As they were leaving the dining room a little later, Grace felt a plump hand catch one of hers. She turned to find Elfreda's gaze bent earnestly upon her. There was a significant question in the other girl's eyes. Grace pressed the hand and said in a whisper: "I understood, Elfreda. Thank you for showing me the way."



CHAPTER XVII

WHAT THE SENIORS THOUGHT OF THE PLAN

"I can't forgive myself for being so disagreeable," was Arline Thayer's regretful cry. Grace had met Arline half an hour earlier than the time appointed for the senior class meeting the following afternoon and the two girls had hurried to the room in Overton Hall, where the meeting was to be held, for the express purpose of having a confidential chat before the others should arrive.

"Don't think of it again, Daffydowndilly." Grace regarded Arline with affectionate eyes. She was glad almost to the point of tears that the cloud between her and the dainty little girl had been lifted.

"Oh, but I must think of it this once, Grace," persisted Arline. "I haven't told you yet how truly sorry I am for behaving so badly toward you. But I was so angry with you for troubling yourself about that horrid Kathleen West. But first let me ask: Did you see that New York newspaper story? Father sent me a copy of the paper. I showed it to Ruth, but didn't tell any one else. It is known here, though."

"Yes, I knew of it the day after it was published," answered Grace soberly. "Mabel sent me a marked copy. I am sorry my name was used. It was a surprise to me."

Arline's eyebrows lifted. "A surprise!" she exclaimed with fine sarcasm. "I think I can understand just how pleased you felt over that surprise. I am not going to allow a certain person to come between our friendship again, but I can't help saying that if ever you speak to her again, you will be doing yourself a great injustice."

"Would it surprise you to hear me say that I am inclined to endorse what you have just said?" questioned Grace. "What I tried to do for her was done largely to please Mabel Ashe. Mabel has released me from my promise. I seldom take violent dislikes to persons I meet, but, to tell the plain truth, I have never liked Miss West, although I have admired her ability and perseverance. In fact, I have never met any one I disliked so much," confessed Grace. "I don't know what has come over me, but I simply can't endure the thought of her, let alone forgiving her."

"I don't blame you. I hope you will continue to take that stand. You won't, though. If you knew, to-morrow, of something that would be to her advantage to know, you wouldn't hesitate to tell her."

Grace looked rather confused. Arline's chance shot had gone home. She had not forgiven Kathleen, yet only yesterday she had paved the way for her to possible honor. "What did you do here on Thanksgiving?" she asked abruptly. "Why didn't you go to New York?"

Arline laughed. "I am perfectly willing to change the subject and answer both your questions. Father was in Chicago, so we thought we'd stay here and see what we could do for some of the girls whose good times are limited. We did all sorts of little stunts. Thanksgiving night we gave a party at Morton House and invited every one we could think of, and the next night Ruth and I took our checks, we each received an extra one for Thanksgiving, and gave a moving picture party. We made the man who owns the place reserve the seats, and we saw 'The Merchant of Venice.' It was beautifully done, and every one who saw it was delighted. Then we invited several girls to Morton House for Thanksgiving dinner, too."

"I wanted to ask you and Ruth to go to New York with us, but——"

"Don't say a word," interrupted Arline, with a penitent little gesture. "It was my fault. I claim the privilege of changing the subject, too. What is the object of this class meeting?"

Grace was about to explain, when a murmur of voices in the hall announced that the seniors had begun to gather for the meeting. Within ten minutes every seat in the room was occupied, and Arline Thayer, now president of the senior class, called the meeting to order. "As there is no particular business to be transacted," announced Arline, "what is the pleasure of the class? Will the person or persons responsible for the notice on the bulletin board please rise and enlighten the class as to why we are here?"

"Madam President," Emma Dean rose from her seat and addressed the chair, "I wrote the notice. It was the outcome of a session in which a number of the seniors had been discussing ways and means of making 19— famous in the annals of Overton." Emma proceeded in her clever, humorous fashion to lay before the class the project of a play to be written by a member of one of the four classes and produced and enacted by the seniors. "If we allow any girl in college who wishes to compete for the honor pin we shall have a greater variety of plays from which to choose. It will also be a good opportunity to discover any lights that might otherwise be so securely hidden under bushels of modesty that no one would ever see them.

"The rules for the contestants will be very simple. The play must be original. It must consist of not less than three acts, and all manuscripts must be in the hands of the committee appointed by the president of the senior class on the Tuesday before the Easter vacation. The play may be comedy, drama, or tragedy, but it must be representative. The duties of the committee will be to receive the plays. As soon as they have been submitted they are to be turned over to three members of the Overton faculty, provided they are willing to act in the capacity of critics. I should now like an opinion from the class."

Emma sat down amid an energetic clapping of hands. To a member, the class was in favor of the proposed contest. One after another the members rose to voice their approval, and when the president called for a rising vote every member was instantly on her feet.

"You understand that we shall require permission from the president of the college before we can officially announce the contest," Arline reminded the class. "I will appoint Miss Dean, Miss Harlowe and Miss Wade to call upon the president and obtain his permission. Then the play committee will see to the advertising of the contest."

Before the meeting closed, Anne Pierson, Miriam Nesbit, Ruth Denton and Elfreda Briggs were appointed to serve on the play committee and the date of the production of the play was set for the Friday of the fifth week after the Easter vacation. It was also decided that Lecture Hall, which boasted of a stage and several sets of scenery, and would hold a goodly audience, should be used for the occasion.

Within the next three days Miss Duncan and Dr. Hepburn, instructors, respectively, in English and Latin, and Dr. Darrow, professor of Oratory and Dramatic Expression, had been interviewed and had consented to act as judges. The moment these preliminaries had been attended to, Gertrude Wells had begun an elaborate poster to hang above the bulletin board in Overton Hall announcing the contest. At the bottom of the poster was fastened a card on which the rules had been painstakingly lettered in black and red. By the end of the week there was scarcely a girl in Overton who had not stopped before the gayly colored poster to read the news that was being discussed long and earnestly throughout the college.

Those who had acquired a certain amount of reputation in the matter of themes boldly announced their intention of competing for the honor pin, while there were others whose themes had never been praised, whose ambition to show the judges what they really could do urged them on to enter the lists.

Neither Grace, Miriam nor Anne intended to try for the prize. Ruth Denton had confided to Arline that she had an idea for a play which she meant to work out, and Emma Dean boldly proclaimed herself to be deep in the throes of a comedy called "Life at Wayne Hall; or, the Expressman's Surprise." Elfreda, too, had apparently been inspired, and for a week went about chuckling to herself and making mysterious notes in a little black note book she now carried constantly.

Grace could not help wondering now and then if Kathleen West would enter the contest. Since the newspaper girl's return from New York she had kept strictly to herself. She spoke to Patience only when absolutely necessary and took not the slightest notice of Miriam, Anne or Elfreda. Patience confided to Grace that Kathleen studied harder than ever, and wrote for at least two hours every night, never forgetting to place her papers carefully in her desk and to lock it securely before going out or to bed. "I believe she is writing a play, but I don't know positively and I wouldn't dream of asking her," had been Patience's comment.

As the long intervening days that lay between the students of Overton and "going home for Christmas" dragged by, Grace found herself more impatient to see her father and mother than ever before. "It is on account of that old newspaper trouble," she assured herself. "Father and Mother were so dear and forgiving over it that I can't wait to see them." All her thoughts were now centered on going home.

"I never wanted to see Father and Mother so much in all my life as I do this Christmas. Next week seems ages off. I am sure it is seven years instead of seven days until vacation begins." She confided to Anne one evening, as she sat on the floor beside her open trunk: "I'm going to begin packing to-night and do a little each day. It will give me a certain amount of satisfaction and make the time pass more quickly. I wonder why Mother doesn't write? She hasn't sent me my check to go home with yet. I can't go home until it comes, for I have spent every cent of my allowance and my extra check, too, for Christmas presents."

"Don't worry over it," advised Anne. "Your father and mother are the most infallible persons I know. You won't be left stranded in Overton and have to walk ties to Oakdale."

"If I do, I shall take you with me. As a trouper you ought to be proficient in that exercise," laughed Grace.

"As a successful exponent of the dramatic art," began Anne pompously, "I——"

"Miss Pierson! Miss Pierson!" Mrs. Elwood's voice was heard in the hall at the foot of the stairs.

Anne sprang to the door. "Here I am, Mrs. Elwood," she called, stepping down the hall to the head of the stairs.

"Here's a telegram for you. Will you please come downstairs and sign for it?"

Anne hurried down the stairs, her heart beating violently. She signed the messenger boy's book, shoved the pencil into his hand and ran back to Grace as fast as her feet would carry her.

"It's a telegram, Grace. It's for me. I'm afraid to open it," she cried, dashing into the room. "Open it. I dare not. Oh, if anything has happened to Mother or Mary!"

Grace took the envelope Anne held out to her. Her own hands were trembling with apprehension, yet she managed to tear open the envelope and draw out the fateful message. There was the crackling sound of unfolding paper, then Grace cried out in joyful tones: "Anne, you never can guess! It is too good to be true!"

Anne sprang to her feet, and darting to where Grace stood, the open telegram in her hands, peered over her shoulder. A moment later she and Grace joined hands and performed a joyful dance about the room.

"What on earth is the cause of all this jubilation?" queried Miriam's voice from the doorway. "I knocked, but no one paid any attention to me. It sounded from the outside as though you might be engaged in deadly conflict, so I decided to interfere."

The dance ceased and Grace thrust the telegram, which she still held, into Miram's hands. "Read it," she commanded.

"Will arrive in Overton 5:30. Meet me. With love. Rose Gray."

And, reinforced by Miriam, the dance was begun again with renewed vigor.



CHAPTER XVIII

THE FAIRY GODMOTHER'S VISIT

Three excited young women burst in upon Elfreda, who, seated on the floor before her trunk, hastily deposited a large flat package in the tray and slammed down the lid. "Why didn't you knock!" she grumbled, looking mild displeasure at the intruders. "If you had come five minutes sooner you would have seen your Christmas presents, and I couldn't have stopped you. I'm going to have a 'Busy, Keep Out' sign made to hang on the door until Christmas."

"Don't be cross, J. Elfreda Briggs," laughed Grace. "We have something nice to show you." She handed the telegram to Elfreda with: "We want you to go to the station with us this afternoon. The train is due at five-thirty."

Elfreda's round face flushed at this mark of thoughtfulness on the part of the girls she adored, and agreed almost shyly to make one of the party. She had never become quite used to the knowledge that these three young women had long since accepted her as one of their number. Consequently an invitation to participate in their personal good times or to share their intimate friends was always a matter of wonder to her.

The train was reported to be on time, but the quartette of happy-faced young women who waited impatiently for its arrival from the north that afternoon were agreed that it must be late. It was Anne who, when it rushed into the station, first espied the familiar figure of the snowy-haired old lady who had brought so much sunshine into her life, and her quick eyes also discovered the identity of the tall, broad-shouldered young man who was helping her down the car steps. "Oh, Tom Gray is with her!" she exclaimed in delight.

"How nice!" cried Grace, with frank, unembarrassed pleasure. "I never thought that he would come with Mrs. Gray."

Her three friends exchanged significant glances. It was quite evident that Grace Harlowe's regard for Tom held nothing of the sentimental.

"Here they are! Here are my dear Christmas children!" Mrs. Gray looked no older than when she had welcomed them to her house party eight Christmases before. She spoke in the same sprightly manner, and smiled in the same kindly, gentle fashion that had warmed the heart of Anne Pierson when, poor and unknown, she had placed her hand in Mrs. Gray's at that first eventful freshman tea which was the beginning of happiness for her. Anne's brown eyes filled with tears as she embraced her "fairy godmother" and heard her murmur, "My own dear Anne."

"Please give Aunt Rose a chance to catch her breath and turn your attention upon me," was Tom's plaintive plea.

"We are terribly, horribly, dreadfully glad to see you!" laughed Grace, shaking Tom's hand in her boyish, energetic fashion.

"'Terribly, horribly, dreadfully!'" repeated Tom. "Did you say this was your last year in college?"

"Don't be sarcastic," reproved Miriam. "Circumstances alter English. Grace was only trying to convey to you our deep appreciation of your arrival."

Tom glanced almost wistfully at Grace, who had turned from him and was devoting her whole attention to Mrs. Gray. "I hope you girls are as glad to see me as I am to see you," he said, his eyes still upon Grace.

"Of course we are. How did you happen to think of coming to Overton? Are you going to stay until next Wednesday? If you do, then we can all journey to Oakdale together."

"Ask Aunt Rose. I am her faithful bodyguard. I know she intends to stay until to-morrow at least. I hope you can persuade her to remain at Overton until you go home. I am a working man now, you know, and Washington is a long way from here." Tom's ambition to make forestry his life work had been in a measure realized, and with his graduation from college had come the offer of a position in the Department of Forestry at Washington.

"Yes, children, dear, I will remain in Overton until your vacation begins if the town boasts of a comfortable hotel where I can not only demand, but receive, good service."

"The 'Tourraine' is the very hotel for you, Mrs. Gray," said Grace. "We stayed there for a day or two when we first came to Overton. The service is excellent."

"Then see to my luggage, Tom, and find me a cab or an automobile. The sooner I am settled the sooner I can hear what my girls have been doing. I have heard very nice things of you, my dear," she said to Elfreda, who, having shaken hands with Mrs. Gray, stood at the outer edge of the little group, looking on with shining eyes.

"She looks like a piece of Dresden china," was Elfreda's remarkable statement to Miriam as the little company, headed by Grace and Tom, made its way to the other side of the station in search of an automobile.

"You funny girl," Miriam laughed softly, "what an idea!"

"But she does," persisted Elfreda in a low tone. "She's white and pink and fine and—and—fragile. She's dainty and exquisite, and there's a kind of rare china look about her that——"

"I am going to tell her you said she looked like a piece of Dresden china," interposed Miriam. "Mrs. Gray——"

"If you do, Miriam Nesbit, you'll be sorry," warned Elfreda, clutching Miriam's arm.

"What is it, my dear?" answered the old lady. They had come to a halt at the end of the platform and were waiting for Tom to secure a car.

Elfreda surveyed Miriam with a threatening glare.

"Elfreda says that you"—she darted a mischievous glance at her friend—"look just as she imagined you would."

Elfreda's expression was a mixture of surprise and relief.

"Then you are not disappointed in me," smiled the old lady.

"I should say not!" was the quick response. "I only hope you will adopt me some day as one of your children."

"That is very sweet in you, my child," declared Mrs. Gray. "I hereby adopt you on the spot. Ah, here is our car. I think we are more than ready for it."

"Now that you've been adopted," muttered Miriam in Elfreda's ear, "I won't betray you."

"Thank you for nothing," flung back Elfreda.

"Tell the chauffeur to drive past Overton College," Grace had requested Tom, and Mrs. Gray had exclaimed in admiration of stately Overton Hall, standing like a sentinel in the midst of the wide campus. The chapel, the library, Greek Hall, Science Hall, in fact, each one of the smaller, but equally ornamental, buildings were duly pointed out and commented upon.

Mrs. Gray insisted that they should be her guests at dinner at the "Tourraine," and after dinner they repaired to the cozy sitting room in her suite of rooms for a long, confidential chat, which lasted until after ten o'clock.

"Hurry, girls," urged Grace, as they set out for Wayne Hall, after repeated promises to call the next morning and prolonged good nights, "we may be locked out. That has never happened to me since I came to college."

"That is better than being locked in," reminded Elfreda grimly.

"You mean the night of the ghost party, don't you?" asked Miriam, referring to an incident that had occurred in Elfreda's freshman year.

"I do, indeed, mean the ghost party," retorted Elfreda with grim emphasis. "I still have a remarkably clear recollection of it."

"What a lot of things have happened since then," said Anne, half musingly.

"Only a little while and our college life will be over," sighed Miriam.

"And our real life begun," was Grace's hopeful reminder. "After all, college is just a preparation for the time when we must stand upon our own ground and assume the complete responsibility of our own lives."

"You girls give me the blues," grumbled Elfreda. "I don't want to think about my 'real life' or any other solemn old subject. There's a time to reflect, but this isn't the time. I'd rather save all my harrowing reflections until just before commencement. Then we might give a misery party and invite our friends to glower and gloom with us."

"That's a good idea!" exclaimed Grace. "We could all be miserable together."

"If we all met together for the express purpose of being miserable, you can make up your mind that the party itself would defeat its object," laughed Anne.

"But just at present we had better be gay and gleeful. We must plan something for Mrs. Gray's entertainment," suggested Miriam. "It is our lawful senior duty to see that she enjoys her visit to Overton."

"She wishes to meet Dr. Morton and Miss Wilder and Miss Duncan, too," said Anne. "She mentioned it twice this evening. We must give a dinner in honor of her at Vinton's, and a luncheon at Martell's. Then we ought to drive out to Guest House for supper. Of course, we must give one spread in either our room or Miriam's and do stunts."

"Why not give the Wonderland Circus just for her?" proposed Elfreda. "Miss Wilder will let us have the gymnasium for the evening, and by making it strictly a senior class affair there will be no hurt feelings on the part of the other classes. Nearly all the performers are seniors, too. We can serve refreshments, have a dance afterward, and Mrs. Gray will have a splendid opportunity to see 19— together. How is that for a stunt?"

Elfreda's plan was received with acclamation, and by the time they reached Wayne Hall each girl had been assigned her part in the week's programme.

"We mustn't forget our Christmas girls," reminded Anne, as they lingered for a brief moment in the upstairs hall.

"I am glad you mentioned them," replied Grace. "I must see Arline to-morrow."

The first week of December had dragged, but the next two weeks raced by on winged feet, and the two days before college closed for the holidays were crowded to the brim with last duties and pleasures. Mrs. Gray won the united regard of the Semper Fidelis Club, who immediately enlisted themselves in her service. The genial, light-hearted old lady entered into the life of the college with an enthusiasm that caused her at once to be declared an honorary member of Semper Fidelis. She was the guest of honor at luncheons and dinners, at which she was toasted and sung to with a fervor that left no doubt in her mind as to her standing with Grace's classmates.

The Wonderland Circus had been saved as the crowning event of her visit, and invitations had been sent to Mr. Thomas Redfield, the benefactor of Semper Fidelis Club, Dr. Morton, Miss Wilder and the various members of the faculty to be present at the Circus. Never had the immortal animals been in better form. Round after round of applause greeted the conclusion of their famous Wonderland song. The demonstration continued until Alice stepped forward and made a funny little speech, in which she introduced the animals, who skipped, waddled or shuffled forward according to each one's conception of what its own peculiar gait should be.

Emma Dean, who had not taken part in the Circus, appeared in her ridiculous Sphinx costume, and, after a monologue that elicited constant laughter, added to her ability as a fun maker by the weirdly funny dance that she had intended to give at the bazaar, and which she was obliged to repeat before her audience was satisfied.

A reception followed, and delicious buffet refreshments were served by the seniors in one corner of the big gymnasium, which had been roped off with the senior colors and made as attractive as senior hands could make it. Mrs. Gray was in her element and held court like a veritable queen. Before the evening was over the senior class, to a member, had vowed eternal allegiance to her. Dr. Morton, Miss Wilder and Mr. Redfield, too, apparently succumbed to her spell, for toward the close of the evening they formed an interesting group about her, and, at the end of a lengthy confab, shook her hand with an earnestness which seemed almost to indicate a promise of loyalty. To Grace, Anne and Miriam Mrs. Gray's long conversation with the faculty was merely a further proof of her ability to make friends, but the watchful Elfreda regarded the matter from a different viewpoint.

"I wonder what Mrs. Gray was talking about to Professor Morton, Miss Wilder and our fairy godfather?" she remarked in a speculative tone to Miriam as they prepared for sleep late that night. "Fairy godfather is a good name for Mr. Redfield, isn't it?" she laughed.

"Certainly it is," returned Miriam. "I always bestow appropriate names upon people. Isn't he the fairy godfather of Semper Fidelis and didn't I give him that name after he sent us the first check?"

"He is," admitted Elfreda, "and you did."

"What is on your mind now?" asked Miriam. "What do you find so mysterious in the fact that Mrs. Gray held discourse with the powers that be?"

"You can make fun of me if you like," said Elfreda, smiling a little, "but I know what I saw with my own eyes. There is a conspiracy on foot among those persons. It's a delightful conspiracy, of course, but mark my words, they are planning something, and some day when the whole thing comes to light you'll say, 'You were right, J. Elfreda,' see if you won't."

"I will say it now if you wish me to," laughed Miriam, "merely to show you that I have faith in your marvelous powers of observation."

"Thank you," returned Elfreda. "There is nothing like being appreciated. But under the circumstances I am afraid I can't pursue my usual methods of investigation. If Mrs. Gray is planning something delightful, you may be sure it is for her Christmas children, and J. Elfreda Briggs will not be the one to pry into the surprise."



CHAPTER XIX

WHAT PATIENCE OVERHEARD

"Oh, Overton, our voices clear Ring out in reverent praise to-day, To thee, our Mother, loved and dear Who guides us on our college way,"

sang Grace softly as she walked about her room putting away the various articles of wearing apparel she had taken from her trunk. The Christmas vacation had come and gone like a glad, happy dream, and with a hundred pleasant memories of home to sweeten the days that lay between her and Easter, Grace cheerfully unpacked her belongings, humming as she worked the song of Overton that she loved best.

A light knock on the door, accompanied by, "May I come in?" hushed the song on Grace's lips. "I should say so," she called, recognizing Patience Eliot's voice. "Enter and give an account of yourself. I've hardly seen you since I came back."

"I have had more or less unpacking to do, too," said Patience, with a comprehensive glance about the room. "Also deep in my soul lurks the fear of the fateful midyear with its burden of exams. I am conducting a general review every night for the benefit of Patience Eliot, but it is rather up-hill work. I envy you high and mighty seniors, whose days and nights of anxiety are past."

"I don't believe you are half as much worried as you pretend. Patience Eliot is far too valiant to be downed by a mere examination."

"It is all very well to talk," grumbled Patience, "but you know just how footless mere talk is. I'm not at all sure that I shall not flunk."

"You won't, so don't try to make me believe you will," assured Grace, "and you are going to forget your books and have dinner with me at Vinton's to-morrow night, too."

"Am I?" asked Patience. "Let me see. Oh, yes, I am. It is on Wednesday evening that the great event takes place."

"What great event?" asked Grace with unthinking curiosity. "I beg your pardon, Patience, I didn't mean to——"

Patience dismissed Grace's attempt to apologize with a wave of her hand. "Oh, that is all right. It is what I came here to tell you. You may believe it or not, but Kathleen West has actually invited me to go to that illustrated lecture on 'Mexico' at the Overton theatre on Wednesday evening."

"And you are going?" Grace could not keep a slight constraint from her tone. Her resentment against the newspaper girl still lived. Despite the long, intimate talk she had with her father, she could not quite forget that Kathleen had been partly responsible for the unhappy hours she had spent before going home to Oakdale.

"Yes," Patience replied. There was a note of finality in her voice. "I believe it is best, Grace. In fact, I am sure it is."

Grace stood staring moodily at Patience. A struggle against her own personal feelings was going on within her. Suddenly her face cleared, and with a little, rueful smile she held out her hand to the other girl. "I'm truly glad you are going with her, Patience. I thought I wasn't, but I am. I can't imagine why I don't outgrow my resentment against that girl. I don't understand myself lately."

"I knew you would agree with me." Patience still held Grace's hand in hers. "Now that the ice has been broken—you know you asked us not to mention Kathleen to you—I can say something I've wanted to tell you for a week. There has been a slight change for the better in Kathleen since Christmas. I don't know what has brought it about, but she is less hard and bitter than she used to be. She is terribly blue, though, and the other day I came into the room and found her crying. Just imagine Kathleen West in tears if you can. She wiped them away post haste and I pretended I hadn't noticed that she was crying. One can't sympathize with her, you know. She wouldn't like it. She prides herself on her stoicism."

"I wonder what happened," mused Grace.

"She has been writing every evening on her play," continued Patience, "until last night. I was hard at work on my Horace, when suddenly she said, 'Oh, what's the use?' and began tearing up everything she'd written. 'I could see,' to quote Elfreda, that she was in one of her black moods, so I never said a word. I think her conscience is troubling her. Perhaps one of these days she will find herself and surprise all of us."

"I hope so," said Grace without enthusiasm. "By the way, I meant to tell you of Arline's and my plan. We are going to propose that the Semper Fidelis girls give a 'Famous Fiction' masquerade and invite the college. We won't try to make any money this time. Later on we will give a concert. This dance will be just a college frolic, but it will be fun to dress up and mask. There will be plenty of girls who won't attend the affair, but there will be a great many who will come. The gymnasium is large enough to accommodate a crowd. We'll have dancing, of course, and Semper Fidelis is going to pay for the orchestra out of their own pockets. There won't be any real refreshments, just lemonade and fancy crackers. The real fun will lie in the costumes. Every one who attends must be dressed to carry out the title of some work of fiction, either standard or 'best sellers.'"

"What a jolly idea," smiled Patience. "I know already what I shall choose."

"Good!" exclaimed Grace. "Put on your wraps and go with me to Arline's. I feel as though I must discuss it with her to-night."

Within the next five minutes Grace and Patience were crossing the campus to Morton House.

"I was just getting ready to go to Wayne Hall," declared Arline, as they marched into her room in obedience to her rather impatient "Come in."

"And didn't care to be bothered with visitors," added Patience.

"I thought it was a freshman on the next floor who demands admittance at regular hour intervals. She has the 'crush' habit to distraction. She's a nice girl," added Arline, generously, "even though she bores me frightfully at times, and I wouldn't for anything hurt her feelings. I am glad you came. I was just thinking of making you a call. I want to talk over our Famous Fiction dance."

"Why, that is what brought us here!" cried Grace. "We decided that there was no time like the present for talking it over."

"Then, being of the same mind, we shall no doubt accomplish wonders," laughed Arline. "When shall we give it?"

"The sooner, the better," advised Patience. "That is, if you expect the freshmen and sophomores to turn out to it. Midyear examinations are only three weeks off, and by the last of next week every one will be so desperately devoted to reviewing back lessons that the idea of a masquerade won't create an iota of enthusiasm."

"Patience is as level-headed as ever," agreed Grace. "Why not have the masquerade next Monday evening? That will give us a week to decide on our costumes and order our masks. Suppose we ask that poor old woman who keeps the little shop just beyond the campus to order our masks? I'll post a notice on the bulletin board as soon as we have secured Miss Wilder's permission to give the masquerade to the effect that masks can be bought at her shop. She is safe in ordering three hundred at least, and it will mean a small profit to her."

"Grace is always thinking of helping the needy and the downtrodden," declared Arline. "You are a really truly philanthropist, Grace, and you ought to be a fixture at Overton."

"Please don't, Arline," protested Grace, frowning a little. "I'm not a bit more interested in helping others than are you or Patience. I was just thinking to-day that I had really been selfish. It doesn't seem fair that I should have had such good times when so many girls here have nothing but hard work and worry over money matters."

"Who organized Semper Fidelis and who was the first person to think of our Christmas girls?" demanded Arline.

"You are the president of the Sempers and you collected almost all the presents for our first Santa Claus venture," evaded Grace.

"Let each be wise and wear the prize, Let each divide the crown, The deeds of Harlowe and of Thayer, Are equal in renown. Stop arguing and get to work, For that is why we're here, Don't waste your time in idle words, The dinner hour is near,"

improvised Patience.

Both girls looked their surprise at this outburst.

"Thank you for your poetic counsel, Patience," said Grace. "Suppose we write down the things to be done in connection with giving the dance."

"Here you are." Arline opened her desk and motioned Grace to the chair before it. "We'll suggest, and you can write."

By the time the girls had finished their plans for the masquerade it was half-past six. "Stay here for dinner," invited Arline.

Grace shook her head. "Thank you, but I have studying to do and letters to write to-night. If I stay here for dinner, I'll reach Wayne Hall at twenty-nine minutes after ten. I know my failings."

"Same here," said Patience. "I am not to be trusted, either. Thank you for the invitation; it is a great temptation. Let us go, Grace, before we succumb to the artful blandishments of this blonde young person and stay in spite of ourselves."

"Come over to-morrow night, Arline," called Grace as they went down the steps of Morton House. Arline had accompanied them to the door. "Bring Ruth with you. Tell her I am sorry I didn't see her to-night."

"I'll see you later, Patience," said Grace as they separated at the head of the stairs. Patience walked slowly down the hall to her room. The door stood slightly ajar and the room was in darkness, but the sound of a familiar voice caused Patience to halt abruptly.

"I could see," said the voice of Elfreda Briggs, "that something worried you. I know just how sorry you feel, because I went through the same thing myself. But if you could make up your mind to go to her and tell her that——"

"Oh, I couldn't do that." It was Kathleen's voice that interrupted the speaker. "I am sure she must hate me. I never believed that I should care, but I do. If only I could do something to show her that at last I understand what college spirit means."

"Do you really mean that?" There was a note of excitement in Elfreda's voice. "Because, if you do, I have the most splendid idea, and the beauty of it is that you are the only one who can carry it out. Will you——"

But Patience, realizing with a start that she was eavesdropping, waited to hear no more.

Turning about she stepped noiselessly along the hall and down the stairs. Entering the living room she found Emma Dean entertaining three girls who were laughing immoderately.

"Hello, Patience!" called Emma. "Come in and listen to my tale of woe. Where was I? Oh, yes, the minute I stepped off the car I realized that I had left my silk umbrella in it. The car started about five seconds before I did. It was a beautiful race. I passed a fat policeman on the corner, and waved my hand reassuringly at him merely to show that I was not fleeing from Justice. Talk about fast running! I actually surprised myself. I caught up with the car just as it was turning that curve on High Street, and floundered into it, puffing like a steam engine. I made one dash past the conductor, reached the seat where my cherished umbrella still reposed and captured it. The conductor must have thought me hopelessly demented, for I dashed out as the car stopped at the next corner without having paid a cent of carfare or offered a sign of an explanation.

"When I passed the corner where the fat policeman stood, he looked at me with respectful admiration, and said: 'You got that car, lady, didn't you?' and I proudly acknowledged that I did. I was only sorry that there weren't more persons about to appreciate Emma Dean's Two Block Dash."

Patience joined in the laughter that had accompanied Emma's narrative. "How are you getting on with your play, Emma?" she asked.

"I still have the title," returned Emma blandly, "but I can't decide upon my characters. There are so many shining lights at Wayne Hall. You know my play is entitled "Life at Wayne Hall; Or, the Expressman's Surprise." The only character I've actually decided upon is the expressman. I am obliged to have him because he is in the sub-title. I decided long ago on my opening speech, however. The expressman opens the play by saying, 'I can't wait all day, lady.' Isn't that realistic? So true to life!"

"In the face of such an offering, Emma, I am satisfied that it would be sheer folly for any of us to enter the lists," assured Patience.

"Of course, I don't wish to discourage any of you," deprecated Emma with the droll little smile for which she was noted. "But to give Emma Dean and her wonderful ability as a playwright a rest, what is new?"

"We are talking of giving a masquerade," volunteered Patience.

"Who is included in 'we'?" asked Laura Atkins.

"Grace, Arline and I were talking it over to-day. We thought of giving a Famous Fiction masquerade."

"What is a Famous Fiction masquerade?" asked Emma curiously.

Whereupon Patience entered into an explanation of the proposed gayety while the girls listened with willing ears. While they were discussing it, Elfreda Briggs appeared in the doorway and Patience knew that she could now return to her room without running the risk of interrupting a heart-to-heart talk. But she smiled to herself as she thought that while she had been casting about for some way to help Kathleen, Elfreda had found it.



CHAPTER XX

THE MYSTERIOUS "PETER RABBIT"

The gymnasium had, perhaps, never held a more motley crowd of revelers than on the night of the Famous Fiction masquerade. The faculty, who had been particularly interested in the idea of the masquerade, declared that for originality it was in line with 19—'s usual efforts. They occupied seats in the gallery and amused themselves with trying to guess the identity of the various maskers and the books or famous book characters which they represented.

It had been decided that as so many of the famous book titles did not lend themselves to impersonation, famous characters in fiction might also be impersonated. Therefore, when the longed-for night came round, heroes and heroines, with whose adventures and doings the book-lover's world is familiar, walked about, arm in arm, collected in little groups, or danced gayly together to the music of the eight-piece Overton orchestra, whose members appeared to appreciate the humor of the occasion as keenly as did the faculty.

It was an inspiring sight to watch "Hamlet" parading calmly about the gymnasium with "Beverly of Graustark," or to watch "Mrs. Wiggs of the Cabbage Patch" waltz merrily off with "Rip Van Winkle." Every one immediately recognized "The Bow of Orange Ribbon" and "Robinson Crusoe." Meek little Oliver Twist, with his big porridge bowl decorated by a wide white band bearing the legend, "I want some more," was also easy to guess. So were "Evangeline," "Carmen," "The Little Lame Prince," "Ivanhoe," "Janice Meredith," and scores of other book ladies and gentlemen.

There were a few masqueraders, however, whose fictitious identity was shrouded in mystery. No one could fathom the significance of a certain tall figure, dressed in rags, who stopped short in her tracks at frequent intervals, and, producing a needle and thread, sewed industriously at her tattered garments. A black-robed sister of charity, accompanied by a strange figure who wore a shapeless garment painted in dull gray squares to represent stone, and wearing a narrow leather belt about its waist from which was suspended on either side two small andirons, were also sources of speculative curiosity. So was a young woman in white with a towering headdress composed of a combination of the Stars and Stripes and the flag of France. And no one had the remotest idea concerning the eight white figures who marched four abreast and would not condescend to break ranks even to dance.

"Sherlock Holmes" was there with his violin tucked under one arm and a volume of his memoirs under the other. He evinced a strong preference for the society of "Joan of Arc," while "Sarah Crewe," "Little Lord Fauntleroy," and "Rebecca of Sunnybrook" traveled about together, a seemingly contented trio. "The Three Musketeers" were gorgeous to behold in their square-cut costumes, high boots and wide feathered hats, but the sensation of the evening was "Peter Rabbit," who came to the dance attired in his little blue, brass-buttoned jacket, brown khaki pantaloons and what seemed to be the identical shoes he lost in Mr. McGregor's garden. His mask was a cunning rabbit's head that was drawn down and fastened at the neck by a funny soft tie. Who "Peter Rabbit" was and where he had managed to lay hands on his costume was a matter for discussion that night.

The suspense of not knowing who was who ended with the unmasking after the eighth dance, and amid exclamations and little shrieks of laughter the masqueraders stood face to face.

"Elfreda Briggs! I might have known you would," laughed Arline Thayer, shaking hands with "Sherlock Holmes," while Miriam Nesbit thankfully lifted "Joan of Arc's" helmet and took off her mask.

"You're a perfectly darling 'Fauntleroy,'" admired Elfreda. "I suppose Ruth was 'Sara Crewe.'"

"Yes," returned Arline Thayer. "Here come those eight white figures!" she exclaimed. "Why, it is Miss Barlowe and her crowd. I don't know yet what they were representing."

"The 'White Company,' of course," declared Elfreda. "There would be no satisfaction in being 'Sherlock Holmes' if I couldn't solve all these puzzles."

"Then live up to your reputation and tell me what famous work of fiction this approaching rag-bag represents," laughed Miriam.

"My powers of deduction were strong enough to pierce the identity of that bundle of rags," grinned Elfreda. "I knew Emma Dean by her walk, but I don't know what she represents. Who and what are you, Emma?" she hailed.

"'Never too Late to Mend,'" chanted Emma, flourishing a large darning needle and attacking her rags anew. A shout arose from the little circle of girls who had formed about her. "There is another still harder to guess than mine. Over there," pointed Emma. "Look, girls!"

"What is it?" chorused half a dozen voices. "Well, I never! If it isn't Grace and Patience!"

There was a concerted rush toward the two girls. "What in the name of common sense is this illustrious combination?" asked Emma. "Why didn't you choose something a little harder."

"We are easy enough to guess," returned Patience loftily. "That is, if you are familiar with standard fiction."

"I'm not. I never was," declared Emma. "Tell us instanter!"

"Allow me to introduce you to the 'Cloister.'" Patience bowed low. "And the 'Hearth.'" Grace saluted the company with a loud jingling of her andirons.

"Oh," groaned Elfreda. "No wonder my powers of deduction failed. Who could guess that Grace was representing a hearth? She looks more like a section of a garden wall or the stone foundation for a new house, or——"

"If my costume looks as stony as that, then I do look like a hearth, and either your eyesight or your imagination is defective," declared Grace in triumph.

"Certainly, you resemble a hearth," agreed Emma Dean. "Now tell me how you like my costume. It took me hours to reduce my wearing apparel to its present picturesque state. All you girls are screaming successes. But who is 'Peter Rabbit'?"

"I don't know, but I'm going to find out," declared Elfreda. "He, or rather she, carried a package of little cards with a cunning rabbit's head and the name 'Peter Rabbit' on them. I have one here."

"So have I," came from every member of the group.

"Let us find the famous Peter, then offer our congratulations," proposed Patience, with a searching glance at the company.

But the "famous Peter" was not to be found among the throng of gayly attired girls, and there was no little comment among them at his sudden and complete disappearance.

"I wonder what became of 'Peter Rabbit'?" remarked Anne, when, later in the evening, a number of Semper Fidelis girls gathered in one corner of the room to hold an informal session and compare notes.

"Who is 'Peter Rabbit'; or, the Mystery of the 'Blue Jacket'?" declaimed Emma Dean. "Even Sherlock is all at sea, aren't you, Brother Holmes?" Emma Dean laid her hand familiarly on the great investigator's shoulder.

"Don't be too sure that I'm all at sea. I have a theory." Elfreda put on a preternaturally wise expression.

"We'll hear it at once," returned Emma briskly.

"Not to-night. I have other weightier problems on my mind. I have been asked to solve the campus mystery."

"Campus mystery!" exclaimed several voices. "What is it?"

"Walk to the extreme northern end of the campus, then go east one hundred and fifty paces and you will come face to face with the problem," was Elfreda's mystifying answer.

"Oh, I know what you mean," cried Sara Emerson. "The ground has been broken there for some kind of building. We noticed it day before yesterday."

"Right, my child," commended Elfreda patronizingly, "and therein lies the mystery. I have prowled about the vicinity at odd moments ever since the men began working there, but even my powers of penetration have failed."

"Since your curiosity has reached such a height, why don't you ask Miss Wilder to tell you the whys and wherefores of this startling affair?" teased Emma Dean. "I never realized until now what a mysterious process digging a cellar is."

"It isn't the process that's mysterious, it is the object of the process," declared Elfreda, with great dignity.

"Not everyone 'can see' either," interposed Emma innocently.

"The Briggs-Dean rapid-fire conversation team in an entirely new line of specialties," proclaimed Sara Emerson. "Secure front seats for the performance."

"There isn't going to be any performance," flung back Emma. "This is merely a friendly chat, but it ends here and now. I don't propose to court publicity. Come on, Sherlock, let us hie us to the lemonade bowl away from this madding crowd."

Sherlock offered his free arm—his memoirs were securely tucked under the other—and strolled nonchalantly toward the punch bowl, looking as though he were towing an animated rag-bag.

"Doesn't Emma Dean look too ridiculous for words?" laughed Arline Thayer to Grace.

"'Never too late to mend,'" quoted Grace. "I wonder how she ever happened to hit upon the idea. She is a delightful girl, isn't she?"

"Emma Dean? One of the nicest girls at Overton." Arline spoke with enthusiasm. "When I came to Morton House as a freshman, Emma was there, too. I had the most appalling case of the blues, for I didn't for one moment believe that I should ever like college. Emma had the next room to mine. She was so cheerful and said such funny things that I forgot all about my blues."

"I never knew she had lived at Morton House," said Grace in surprise.

"She was there just two weeks," continued Arline. "Then a freshman, who was an old friend of the Dean family, wanted Emma to room with her at Wayne Hall, and so she left Morton House and has been at the Hall ever since."

"Your loss was our gain," replied Grace. "We couldn't do without Emma at Wayne Hall. She and Elfreda are the life of the house."

Arline smiled to herself. Elfreda and Emma might fill their own particular niches in Wayne Hall, but there was only one Grace Harlowe. "How I shall miss you, Grace," she said with sudden irrelevance to the subject of Emma. "I shall miss you more than any other girl in college, except Ruth, when I go to New York for good and all."

"I forbid you to mention the subject," cried Grace, her fine face clouding. "We mustn't even think of it. Oh, listen, Arline! The orchestra has begun that Strauss waltz I like so well. I'm going to put these clumsy old andirons over in the corner; then we'll dance and forget that we are seniors and must pay the penalty."

It was almost twelve o'clock when the Famous Fiction dance came to a triumphant end, and the illustrious book heroes and heroines wended their midnight way toward their various houses and boarding places. The Wayne Hall girls marched across the campus, Emma Dean parading ahead with outspread arms, her rags flapping about her, giving her the appearance of a scarecrow which had just emerged from a farmer's cornfield.

"There it is! There lies the mystery!" cried Elfreda, pointing toward the northern end of the campus, where considerable headway had been made in digging what appeared to be the cellar of a house. "But Sherlock will unravel the tangled skein!"

"Don't be so noisy!" cautioned Miriam Nesbit. "The real Sherlock wasn't."

"To-morrow will tell the tale," went on Elfreda unabashed, but in a slightly lower key. "First, I shall spy upon the workmen, then I shall collect samples of campus soil and spend the rest of the day deducing."

"I hope you won't overwork," was Emma's solicitous comment. "While you are about it you might deduce the identity of 'Peter Rabbit.' I confess I am curious to know who wore Peter's blue jacket and why she disappeared so suddenly."

"So am I," declared Grace. "We must try to find out, too."

As the merry little party tramped upstairs to their rooms, Grace felt a hand on her shoulder.

"Do you really want to know who 'Peter Rabbit' was?" whispered Elfreda.

"Yes," breathed Grace.

"Then don't tell the girls. It was Kathleen."

"Why didn't she unmask with the rest of us?" demanded Grace, as they reached the head of the stairs.

"Why didn't she?" repeated Elfreda. "I'll tell you why. She didn't wish any of us to know who she was. Can't you see? She wanted to be one of the crowd and she was afraid the girls wouldn't take kindly to her. She is beginning to feel that she would like to be liked, and," Elfreda raised one hand, her index finger pointing upward, "'There is hope.'"



CHAPTER XXI

WHO WILL WIN THE HONOR PIN?

After the Famous Fiction masquerade a noticeable lull in social activities at Overton ensued. Except for basketball, which always flourished between midyear and Easter, little occurred to break the studious wave that swept over the college. There was one topic, however, that furnished food for endless discussion, and that was the senior play contest. In the beginning a goodly number of girls had entered the lists, imagining that to write a play was an extremely simple matter. After two or three feeble attempts at writing, the majority of them had given up in disgust, and from all that could be learned there were less than twenty contestants who had persevered.

The decision of the judges was to be reserved until after the beginning of the spring term, but the contest closed the Tuesday before the Easter holiday began, and it had been stipulated in the rules that all manuscripts must be in the hands of the judges on, or previous to, that time.

As far as was known, no one from Wayne Hall, save Kathleen West and Elfreda, had entered the contest, and even Patience Eliot was not sure that Kathleen had finished and submitted her play. Several times Patience endeavored adroitly to lead up to the subject, but Kathleen invariably turned the conversation into other channels.

"Patience can't find out whether or not Kathleen West entered the contest," observed Grace. A week had passed since the beginning of the spring term, and Miriam, Elfreda, Grace and Anne were strolling across the campus enjoying the tender beauty of a late April day.



"I imagine she did," said Miriam. "I have an idea she is likely to win, too. I can appreciate her ability if I can't wax enthusiastic over her disposition."

"I am so tired of being asked what my play was about," declared Anne. "Everyone seems to take it for granted that I wrote one. I only wish I were clever enough to write a play or even a sketch."

"The announcement is to be made to-morrow isn't it?" asked Miriam.

Grace nodded. "Miss Duncan told me yesterday that there had been only fourteen manuscripts handed in. She said at least five of them were really clever. She and the other judges were to meet last night to talk over the matter and make their final decision. It is to be announced at five o'clock to-morrow afternoon in the gymnasium. Didn't you see the notice on the big bulletin board this morning?"

"The girl who wins will stand a chance of having her head completely turned," said Miriam. "If she is a senior, her class will bankrupt themselves entertaining her, and if she belongs to one of the other classes, her own class will probably prostrate themselves at her feet in a body, not to mention the general adulation that is bound to come to the winner."

"Then I hope I win," was Elfreda's calm statement. "I know I won't, because my play was a comedy, and, besides, I know some one else whose idea for a play was a hundred times better than mine."

"Who is it?" The question came simultaneously from Miriam and Grace.

Elfreda shook her head. "I won't say. The person made me promise I wouldn't tell."

"Then we aren't curious to know," said Grace promptly. "Forget that we asked you."

"Oh, that's all right," assured Elfreda. "You'll know soon enough if she wins the honor."

"What are the latest developments in the campus mystery, Professor Holmes?" laughed Grace.

"There aren't any," responded Elfreda, shrugging her shoulders. "I found what I supposed to be a clue, and, careful investigator that I am, ran it down, but it led to nothing. However, I haven't given up. I'll solve the problem yet. The noble name of Briggs shall never be associated with failure."

"Any time before commencement, Elfreda," jeered Miriam. "You might keep it as a parting surprise. We shall need something to help bolster up our courage on that last day when the air is rent with good-byes."

"That isn't a bad idea," commented Elfreda. "Perhaps I will. I wish to-morrow were here. I am more anxious to know who won the honor prize than I am to discover who is responsible for our mysterious campus house."

"What are you girls going to do this evening?" asked Grace, as they reached Wayne Hall and seated themselves on the veranda for a few minutes' further chat before going upstairs to get ready for dinner.

"I am going to see Ruth and Arline to-night," announced Anne. "Will you girls go with me?"

"I can't," said Miriam regretfully. "I have letters to write."

"I'll go," agreed Grace.

Elfreda alone was silent.

"And what has J. Elfreda Briggs on her mind?" questioned Anne.

"I can't go. I have another little investigation to pursue," said Elfreda pompously. "If it turns out well, I may have something to tell you girls."

But that night, when the four chums gathered in Grace's room for a brief social session before retiring, Elfreda shook her head soberly when reminded of her partial promise. "I am sorry, but I didn't say positively that I'd tell you."

"Then it didn't turn out well?" from Miriam.

"No," replied Elfreda shortly, "it didn't."

Three pairs of eyes were fixed inquiringly upon Elfreda. "I didn't promise to tell you anything, you know," she reminded bluntly.

"We are well aware of that fact, my dear Miss Briggs," laughed Miriam, "but we would appreciate your confidence, and having aroused our curiosity you ought to do something to satisfy it."

"All right, I'll tell you," decided Elfreda. "I purposely waylaid Kathleen West as she was going out of the house to-night and walked as far as the library with her. I could see she wasn't yearning for my company, but I wanted to tell her that I knew she was 'Peter Rabbit' at the dance. Well, I told her," continued Elfreda grimly, "but I had hard work doing it. She talked about everything under the sun and wouldn't give me a chance to say a word. And how she did walk! But I kept up with her. I could see she wanted to get away from me. I told her just as we reached the library steps." Elfreda paused.

"Well, what did she say?" asked Grace almost impatiently.

"She said 'good night' and ran up the library steps like a flash. I don't know whether she was angry or not. I can't see why she should be."

"Here is something at last that Elfreda can't see," murmured Miriam.

"I can see that it will be a long time before I tell you girls anything again," retorted Elfreda, but her smiling face belied her brusque words.



CHAPTER XXII

KATHLEEN'S GREAT MOMENT

By five o'clock the following afternoon the greater part of the students of Overton College had assembled in the gymnasium to learn who had won the honor pin. Every pair of eyes was fixed upon Dr. Hepburn as he rose from his seat on the platform and faced the gathering of expectant students who were eagerly awaiting his announcement.

"It is with the sincerest pleasure that I rise, this afternoon, to announce that, after due consideration, the judges appointed by the senior class play committee to pass judgment upon the plays submitted have decided in favor of the morality play submitted by Miss Kathleen West, entitled 'Loyalheart; Her Four Years' Pilgrimage.' It is, perhaps, the most notable manuscript of its kind that has come within the notice of any member of the committee during a period covering a number of years," continued Dr. Hepburn, "and Miss West is to be congratulated on the merit of her remarkable literary effort. I have also been requested to say that, in the opinion of the judges, the comedy entitled 'A Quiet Vacation,' by Miss J. Elfreda Briggs, was the second choice of the committee."

For an instant after Dr. Hepburn ceased speaking a deep stillness pervaded the gymnasium, then from all sides rose cries of "Kathleen West! Elfreda Briggs! Speech! speech!"

Dr. Hepburn raised his hand for silence, and when quiet had been restored he said, "If Miss Briggs and Miss West are present, will they kindly come to the platform?"

Already Elfreda's three friends were urging her forward. From far back in the gymnasium a little figure was seen to separate itself from its fellows and come hesitatingly forward. When Kathleen West reached the platform and faced her audience she eyed them composedly, although her face grew very white; then she began speaking in a clear, resonant voice:

"I thank you for the honor you have conferred upon me," she said, bowing to the committee, "and to you," she bowed to her audience, "for your tribute of appreciation. I should like to say that in creating the character of 'Loyalheart' I have not drawn upon my fancy, and I know that the many lovable qualities with which I have endowed my heroine are to be found in the girl who served as my inspiration. I refer to Miss Grace Harlowe, of the senior class, whom I consider the ideal Overton girl." Kathleen's voice trembled slightly on the last sentence. Then she walked quickly down the aisle, accompanied by a burst of applause that made the great room ring.

Grace had listened to Kathleen's little speech with unbelieving ears. Could this be the antagonistic Kathleen West of a few weeks ago? What had wrought this marvelous and unlooked-for change? That Elfreda had won second honors had been forgotten. The attention of the students were focused on Kathleen. Now repeated calls for "Harlowe! Grace Harlowe!" sounded. Emma Dean and Arline escorted her to the platform.

"I thank Miss West for the honor she has done me, and I thank all of you," she said with a sweet seriousness that went straight to her hearers' hearts. "Although I am afraid I can't lay claim to the splendid qualities Miss West has attributed to me, the knowledge that she has thought me worthy is doubly dear." Then Grace hurried to her place very near to tears, while Miriam affectionately pressed her arm on one side and Anne, on the other, slipped her hand into that of her friend, and thus the three listened to Elfreda's speech.

"That's about the most satisfactory general meeting I ever attended," remarked Emma Dean in Miriam's ear as they stepped outside to the campus, where groups of girls had halted with a view to hailing their respective friends as they passed.

"I was never more astonished in my life," returned Miriam, in guarded tones. "As for Elfreda, she can't believe that she won second honors. She insists there must have been a mistake."

"It was a general all-around surprise, I believe," confided Emma. "I never dreamed that Kathleen West entertained any such feeling for Grace, and I don't imagine any one else did, either. When is the honor prize to be presented to her?"

"On the night of the play. Now that it is all settled, the play committee had better bestir themselves."

"You are on the play committee, aren't you?" asked Emma innocently.

"You needn't remind me of it," laughed Miriam. "I hadn't forgotten it, and it is plain to be seen that you hadn't. Elfreda, Anne and Ruth Denton are on it, too. Here comes Elfreda, surrounded by an admiring throng. Genius will out. I knew she would do something extraordinarily clever before she wound up her college career."

"We can't find Kathleen West!" exclaimed Elfreda. "She slipped out of the gymnasium so quietly that no one realized she had gone. We are going over to Wayne Hall after her."

"Where is Grace?" asked Miriam irrelevantly.

Elfreda made a quick, comprehensive survey of the various groups of girls. "Why, I don't see her. She was here——" Something in Miriam's expression caused her to eye her roommate sharply. Miriam shook her head almost imperceptibly.

"That's so," returned Elfreda in a low tone. "You never forget anything, do you, Miriam? I will tell the girls to postpone rushing Kathleen until to-night." Turning to the crowd of girls, who had been too busy talking to notice what had passed between her and Miriam, Elfreda said easily: "Suppose we wait until this evening after dinner, girls. Meet me at the corner below Wayne Hall at half-past seven o'clock and we will call on Kathleen and Grace. Miriam will engage to keep them in the house and we'll have ice cream and cake afterward."

Elfreda's suggestion was well received, and solemnly winking at Miriam, she pursued her triumphal journey across the campus, quite surrounded by her admiring bodyguard.

But while her friends were discussing the outcome of the play, Kathleen West, J. Elfreda and Grace, the last named young woman was speeding across the campus toward Wayne Hall. As she was about to return to her place among her friends, after making her speech, her alert eyes had seen a small, familiar figure edge toward the side door of the gymnasium, then disappear. Grace surmised that Kathleen had gone directly to Wayne Hall, and without hesitating she hurried after her. But another person had also marked Kathleen's flight, for as Grace ran up the steps of the hall she heard a rush of footsteps behind her, and, turning her head to see who was following her, stopped short, exclaiming, "I might have known that you would be the first to go to her, Patience!"

"That is just what I was thinking of you," smiled Patience. "But you must go first. Wasn't it the most astounding announcement you ever heard. I am not surprised at her winning the honor pin. It is her change of heart that astonishes me. I realized that she had improved, but I never heard of anything like this. I suspect Elfreda Briggs knows more about this miracle than she will admit. I overheard her talking to Kathleen one night. I didn't mean to listen. I was just about to enter the room when I heard something Elfreda said and hurried off as fast as I could go."

"I think Elfreda had a hand in it, too," said Grace, with shining eyes. "What a glorious success she has made of her four years. Now, one of us must go to Kathleen."

"You go," insisted Patience. "I'll drop in later."

Grace went into the house and upstairs, hardly knowing what to do or say. She knocked gently on Kathleen's door, then at sound of a muffled "Come," turned the knob and stepped inside. Kathleen had thrown herself face downward upon her couch, her face buried in the cushions. Without raising her head, she faltered, "Is it you, Grace?"

"Yes," answered Grace softly, as she approached the couch on which Kathleen lay.

"I knew you would come—you and Patience."

"Patience is downstairs," returned Grace. "She will be here soon."

Kathleen raised herself to a sitting posture. Her eyes were very bright. There was no sign of tears in them. "Grace, can you ever forgive me for all the trouble I have caused you?" she asked solemnly.

"Of course I can, Kathleen," replied Grace, slipping down on the couch beside Kathleen and placing her arm about the slender shoulders of the newspaper girl. "You are not the only one at fault. I blame myself for a great many things that happened. If we had only known that you wished to be in the circus. We never thought of slighting you, Kathleen."

"I know it now," rejoined Kathleen sadly, "but I was furious with you at the time. Then, too, I had made up my mind not to like you. I thought you priggish and narrow-minded. I didn't understand college in the least. I was ready to ride over every Overton tradition for the sake of having my own way. Patience was the first to show me where I stood, and I tried to see matters from her standpoint. Then came the temptation to publish that 'Larry, the Locksmith' story, and you know the rest.

"Elfreda Briggs was the one who brought me to my first realization of college spirit. She had been watching me all year and discovered that I was unhappy. She marched into my room one night and found me crying. When she left me I was happier than I had been for months. She had shown me the way to atone for some of the mischief I had made. It was she who gave me the idea for the play. I had begun a play, then had destroyed it, resolving to have nothing more to do with the contest. After Elfreda and I had our talk I began again and I wrote 'Loyalheart.' After the Famous Fiction Dance Elfreda came to me again. She was determined to help me."

Grace's face grew radiant when Kathleen told of Elfreda's part in the affair. A great wave of love and tenderness for the one-time stout girl, who had begun her college life at such a disadvantage, swept over her. "Dear old J. Elfreda," she murmured. "What a wonder she is!"

"But there is one thing I haven't yet told you," said Kathleen. "You are to create the role of 'Loyalheart' in my play. You mustn't refuse. It was written for you, and no one else could possibly play it. Elfreda is going to arrange that part of it with the play committee. Please don't refuse. If you only knew how much it means to me." Kathleen's eyes were fixed appealingly upon Grace.

"I won't refuse," was Grace's gentle answer. "I'll do it just to please you and to cement our life-long friendship." The two girls had risen now, and stood facing each other. Then their hands met in a silent pledge of friendship that was to prove faithful to the end.

* * * * *

Loyalheart stepped into life on the fifth Friday evening after Easter and for two hours and a half her adoring audience of Overton students hung on her slightest word or gesture. From the moment in which Loyalheart left Haven Home on her Four Years' Pilgrimage she ceased to exist as Grace Harlowe, merging her personality entirely in that of the beautiful allegorical character she was portraying.

The play itself was in four acts, each representing one of the four college years. Written in the form of an allegory, it partook of the nature of a morality play and told the story of Loyalheart's eventful pilgrimage through the Land of College, accompanied by her faithful friends, Honor, Forbearance, Silence and Good Humor. Her heroic efforts to keep her four friends with her in spite of the plots of Snobbery, Gossip, Jealousy, Frivolity and Treachery, and her readiness to extend a helping hand to Diffidence, Poverty and Misunderstood, result in the creation of an illusive being known to her only as the Spirit, a white-robed apparition which visits her more frequently as she approaches the end of her pilgrimage. At the termination of Senior Lane, which is separated from the Highway of Life by the Gate of Commencement, the Spirit, clothed in glittering raiment, appears to Loyalheart, and she learns that in helping others and clinging to her ideals she has fostered and nurtured to radiant growth none other than the fabled College Spirit which she has ardently striven to recognize and possess.

Greatly to her delight, Emma Dean had been asked to play the part of the Spirit, and exhibited real histrionic ability in the role. As Loyalheart, Grace, who, day after day, had been painstakingly coached by Anne, left nothing to be desired in her portrayal of the role assigned to her. Ruth Denton, Gertrude Wells, and Miriam Nesbit, respectively, enacted the roles of Honor, Forbearance and Silence, while Elfreda insisted on playing Good Humor, and was greeted with appreciative laughter whenever she appeared.

The play was written in blank verse, and many of the passages were extremely beautiful. Loyalheart's farewell to Haven Home and the revelation of the Spirit to Loyalheart at the Highway of Life were particularly worthy of note. The speeches of Good Humor scintillated with wit, and the unpleasant characters in the play were peculiarly true to life. Grace took half a dozen curtain calls, and Kathleen West was also summoned before the curtain and publicly presented with the honor pin by President Morton.

It was an evening long to be remembered, and the story of Loyalheart and her pilgrimage was destined to remain in the minds of the Overton girls for many a day.

It was after eleven o 'clock when a very tired Loyalheart went forth on a pilgrimage to Wayne Hall, accompanied by her equally loyal supporters, who were proudly bearing numerous floral offerings which had been handed to Grace over the footlights.

"I am so tired," she sighed, "but so happy. It was a beautiful play, wasn't it?"

"And you were the nicest part of it," said Anne fondly. "Your portrayal of Loyalheart was wonderful."

"And so was your coaching," retorted Grace, promptly.

"It is far from early," remarked Elfreda in a suggestive tone, as they halted for a moment at the head of the stairs, "but we are all here, and I know how to make fruit punch. In fact, I got the stuff ready, thinking that it might be useful!"

"We will be in your room within the next ten minutes," said Grace decisively. "Such hospitality is not met with every day."

True to her word, ten minutes later she and Anne were seated on the foot of Elfreda's bed, kimono clad and smiling, while Elfreda labored with the fruit punch. Kathleen West and Patience Eliot, who had also been invited to the punch party, were seated on cushions on the floor.

Suddenly the soft tinkle of a mandolin sounded under the window, then a chorus of fresh young voices sang softly:

"Come, tune your lyre to Kathleen West, Of all the plays hers is the best; Long may she shine, long may she wave, Her shrine we deck with garlands brave; May Fortune bring her world renown— To Kathleen West, girls, drink her down."

"How perfectly sweet in them!" exclaimed Kathleen, her color rising.

"Hush!" Miriam held up her finger.

"Dear Loyalheart, we sing to you, O girl so brave and sweet and true, May life to you be wondrous kind, And may you all its treasures find; May skies ne'er threaten you, nor frown— To Loyalheart, girls, drink her down."

Owing to the lateness of the play no one at Wayne Hall had had time to retire, and, hearing the music, the girls had with one accord hurried to the windows.

"Come on up, Gertrude," called Grace into the soft darkness. "I know your voice. How on earth did you get out of your costume, go home for your mandolin and manage to land under Miriam's and Elfreda's window, all within half an hour?"

"That's easy. We brought our instruments of torture with us to the play, and Elfreda agreed to have you girls in her room at the time appointed."

"There is fruit punch enough to go round, and dozens of cakes," observed an ingratiating voice over Grace's shoulder.

"We had several more verses to sing, and one for you, Elfreda. If you will ask Mrs. Elwood's permission, we will come up, sing them and incidentally sample the punch and the cakes," stipulated Gertrude.

There were seven girls in the party of serenaders—Gertrude, Arline, Ruth Denton, the Emerson twins, Elizabeth Wade and Marian Cummings. When the last cake had disappeared and the punch was almost gone, the serenading party sang the rest of their verses and departed gayly, yet in spite of their gayety there lurked in each heart the shadow of the parting that was to come all too soon.



CHAPTER XXIII

GRACE FINDS HER WORK

Commencement day dawned smilingly, as though anxious to contribute to the happiness of the four chums by putting on its most sunshiny face. A cool breeze swept across the campus, and, according to J. Elfreda Briggs, one didn't really mind being graduated on such a day.

The hotels of Overton were well filled with friends and relatives of the graduates. The Southards, Mrs. Gray, Mrs. Pierson and her daughter Mary, together with Mrs. Allison, Mabel and the remainder of the Eight Originals Plus Two had been staying at the "Tourraine" for the past two days. Elfreda's father and mother had also arrived and were staying at the "Wilton," an old-fashioned hotel near the campus. The four chums found it somewhat of a problem to divide their time equally among their classmates, friends and families. During those last days their opportunities for confidential talks came only at the end of the evening, when, having bade a round of affectionate good-nights, they spent a few moments in either Grace's or Miriam's room before retiring.

"I feel at least a hundred years old to-day," announced J. Elfreda Briggs, as she stood arranging her hair before the mirror preparatory to putting on her cap and gown.

"Yes, you look quite like some grand old ruin," observed Miriam soberly, as she unearthed her slippers from the depths of her closet and hunted vainly about for a shoe horn.

Elfreda laid her comb on the dressing table, grinned her appreciation of this pleasantry, then, giving her smoothly coiffed hair a last pat, reached for her cap. "I am so glad I can wear black without looking like a funeral procession," she observed.

"Hurry, girls," sounded Grace's clear tones outside their door. "It is time we were on our way."

"Coming," called Miriam, springing from the edge of the bed, where she had sat to put on her slippers, and hastily adjusting her cap. In the next instant the four friends accompanied by Emma Dean were hurrying across the campus to the gymnasium, where the senior class were to meet, then proceed in a body to the chapel, where the commencement exercises were to be held.

The little procession of seniors walked two by two to the chapel, and to Grace, who walked with Anne, it seemed the most wonderful moment of her life. She marked the calm, almost exalted expression which Anne wore. Elfreda and Miriam, looking very stately in their black gowns, were just ahead of her and Anne, while Arline and Ruth Denton were directly behind them. As they walked sedately down the aisle of the chapel to the places reserved for them, Grace's eyes searched the rows of seats for her father and mother, whom she spied when almost opposite them. Just as she passed their row she managed to send one tender little glance to them, which caused their faces to glow with pride as their fond eyes followed the straight, supple figure of their daughter who had so amply fulfilled their expectations.

The exercises, while impressive to the friends of the graduates, were doubly so to the graduates themselves, who were deeply conscious of the fact that their diplomas were their passports into the real world of work and endeavor that was now about to open before them.

At the conclusion of the exercises the usual gifts and endowments to the college were announced. Among them was Thomas Redfield's annual gift to the Semper Fidelis Club, which brought forth a quick tribute of applause from the seniors, which was seconded by the entire assemblage. "And lastly allow me to mention the latest and one of the most acceptable gifts ever bestowed upon the college," stated President Morton.

Grace bowed her head. She had reached the very end of Senior Lane. A few moments and her college life would be over. She had finished her course. She had kept faith with herself, and now there remained the wide world and her work, whatever that might be. Her reflections were brought to an abrupt end by what President Morton was saying. She raised her head in sudden amazement. "I refer to the newly completed house at the northern end of the campus," she heard, "presented to Overton and endowed by Mrs. Rose Gray as a mark of appreciation of her young friends, Grace Harlowe, Miriam Nesbit and Anne Pierson. It is Mrs. Gray's wish that her gift to Overton College shall be known henceforth and forever as 'Harlowe House.'"

Absolute silence reigned for an instant after this announcement, then the quiet chapel echoed with the applause of the enthusiastic assemblage. President Morton waited until he could make himself heard, then went on to explain more fully that Harlowe House was to be dedicated to the use of those girls who were making a struggle to acquire a college education. Then there was more applause, and Mrs. Gray was asked to address the graduates.

"And to think," said Grace, as, a little later, she stood with Miriam, Anne and Elfreda outside the chapel, surrounded by those she loved, "that I know at last what my work is going to be."

"But we don't know," reminded her father, almost wistfully.

"There is only one thing for me to do," laughed Grace, her eyes shining, "and that is——"

"Oh, I know," interposed Elfreda, "you're coming back to the campus to look after Harlowe House."

"You could see that, couldn't you, Elfreda?" laughed Miriam.

"How did you guess it?" asked Grace. "Yes, I should like to come back if Father and Mother can spare me."

"The rest of her friends don't count," commented Hippy Wingate.

"You know they do, Hippy," smiled Grace. "I must have the permission and good will of all of them if my work is to be a success."

"You have your mother's and my full consent, Grace," said her father loyally.

Grace made a little movement toward her parents, slipping in between them and catching a hand of each. "There is only one thing I can say, and I've said it hundreds of times before, You are the dearest father and mother a girl ever had."

* * * * *

It was rather a silent quartette that gathered for the last time in Grace's room that night. Emma Dean had left Overton on the evening train. So had Patience Eliot, Kathleen West and Laura Atkins. The sophomores of Wayne Hall had departed before commencement, and to-night the house was very quiet.

"And to-morrow is another day," observed Elfreda.

"So it is, my child," agreed Miriam, "but we shall spend it on the train."

"Do you remember one day, ages ago, when Elfreda Briggs deposited her suit case on Grace Harlowe's feet and made herself comfortable. Wasn't I a vandal?"

"Think what we all might have missed if we hadn't acquired a proprietary interest in Elfreda that day."

"And now you can't lose me. There, that is the first slang I've used for months, and on commencement day, too."

"Never mind, Elfreda. It is forcible at least. But we don't wish to lose you. You must keep your promise and come to Oakdale this summer."

"I will," promised Elfreda; "and now suppose we have one last sad tea party."

It was almost midnight before Miriam and Elfreda went softly down the oppressively quiet hall to their room.

"Are you happy, Anne?" asked Grace, slipping her arm about her friend and drawing her to the window where, dark against the moonlit sky, rose the tower of Overton Hall.

"Almost too happy for words, and yet I dread leaving Overton."

"You must come back next year and visit me. I do hope I shall make a good house mother. Do you know, Anne, in my mind I've already picked out a motto to hang over my door. It is, 'Blessed are they that have found their work.'"



CHAPTER XXIV

CONCLUSION

The full moon shone down with his broadest smile on the group of young people who occupied Mrs. Gray's roomy, old-fashioned veranda.

"We're here because we're here," caroled Hippy Wingate, balancing himself on the edge of the porch rail, both arms outspread to show how successfully he could sit on the narrow railing without support.

"You won't be 'here' very long," cautioned Miriam Nesbit. "You are likely to land in that rose bush just below you. It's a very thorny one, too. I know, because I tried to pull a rose from it only a little while ago. Remember, I have warned you."

"Don't worry over me, Miriam," declared Hippy airily, pretending to lose his balance and recovering himself with an exaggerated jerk.

"Oh, I am not worrying," retorted Miriam. "If you fall backward into that rose bush it won't hurt me."

"Did I say it would, my child?" asked Hippy serenely.

"Don't answer him, Miriam," advised Nora. "He is like Tennyson's 'Brooklet,' he goes on forever."

"How peaceful and quiet it was in Oakdale until yesterday," was Hippy's sorrowful comment. "'Gone are the days when my heart was light and gay,' etc."

"It will be not merely a case of bygone days, but bygone Hippy as well," threatened David. "Reddy and I intend to defend our friends against your personal attacks."

"I wasn't personal," beamed Hippy. "I didn't say anything about any one. I merely observed that since yesterday Oakdale had become a howling wilderness——"

Hippy did not stop to finish his speech, but, nimbly dodging David and Reddy Brooks, who rose from the porch, determination written on their faces, bounded down the steps and disappeared around the corner of the house.

"He is the same Hippy who made life merry for us eight years ago when we were high school freshmen," smiled Grace. "He hasn't changed in the least."

"None of my Christmas children have changed," was Mrs. Gray's fond retort.

"Neither has our fairy godmother," reminded Anne.

"I never feel grown up or responsible when we all gather home," said Jessica.

"And yet Tom is on his first vacation from work, David and Reddy are rising young business men, and Hippy is studying law," reminded Grace.

"Yes, but I don't like it," remarked a plaintive voice, as a fat face appeared around the corner of the porch. "I want to be a brakeman."

It was impossible not to laugh at Hippy, and, encouraged by the merriment, he cautiously climbed the steps of the porch and returned to his precarious perch upon the railing.

"I want to be a brakeman, And with the brakemen stay, I'd ride upon the choo-choo cars Through all the livelong day,"

he warbled, rocking backward and forward in time to his song.

"Why don't you go down to the railroad yard and put in your application, then?" was Reddy's stolid advice. "If I intended to be a brakeman I wouldn't study law."

"Alas! I am obliged to obey the wishes of my cruel parents," whined Hippy. "I am seriously contemplating wrapping a few little things in a handkerchief and leaving home forever. I remember once when I was very young and unsophisticated I decided upon this step. I was deeply incensed with Father because he had punished me for playing truant from school. I went upstairs to my room and packed three neckties, a boxing glove, two books, a baseball and a picture of myself in baseball clothes in a suit case. I carried the bat, and as a last precaution I took a toy pistol and my bank, which boasted of sixty-four cents. I started at about eight o'clock in the evening and went as far as the summer house at the lower end of our grounds. I sat down to rest, went to sleep and woke up about two o'clock in the morning. Then I discovered that I was afraid of the dark and didn't dare go even as far as the house. I crept into the summer house and stayed there until morning; then I went home, suit case and all. I managed to get into the house before any one else was up, but I decided there were worse places than home. However, if the brakeman aspiration proves too strong I may be obliged to leave home again. After all, it may be my vocation."

"Hippy Wingate, when will you be sensible?" asked Nora O'Malley.

"Never, I am afraid. You see, my associations tend to make me foolish. Birds of a feather, you know, and when one's intimate friends——" Hippy paused. "You understand I don't like to say that you in particular are responsible, but——"

"I'll never forgive you for that," declared Nora.

"Then that means that our engagement——"

Hippy was not allowed to finish. A shout went up from the others, and he and Nora were surrounded.

"Hippy, how could you?" The pink in Nora's cheeks deepened, but she did not deny his statement.

"Nora, come here," commanded Mrs. Gray.

Nora obeyed with a shyness entirely foreign to her. Putting her finger under Nora's rounded chin, Mrs. Gray looked smilingly into the piquant face. Then she drew the girl within her circling arm and kissed her. Grace, Miriam, Anne and Jessica followed suit.

"Now it is your turn, Jessica and Reddy," said Nora pointedly.

Jessica's pale face grew scarlet. She looked appealingly toward Reddy, who sat beside her, then they rose and, taking her hand in his, Reddy said with a world of affection in his voice, "Jessica has promised to marry me in the fall." Jessica and Reddy were immediately surrounded.

"Will surprises never cease?" exclaimed Grace, regarding her betrothed friends with loving eyes. "Now I begin to believe that we have really grown up."

"You haven't," retorted Tom Gray in a low tone which Grace alone heard.

"Give me a year or two in which to do my work, and perhaps I will," said Grace softly.

"Do you really mean that, Grace?" asked Tom eagerly.

"I think I do, Tom," hesitated Grace, "but I can't promise you what you wish, yet."

"By the low, significant tones over in Grace's corner I imagine another engagement is about to be announced," remarked Hippy, grinning broadly. All eyes were immediately turned upon Grace and Tom.

Grace met their gaze with a shake of her head. "No," she said, "Tom and I are not even engaged. I must be free to go back to Overton next year to do my work there. I must look after my house for one year at least."

Tom's face clouded, but he said no more. David, too, was strangely silent. Anne had accepted an engagement to tour America with Everett Southard in Shakespearean roles the next season. Miss Southard was to accompany them on the tour. Still, David had the satisfaction of knowing that Anne loved him and that some day she would be his wife, although, like Grace, she would neither bind herself by a promise nor allow him to place his ring upon her finger.

A little silence followed the announcement of the engagement of part of Mrs. Gray's Christmas children. Hippy had resumed his position on the railing, while Nora had slipped to the seat beside Grace, her hand in that of her friend. The little company of young people realized, to a person, that for them life was taking on a strange and earnest meaning, while Mrs. Gray, in spite of this garland of youth with which she delighted to beautify her latter days, felt very, very old.

Suddenly the silence was rudely broken. Hippy, who was more embarrassed than he cared to indicate, leaned too far back and lost his balance. There was a horrified gasp, a pair of stout legs waved in the air, and Theophilus Hippopotamus Wingate, as he invariably styled himself, fulfilled Miriam's prediction to the letter, and crashed ignominiously into the prickly arms of the big rose bush.