetically lowered,

“Come in.”

The door opened.

“Jeannette,” said a voice, which they behind the lilac trees recognized as Miss Wood’s. “Jeannette, don’t you feel the draught from that open window?”

“No, thank you, Miss Wood. I need air.”

“Didn’t I hear you talking a moment since?”

“Perhaps,” said the weary Jean with half-closed eyes. “I recite a great deal to myself. And this morning I felt able to say a few words to some of the girls who came beneath the window.”

“You must not talk, my dear. It is bad for your throat. Do you feel better this morning?”

“Yes, I think so, slightly, thank you.”

Miss Wood smoothed with soft fingers the patient’s head.

“You seem very cool—a good sign. How would some cream-toast taste? It’s nourishing, and won’t hurt your throat.”

“Oh, it would be delicious, I’m sure. Thank you, Miss Wood. I really believe I’m a little hungry.”

Miss Wood departed to make the toast, while her patient, quickly recovering, consumed buttered popcorn as an appetizer, hoping that cream toast would be agreeable to the white mice. After which, she once more lay down, and tried to look ill in time for Miss Wood’s reappearance. Meanwhile the six behind the lilac trees hurried across the campus toward their respective cottages to do the weekly “tidying” of their rooms.

“Virginia,” said Priscilla, as they left the others to post some letters, “I just know I’m going to have them. I was with Jean all one afternoon when she was hating everybody. Oh, I hope you’ll have them when I do!”

“So do I. ’Twould be fun having the girls bring mail from every one. And maybe Miss Wallace would make us cream toast. That would be worth the regular measles, not to mention German. You don’t feel out-of-sorts yet, do you?”

“No, I’ll tell you when I do, or you’ll probably know anyway. Isn’t Jean a scream? Probably she was in bed when Miss Wood got there.”

“She’s dear. Why don’t she and Jess room together?”

“My dear, the whole faculty rose up in arms this year when they suggested it. They tried it exactly three weeks last year, and Miss Wood nearly resigned. One is bad enough, but the two are awful! They think up the most fearful things to do. Why, the summer before last, they’d been in England all summer, and had seen all kinds of new things. Well, the first thing they did when they got back to St. Helen’s was to play chimney-sweep. Jess had seen them in London and she couldn’t rest to see how it felt to be in a chimney. So, one day, she put on some black tights and an old Jersey of her brother’s, and made a tall hat out of paste-board. Then they went up on the roof of Hathaway, and Jean helped her get up on the chimney, and she dropped down. The chimney’s wide, you know, and she dropped straight down, making an awful noise and loosening all the soot, right into the living-room fire-place. Miss King and Bishop Hughes were calling on Miss Wood just then, though, of course, Jess didn’t know that. Down she came, feet first, into the grate, and scared Miss King and Miss Wood and the Bishop all but to death. She was all over soot, and was a sight! The Bishop laughs about it every time he comes.”

Virginia laughed and laughed. As long as she had been at St. Helen’s she had never heard that story.

“The thing that Jean’s crossest about,” Priscilla continued, “is the Gordon dance on Washington’s Birthday. Her cousin asked her to come, and she’s afraid Miss Wood won’t let her go.”

“Why, she’ll be all right by then, won’t she? The speckles are most gone already, and the dance is two weeks off.”

“I know, but Miss Wood is very careful, and, besides, Jess told her that Jean was subject to tonsillitis. Oh, dear, I was sort of hoping that Carver Standish would invite me! You see, I’ve never been to a really big dance in the evening in my life. But I guess he’s not going to. Jean got her invitation yesterday.”

But when they reached The Hermitage and their own room, Priscilla found the coveted envelope, with a card bearing the name “Carver Standish III,” and a note saying it would be “downright rotten,” if anything prevented her coming. Priscilla ran at once to ask for Miss Wallace’s chaperonage, but, when she returned, a worried expression had replaced the joyous one on her face.

“Won’t she go with you?”

“Yes, she’ll go; but, Virginia, I just remembered the German Measles. They don’t look so much like a blessing as they did a few minutes ago. What if I do get them? Oh, Virginia, what if I do? If I’m going to have them, I wish I’d get them right away, and then I’d be all over them in a week. Isn’t there some way they can be hurried up if they’re inside of you?”

Virginia was for a few moments lost in contemplation. Then apparently she remembered.

“Why, of course, there is,” she said. “I remember all about it now. If they’re really inside of you, hot things will bring them out. When they thought I had the mumps once, Hannah said ‘Steam them out, dear. If they’re there, they’ll come.’ And they did come out. I’ve heard Hannah say that over and over again. Don’t you worry, Priscilla. We’ll use all the hot things we know, and try to bring them out, and, if they don’t come, you can be reasonably sure they’re not inside of you. If I were you, I’d begin right off. I’d put on a sweater, and sit over the register. I’d just bake! To-night we’ll get extra blankets and hot water bottles, and in a day or two I believe we’ll have them out. It’s lucky to-morrow is Sunday.”

“I just know they’re inside,” wailed Priscilla, buttoning her sweater, as she sat over the register. “My! It’s hot here! Would you think of hot things, too? You know we said we believed that thoughts were powerful.”

“I certainly do believe it. Yes, I believe I’d let my mind dwell on Vesuvius and the burning of Rome, and things like—like crematories and bonfires and the Equator. If there’s anything in thought suggestion that certainly will help. It won’t harm anyway. Are you awfully uncomfortable?”

“Very hot. Would you really stay here all the afternoon?”

“Yes, I would, and most of to-morrow. If, by to-morrow night, there aren’t any signs, I’ll believe the danger’s past Let’s not tell anybody what we’re doing. If Miss Wallace thought you expected them, she might think you ought not to go.”

“Does Hannah know all about sickness?”

“She certainly does. Why, everybody for miles around comes to her for advice, and trusts her just as though she were a doctor. Really, Priscilla, I know she’d do just this way if she were here.”

The reassured Priscilla sweltered over the register most of the afternoon. When evening came, she was somewhat out-of-sorts. “Maybe the hating everybody has begun,” thought her room-mate as she filled hot water-bottles. They had borrowed all in The Hermitage, except Miss Wallace’s and Miss Baxter’s (Miss Baxter was Miss Green’s more popular successor)—much to the unsatisfied wonder of the household. Priscilla turned uneasily all night in a nest of hot water-bottles and extra blankets. In the morning there were no signs of measles, except perhaps a somewhat peevish disposition.

“And that’s not measles, Virginia, I’ll have you to know!” the owner of the disposition announced fretfully. “It’s just from being burned alive! Now, I’m not going to do another thing, so you might just as well put away those two suits of underwear. One’s enough!”

“Well,” said Virginia a little doubtfully, as she folded the extra suit and replaced it in the drawer; “well, it does seem as though if they’d been coming they would have come after all that steaming. I wish Hannah were here! She’d know. But, if I were you, Priscilla, I’d just keep thinking I wasn’t going to have them. That will probably help.”

This prescription compared to the preceding one was easy to follow, and all through the next two weeks Priscilla, when she remembered it, maintained that she was not to have the German Measles! For the rest of the time, which was by far the larger portion, she was perfectly oblivious as to even the possibility of her having them, so elated was she over her preparation for the Gordon dance. She and Miss Wallace and Jean Blackmore, who was really to be allowed to go after all, were to make the journey, a distance of twenty-five miles, by automobile. The two weeks dragged their days slowly along, but at last Thursday night arrived, and Priscilla, with a happy heart, surveyed for the last time that day her new dress, which her mother had sent from home.

“Just one more night to wait,” she said, as she got into bed. “Oh, Virginia, I wish you were a Junior! I don’t see why Miss King won’t let new girls go. Carver said if you only could, he would have asked you, because his grandfather had told him so much about you, and his room-mate, Robert Stuart, whom I’ve met, would have asked me. Then we could have gone together.”

“I don’t mind. It’s been such fun getting you ready. Maybe next year we’ll both go. Isn’t it the luckiest thing you haven’t had them at all?”

“It certainly is! It just shows how powerful thought is! Really, I have more faith in it than ever. You see, if they were inside of me, they didn’t get any attention, and probably decided not to come out.”

“Well, if they’d been there, they would have come out with all that heat, I’m sure,” said Virginia, still faithful to Hannah. “But it doesn’t matter whether they were there or not, just so long as they’re not here. Good-night.”

In the gray early morning Virginia was rudely awakened by some one shaking her. She sat up in bed to find Priscilla desperately shaking her with one hand and the witch-hazel bottle with the other. Priscilla was apparently in trouble. What could be the matter? She sat up, dazed, half-asleep.

“Why, what is it? What’s the matter? Was the dance lovely? Did you have a good time?”

At these last remarks Priscilla wept.

“Oh, wake up!” she cried. “It’s only Friday. I haven’t been to the dance at all, and probably I can’t go, because I’ve got them; yes, I have! My head aches, and my throat’s sore, and I’m hot, and my eyes run, and I hate everybody, and I’ll be lumpy and speckled right away—I know I shall! Oh, what shall I do?”

The last sentence ended in a long, heart-broken wail, which brought the still dazed Virginia thoroughly to her senses. She sprang from bed, turned on the light, and scrutinized the disconsolate Priscilla. Yes, her cheeks were most assuredly flushed, and her eyes were watery—from tears. Virginia was mistress of the situation.

“Now, Priscilla,” she commanded, “you go back to bed. You’re going to that dance. Remember that! I’ve got an idea. If heat will bring the things out, then cold must keep them in, of course. We’ll fill the hot water-bottles with cold water, and turn off the heat, and you’ll feel better. See if you don’t. And you won’t get speckled to-day anyway, because Jean Blackmore didn’t till two days after they started; and even if you do behind your ears it won’t matter. Stop crying, or somebody’ll hear, and tell Miss Wallace you’re sick.”

This dire threat soothed the agitated Priscilla, and she consented to the cold bags, which felt good against her hot cheeks and forehead. By breakfast time she did feel better, though still not very well; and she went to classes with injunctions from Virginia to return after each one and lie down fifteen minutes in a cold room until time for the next class. Thus the morning passed. In the afternoon, Virginia tacked an “Asleep” sign on the door, and commenced more rigorous treatment. The numerous hot water-bags were again collected, this time filled with cold water, and placed around the recumbent patient. An ice-bag, surreptitiously filled from the pitcher in the dining-room, adorned her aching head, and a black bandage covered her watery eyes. The poor child’s thoughts, when she had any, were directed toward Eskimos and the Alps, and “such things as refrigerators, sherbet, and icebergs.” For the sake of atmosphere, her room-mate read “Snowbound” to her.

But all in vain. They did not stay in! By supper time unmistakable speckles were apparent behind two very red ears, as well as elsewhere. Priscilla’s cheeks were hot and flushed Her eyes were watery, and her head ached; but her spirit was undaunted.

“My dear, you don’t look well,” Miss Wallace said anxiously, as they left the dining-room, and went to dress. “Are you sure you’re well?”

“Oh, yes, Miss Wallace. I’m just hot because I’m excited. My cheeks always get red then What time does the machine come?”

“In an hour, I think. You’re sure you’re all right, Priscilla?”

“Oh, yes, thank you!” Priscilla spoke hastily, and hurried away before Miss Wallace should feel called upon to examine her too closely. “Come on, Virginia, and help me dress.”

Miss Wallace went to her room, a trifle anxious. Strange to say, she did not once think of German Measles. No more cases had appeared, to St. Helen’s relief; and apparently the epidemic had been confined to three unfortunates. Priscilla was probably, as she said, a little over-excited; and Miss Wallace had been in that state herself. There was doubtless not the least cause for alarm, and, reassured, she began to dress.

Meanwhile, behind a mysteriously locked door, the anxious Virginia was dressing her room-mate, who showed unmistakable evidences of further speckling, and whose determination alone kept her from crawling into bed, where she most assuredly belonged.

“Don’t you feel a single bit better, dear?”

“Oh, yes, I guess so—I don’t know. I feel sort of loose inside, as though I weren’t connected. But I’ll feel better driving over. Oh, Virginia, talcum powder my ears. They’re perfect danger signals. Is that a speckle on my neck? Oh, say it isn’t!”

“Of course, it isn’t! It’s only a wee pimple. I’ll talcum powder it, too. There! You look just lovely! Shan’t I let the others in now? They’re cross as hops, because we’ve both been so secret, and we don’t want to rouse suspicion.”

Priscilla assented, and Virginia unlocked the door to the house in general.

“Too bad you’re so exclusive!”

“Even if we’re not asked, we might see the fun of getting ready.”

“You look perfectly heavenly, Priscilla!”

“It’s a love of a dress!”

“Mercy, Priscilla, what makes your ears so red?”

“I’ll bet you’ve gotten them frost-bitten!”

“They certainly look it!”

“Your cheeks are red, too, but it’s becoming!”

“What makes your eyes shine so?”

Here the uneasy Virginia felt as though a reply were necessary.

“Why, because she’s happy, of course. You act just like Red Riding Hood talking to the wolf, Dorothy.”

Fortunately, just when inquiries were becoming too personal, Jean Blackmore entered, and claimed attention.

“Jean, you’re actually pretty!”

“You really are, Jean.”

“Thank you. I’m sure that’s nice of you.”

“That light green certainly is becoming. It makes you look like an apple-blossom.”

“You lucky things! Wish we were going! Here’s the machine now, and Miss Wallace is calling.”

They went down-stairs, the house following.

“Oh, Miss Wallace, take your coat off and let us see! Oh, please do!”

The obliging Miss Wallace complied. She really was charming in old blue, with half-blown, pale pink roses, Priscilla’s gift, at her waist.

“Oh, Miss Wallace, you look just like a girl!”

“You’re just beautiful, Miss Wallace!”

“No one will think you’re a chaperon.”

“They’ll all want to dance with you, Miss Wallace.”

“Oh, girls, you’ll quite spoil me,” said the chaperon, and looked more charming than ever. “Come, girls. Priscilla, do raise your coat collar. I’m afraid you’ve caught cold. Jean, I insist, put on that scarf. Take care of the house, girls. Miss Baxter’s out. But I know you will. Good-night.”

The car rolled away into the darkness, and the girls went up-stairs, talking things over as they went.

“Isn’t Miss Wallace the sweetest thing?”

“Something’s the matter with Priscilla. She wasn’t talking. What is it, Virginia?”

“Oh, she’s excited, and perhaps—perhaps, she doesn’t feel exactly well.” Virginia felt more free, now that Priscilla was safely on her way.

At the Gordon school all was excitement. Boys in white trousers waited impatiently at the gates, as the automobiles and carriages approached, to greet their friends and conduct them to the brilliantly lighted and beautifully decorated gymnasium. This annual dance on Washington’s Birthday was the one real social function, outside Commencement, allowed at Gordon, and its importance was greatly felt by the young hosts.

Priscilla, strangely shivery, tried to reply easily to Carver’s remarks, as they went up the walk toward the gymnasium.

“Isn’t it lucky you didn’t catch those things? I was dead scared you would when you wrote me.”

“Yes, it’s—it is lucky.”

“My! Your cheeks are red, Priscilla. Just the way they used to be after swimming. Say, but you’re looking great!”

“Am I?”

“Isn’t Bob Stuart a corker? He decorated the whole gym. Never saw flags look any better, did you?”

“No, it’s awfully pretty. I—I think I’ll sit down, Carver, till dancing begins.”

“Sure. Of course. I’ll run and get Bob. He has three with you. Excuse me just a moment.”

How Priscilla ever managed to dance the ten dances before intermission, she never knew. Her cheeks grew redder, her eyes brighter, her poor head spun as though never-ending wheels, eternally wound up, were to whirl around forever. Sometimes the lights of the gymnasium blurred, and something sang in her ears; but still she smiled and moved her feet. At the end of each dance when her charge was returned to her to await the arrival of her partner for the next, Miss Wallace grew more and more anxious.

“Priscilla dear, I’m sure you’re ill. What is it?”

“Really, Miss Wallace, I’ve just a headache. Oh, don’t make me stop, please!”

But at intermission—that blessed time when one could rest and close her eyes when nobody looked her way—at intermission while they sat in Carver’s study and ate ice-cream and cake, Priscilla all at once gave a little worn-out sigh, and fainted quite away. Poor Carver Standish III was all consternation. Had he tired her out? Hadn’t there been enough air in the room? Had he done anything he shouldn’t? He plied Miss Wallace with anxious questionings while a guest, who by good fortune happened to be a doctor, bent over Priscilla.

But Priscilla, coming to herself just then, answered his questions.

“No, you haven’t done a thing, Carver. It’s the German Measles. They wouldn’t stay frozen in!”

Then, to the greatly amused doctor, and to the greatly disturbed Miss Wallace, and the greatly relieved Carver, the patient told in a weak little voice of how they had tried two weeks ago to steam them out; and how, when they had unexpectedly come that morning, they had, with doubtful logic, striven to freeze them in. The doctor, though he looked grave, laughed as though he never could stop; and it all ended by his taking her and Miss Wallace home in his own machine, leaving Jean to be chaperoned by her aunt, and a sympathetic but indignant host, who thought they ought to let him go along.

Virginia, who had read too late, and who even at bed-time felt called upon to inscribe some thoughts in her book, was startled at eleven o’clock by hearing foot-steps in the hall. Her door was unceremoniously opened by a tall, gray-haired gentleman, who carried in his arms a limp figure in a pink dress—a figure, who cried in a muffled voice from somewhere within the scarfs that covered her:

“Oh, Virginia, ’twas no use. They came out all the same!”

“So this is the other member of the new medical school,” announced the gray-haired man, depositing his bundle on the bed. “Miss Virginia, I’m honored to meet you!”

The mystified and frightened Virginia was led away to Miss Wallace’s room, where she gleaned some hurried information before that lady returned to help the doctor, who assured them that Priscilla would be much improved and doubtless much more speckled in the morning. An hour later he drove away, leaving sweet Miss Bailey, St. Helen’s nurse, in charge.

But the contrite and troubled Virginia could not sleep until she had been permitted to say a short good-night to her room-mate.

“Oh, Priscilla,” she moaned. “I’m so sorry! I thought ’twas just the right thing to do.”

“It was,” said the patient from under the blankets, for a return to steaming had been prescribed. “It was, Virginia! Else I never could have gone, and I wouldn’t have missed the one half I had for the world. Only I’ve just thought of the awful result! I’ve probably given them to Carver and all the others; and he’ll never invite me again! Oh, why didn’t we think?”

Virginia, by this time weeping in sympathy, was again led away to Miss Wallace’s room, where she spent a restless night, thinking of the awful consequences to Colonel Standish’s grandson. But both she and Priscilla might have spared themselves unnecessary worry, for the solicitous Carver telephoned daily for a week, and sent some flowers and two boxes of candy. A few days after the telephone calls had ceased, the fully restored Priscilla received the following note:

“Gordon School, Mar. 1, 19—.

“Dear Priscilla:

“I’ve got them, and so has Bob, and the four other fellows you danced with. Don’t mind, because we’re all jolly well pleased. Old Morley, who is a good sort, let us out of the February exams and we’re some happy, I tell you. Besides, grandfather sent me all kinds of new fishing-tackle, and ten dollars. We all think you were no end of a game sport to come, and next year Bob and I are going to have you and Virginia, whom grandfather’s always cracking up to me.

“Your speckled friend,

“Carver Standish.”

CHAPTER XIV—WYOMING HOSPITALITY.

The March days came hurrying on—gray and wind-blown and showery—but rather merry for all that. All signs bore tokens of an early spring. A flock of geese had already gone over, crows were flapping across St. Helen’s snow-freed meadow, and robins and song-sparrows felt quite at home. There was a misty, indistinct blur in the tops of the maple trees, quite as though wet buds were swelling. Under the pine trees by the Retreat, tiny, furry heads were peeping above the needles, hepaticas just awakening. The waters of the brook, freed from ice, tore boisterously through the meadow; and along its weedy edges the water-rats, having left their tunnels in the banks, scurried on secret, silent errands. Everywhere there was a strange fragrance of freshly-washed things—soft brown earth, buds ready to burst, tender shoots of plants. Yes, spring was unmistakably near, and the St. Helen’s girls were ready for its coming.

It was on a Saturday afternoon, the last in March, that Virginia walked alone down the hill, through the pine woods, and across the road to the pastures and woodlands opposite. She would have loved company, but Priscilla, Lucile, and the Blackmore twins were playing tennis finals in the gym, the Seniors were enjoying an afternoon tea, Vivian was nowhere to be found, and, in the hope of persuading Dorothy to go with her, she had again interrupted a secret conference between Dorothy and Imogene, which conferences, to the watchful and troubled Vigilantes, were becoming more and more frequent. The whole campus seemed deserted, she thought, as she started from The Hermitage. Perhaps, the opening of the “Forget-me-not” soda fountain—another sign of spring—accounted for that.

It was wet underfoot and gray overhead, but she did not mind. She was bound for the pastures on the other side of the road leading to Hillcrest, for there Miss Wallace had said she might even this early find the mayflowers of which her mother had so often told her. As she went along, jumping over the little spring brooks and pools in the hollows, she thought of how spring was also coming to her own dear country. Her father’s letter that morning had told her of budding quaking-asps, of red catkins on the cottonwoods, of green foot-hills, and of tiny yellow butter-cups and the little lavender pasque-flowers, which came first of all the spring blossoms. In a few weeks more those foot-hills would be gay with violets and spring beauties, anemones and shooting-stars.

She crawled between the gray, moss-covered bars of a fence which separated the two pastures, and went toward some deeper woodland where pines and firs grew. Here, Miss Wallace said, she would be likely to find them. She looked sharply for brown, clustered leaves, which always deceived one as to the wealth beneath them. At last on a little mossy knoll, in a clearing among the pines, she found what she sought. Kneeling eagerly on the damp ground, she searched with careful fingers through the brown leaves. Green leaves revealed themselves. She smelled the sweetest fragrance imaginable—the fragrance of flowers and brown earth and fresh leaves all in one. She looked beneath the green leaves; and there, with their pale pink faces almost buried in the moss, she found the first mayflowers of the spring.

Tenderly she raised the tendrils from the moss and grass, and examined the tiny blossoms, in whose centers the hoar frost of winter seemed to linger. These then were the flowers her New England mother had so loved. Years before, perhaps in this very spot, her mother had come to search for them. She almost hated to pluck them—they looked so cozy lying there against the brown earth, but she wanted to send them to her grandmother for her mother’s birthday. On other knolls and around the gray pasture rocks, even at the foot of the fir trees, she found more buds and a few opened blossoms. Her mother had long ago taught her Whittier’s “Song to the Mayflowers,” and she said some of the verses which she still remembered, as she sat beneath the trees, and pulled away the dead leaves from the flowers’ trailing stems.