"Oh, how lovely!" she cried. "And it's such a perfect day!"

"I'll have to send it home at Thanksgiving," remarked Marjorie, as she and Alice crossed the campus on their way to the lake. "And I don't know how I'll ever do without it."

"Oh, well, there will be skating," Alice reminded her. "And then, it will soon be spring again."

They came in sight of the tree to which Marjorie always kept the canoe tied, and she looked anxiously, as usual, for the first sight of it. Suddenly, her heart stopped beating: she could not see it!

"Alice!" she shrieked, in terror. "It's gone!"

Alice followed Marjorie's gaze, but she, too, saw no canoe. However, she attributed no particular significance to that fact.

"It's probably around the other side," she said optimistically: "or maybe you tied it to another tree."

But as the girls came nearer to the spot, Marjorie knew that she had been right. They looked all around the small lake; but the canoe was nowhere to be found!

"Somebody's borrowed it!" suggested Alice, "and probably couldn't find you to ask permission!"

"But then they'd be on the lake!"

"No—if you should carry the canoe about a hundred yards, you'd find the stream gets deep enough to paddle. And it goes a long way, too, even joins a river. I know because once Daisy and I hiked and hiked, meaning to follow it to the end. There were several swift places where you might have to carry the canoe a few yards, but it could easily be done."

Marjorie's face brightened at the hope the words offered.

"Let's walk up that way ourselves," she suggested.

Climbing the school fence at the edge of the lake, they followed a little creek, which, though shallow in many places, could still be navigated by a canoe.

"Why didn't any of us ever think of this?" remarked Marjorie. "I've never had the canoe off the lake."

"Couldn't we try it to-morrow?" asked Alice, wondering whether it were quite the thing for her to suggest.

"Yes, I'd love to!" replied Marjorie. But her expression grew sad again, as she recalled the circumstances which led them on this walk of exploration.

The woods were wonderful now, dressed in their gorgeously colored foliage. Brown, orange, scarlet, with just enough somber evergreen to set off the brilliancy of the other trees by contrast, the scene was at the height of its splendor. But so intent were the girls upon watching the water, they hardly noticed the spectacle.

"Look! Look!" cried Alice suddenly. "There—around that bend! Isn't that the end of a canoe?"

Marjorie held her hand to her forehead, and shaded her eyes in an effort to distinguish the object in the distance. But, although she saw what Alice meant, it was too far off for identification. In their eagerness, the girls started to run.

Marjorie was the first to stop, realizing her mistake.

"It's a dead tree trunk!" she gasped, out of breath from the exertion.

She stopped and leaned against a tree, tired out and disappointed. But she resolutely conquered her desire to cry: whatever happened, she must not break down before a freshman!

"Let's go back," she said. "I'm awfully tired."

"We might as well," said Alice. "For whoever has borrowed it will be sure to bring it back by supper time."

"Perhaps; but somehow I feel as if it were gone forever! I can't tell you why——"

"Oh, please don't worry, Marj!" begged the younger girl. "Nobody would take it!"

They went to Marjorie's room, and discussed the occurrence over and over. Alice stayed until half-past five, when Lily came back from tennis.

"Too dark to play!" cried Lily as she threw open the door. "Heavens, why sit in darkness?"

Marjorie and Alice had hardly noticed the gradually deepening twilight, so wrapped up were they in the event of the afternoon. They blinked as Lily flashed on the lights.

"Who won?" asked Marjorie, half-heartedly.

"Doris, of course!" This carelessly. Then, looking closely at her room-mate, she realized that something was wrong.

"What's happened, Marj? No bad news from home?"

"Oh, no—it isn't that." Marjorie swallowed hard, in the effort to keep her voice calm. Then, blurting it out, "I've lost my canoe!"

Lily stood perfectly still in open-mouthed amazement, while Alice, assisted here and there by Marjorie, told of the afternoon's adventure. But Lily smiled reassuringly.

"You're worrying yourself needlessly, Marj. Somebody's borrowed it, of course! It couldn't have drifted away—there's no place for it to drift—and surely nobody would steal it!"

"Somebody must have!" declared Marjorie, feeling now that any moment she would break down. To her relief, Alice arose to go.

As soon as the door closed upon the retreating freshman, Marjorie began to sob violently. Lily went over and sat beside her.

"Don't, Marj, please don't!" she begged. "Wait till after supper, at least. I'll go over and tell Miss Allen all about it the minute I'm dressed, and we'll see what she can do."

Marjorie dried her eyes, and the girls got ready for supper. In fifteen minutes, Lily was ready to go.

"Tell Miss Allen not to make an announcement till the very end of the meal, so that if I get any news of the canoe, I can let her know."

But Marjorie was disappointed to find that no one came up to her with an explanation or an apology. Unfortunately, too, all the girls were present at the meal—a circumstance which left her no room for the hope that one of her school-mates had the canoe.

Just as dessert was being served, she caught Miss Allen's questioning eyes fastened upon hers, and she shook her head sadly in reply to the silent interrogation. Accordingly, the Principal arose and told Marjorie's story, and asked whether anyone had seen the canoe. But there was no response.

"Girls, I don't suspect anybody," she said, after a few minutes of silence, "but just for the sake of formality, I will call a meeting for eight o'clock this evening and ask every girl where she was early this afternoon, for Marjorie tells me that she saw it herself at one o'clock."

"Oh, Miss Allen!" interrupted Marjorie, much to everyone's consternation, "I really don't want to go as far as that! I am sure that none of the girls took it."

"Somebody might have taken it for a prank," remarked the Principal, without administering any reproof for the interruption. "And we may as well go on with the investigation."

There was not a single girl at the school who dared to absent herself from that meeting. Miss Allen herself presided, and, beginning with the senior class, she requested each girl in turn to rise and state where she had spent the early part of the afternoon.

"And whenever another girl can confirm a statement, I wish she would do so," added Miss Allen.

The meeting proceeded rapidly; the girls, a little nervous at the recital in public of their own affairs, nevertheless spoke swiftly; and, without a single exception, their statements were all confirmed by other girls.

The whole proceeding served only to intensify Marjorie's despondency. Now, she felt, the girls might think that she suspected them, which in reality had never been the case. When Miss Allen had suggested a joke, her mind naturally flew to Ruth; but now that the whole affair had assumed such serious proportions, she dismissed that solution from her thoughts.

The last freshman in the school was recounting her afternoon's program, when one of the housemaids threw open the door.

The faces all swung instantly around, and the speaker became silent. The newcomer announced her mission without delay:

"An important message for Miss Phillips," she said. "I took it over the telephone."

"Will you give it to me?" asked the latter, rising and advancing to take what she expected to be a written message.

"Yes, ma'am; I didn't write it down," she replied. And before Miss Phillips could warn her not to inform the whole school, she shouted out, to the surprise of everyone,

"Mrs. Johnson sent word that Frieda Hammer has been missing since half-past one this afternoon."

"With Marjorie Wilkinson's canoe!" exclaimed Ruth, in a tone that was audible all over the assembly room.



CHAPTER X

THE HALLOWE'EN PARTY

The meeting which Miss Allen had begun with such formality ended in a turmoil. Everyone jumped up excitedly at the news of Frieda's disappearance and at the interpretation which Ruth gave to the occurrence.

For all the girls in the school—even those who were not Scouts—knew about Frieda Hammer. They were aware, too, of the fact that the Japanese fete had been given to raise money to support her, and it was common knowledge that over a hundred dollars had been cleared.

But only the Scouts themselves knew the details: that, after five weeks' board had been paid in advance, Frieda had been given fifteen dollars, which she was to use for her ticket home on Thanksgiving. This idea had been Marjorie's; she wanted by some such outward sign to testify to the girl that the Scouts trusted her. Miss Phillips, Ruth, and one or two others had opposed the plan, but Marjorie's enthusiasm had finally carried it.

So now Marjorie had this double tragedy to face: she had not only lost her canoe, but her confidence had been betrayed. And Ruth, who had prophesied something of the sort from the first, had triumphed!

Miss Phillips was too wise to call a Scout meeting immediately; she wanted to give the discussion a chance to simmer down. Besides this, she felt deeply for Marjorie. The girl had encountered a terrible disappointment; older and more experienced people than Marjorie had broken down under parallel circumstances. Miss Phillips wanted to give her a good chance to cry; after that, she depended upon Lily's good sense and tact to console her.

Accordingly, nothing was done until the next night, when Miss Phillips called the Scouts to a meeting.

The subject was hardly mentioned before Ruth Henry sprang to her feet.

"Captain," she began, talking rather fast, for she had in her own mind a number of points that she wished to make, "we all have to admit that we have failed. The idea—social service, Good Turn, whatever you want to call it—is splendid; but the person we selected, unworthy. Let's forget all about it; for we can't get back Marjorie's canoe. It's probably sold by now.

"Well, this is my suggestion: hold our bazaar just as we have planned, and use the money, first to buy Marjorie a new canoe, and then to bring a nice Christmas to some needy family, in the village, with lots of children."

"Hurray! Good for you, Ruth!" cried several of the girls impulsively when she sat down.

Amid their shouts, however, Marjorie stumbled to her feet. She looked pale, as if she had slept little the previous night; and her eyes bore the traces of tears. But outwardly she was calm.

"It is awfully good of Ruth," she said, seriously, "but I really wouldn't want the troop to replace my canoe. I won't need it much longer this fall, and perhaps father will give me one for my next birthday. And I like Ruth's suggestion about the poor family. But"—she lowered her voice and pronounced each word slowly and very distinctly—"is the troop going to accept this defeat as final?"

"You mean, Marjorie, that you would like to give Frieda another chance?" asked the Captain.

"Yes." The word was little more than a whisper.

Miss Phillips said nothing; she was simply astounded at the girl's generosity. Frieda Hammer had stolen Marjorie's dearest possession, and yet the latter was ready to forgive her!

But Ruth interpreted Marjorie's attitude merely as the usual opposition to her own suggestions.

"Then would you like to put a detective on the case?" she asked.

"No! A thousand times, no!" protested Marjorie, emphatically.

"Then what could we do to trace her?"

"I could at least telegraph to her mother, with a prepaid reply," put in Miss Phillips.

"Oh, do—please do!" begged Marjorie; and the affair rested at that.

"Now," said Ethel, anxious to change the subject, "let's talk about our Hallowe'en party. It's only a little over a week off!"

The tone of the meeting changed from that of serious-minded discussion of a theft and its treatment, to care-free chatter about an evening of fun. Even Marjorie put aside her trouble for the time and entered heartily into the preparations.

The Hallowe'en party was to be the last event of the Scout troop as it now stood. The day following—November first—the reports would be issued, and the new Scouts would officially join the troop at the next meeting. This would necessitate new divisions into the patrols, re-elections, etc.

The fifteen girls who now belonged to Pansy troop felt especially close together. All, except Helen Stewart and Anna Cane, had lived side by side at camp, eaten at the same table, gathered around the same camp fire at night, been comrades on many hikes, and competed in the contest which Marjorie had so unexpectedly won. They wanted their troop to grow, and to take in new girls, especially if a troop was to be established at the rival seminary: but they were glad to be allowed this party for themselves.

The day after the Scout meeting, Miss Phillips sent a telegram to Frieda Hammer's mother, and received the following reply:

"No signs of Frieda. Is she kidnapped?—M. Hammer."

Marjorie's last hopes vanished as she read the telegram. There was nothing to be done; she must be content to give up her dream. Miss Phillips suggested that the girl might come back again after her money was all spent; upon this meager supposition Marjorie fastened her expectations.

In the meantime, preparations for the Hallowe'en party were in full swing. Miss Phillips had suggested that each girl dress to represent a character in history.

"Choose a man or a woman, whichever you please," she told them; "but don't try to get your parents to send you costumes! Make them yourselves, for they needn't be too elaborate. Then we can guess which one each character represents, as well as the identity of the girl who wears the costume."

The gymnasium was decorated with corn stalks and autumn leaves, and here and there against the walls stood stuffed paper witches, to remind the guests that it was really Hallowe'en. Weird, soft music was coming from the victrola to remind one that ghosts were abroad that night.

George and Martha Washington, with powdered hair and silver buckled shoes were the first guests to be greeted by the committee. Soon after them came Pocohontas, and a Quaker who was intended to be Elizabeth Fry, but who might have represented almost any member of the Society of Friends.

Marjorie and Lily came as John Alden and Priscilla—proud because they were on time for once, and enjoying the fun of acting the part of lovers.

"It reminds me of the masquerade at camp," whispered Marjorie; "remember?"

"Yes, wasn't that ridiculous? But you know this is really clever. Oh, look at these!"

Eight masqueraders, all dressed as women and representing various characters from Queen Elizabeth to Florence Nightingale, came in, walking rather awkwardly, as if hampered by their skirts.

"But who can they be?"

"There are too many of them!" laughed Lily; "wouldn't you say that there were more than fifteen of us here now?"

Lily made an effort to count, but the guests moved so constantly that the act was almost impossible. However, when seven more masqueraders arrived in a group, the girls' suspicions were confirmed. Miss Phillips must have invited outsiders! Perhaps she even knew the marks, and from them was able to ascertain which girls would be Girl Scouts, and wishing to surprise the troop, had secretly invited them.

The riddle was too much for them; Lily gave it up, and returned to the fun of acting the part of lover to Marjorie. She was just putting her arm affectionately about her room-mate, when the trained nurse, who was supposed to represent Florence Nightingale, approached, and, in a very squeaky, obviously disguised voice, said,

"I'm jealous, young man. Won't you please kiss me?"

Lily laughingly leaned toward the intruder and was about to grant the request, when her eyes fell upon the nurse's hand. It could not belong to a girl!

"Who are you?" she demanded indignantly.

"Florence Nightingale!"

Lily stamped her foot impatiently. "No, I mean in real life!"

The other raised the mask obediently, and to the girls' astonishment, revealed himself as Dick Roberts!

"The Boy Scouts!" cried Lily, out loud, and the news spread like wild fire.

The guessing began, and the votes were taken. After a few moments, the prize was awarded to General Pershing—a girl, evidently—who was dressed in a real Army uniform, adorned with many medals and campaign bars. Across the front, on a white ribbon, she wore, to the amusement of everyone, these letters:

"COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF!"

That, and her mustache, made a mistake impossible.

But no one guessed her identity, until Marjorie noticing her hands, exclaimed,

"Ruth Henry!" and the victor laughingly unmasked.

It was another triumph for Ruth!

Miss Phillips called for the boys to volunteer to carry in the tubs of water filled with apples, and as Marjorie watched the proceeding a homesick feeling stole over her. John Hadley was no longer there!

She glanced at Lily, radiant with the excitement and pleasure, and decided that she, too, would find some boy to be interested in. Turning around at the mention of her own name, she found David Conner waiting to put her name on his dance program.

The Scouts played games and danced until ten o'clock, and then Miss Phillips announced that refreshments were ready in the basement.

"The basement!" repeated Frances, in amazement. "Do you mean that, Captain?"

"Yes; and we are going to reach it through the underground connection between the gym and the main building," explained Miss Phillips; "so we shall walk over to the main hall and go down the cellar and then follow single file through this dark passage to the basement. You may see something weird!"

"Who's going to lead?" asked Ruth, her eyes shining with excitement.

"We'll draw lots!"

And, by the irony of chance, the part fell to Doris Sands, the most timid girl in the troop.

"Oh, Captain, I'll die of fright!" she protested.

"It's only play, Doris! You won't mind."

Laughing and chatting gaily they strolled in groups across the driveway to the main building; then down the narrow cellar steps at the rear of the hall, and across the cellar to a dark passage.

"Here we are!" announced Miss Phillips, calling everyone to a halt. "Now get in single file."

Doris went first, with Roger Harris behind; then came Ruth, Jack Wilkinson, Marjorie, and Lily—all eager for the adventure. Forming a long chain with their right hands on the shoulders in front, they advanced cautiously. After the first few steps, the passage became lower, and pitch-black; they had to bend down and feel their way step by step as they went.

"Oh!" shrieked Doris, stopping suddenly. "Look! Ugh!"

Roger and Ruth, peering around her shoulder, caught sight of a pair of gleaming eyes piercing through the darkness.

"It's a cat!" cried Roger, reassuringly. "But how in the world did you succeed in keeping it there?"

"I tied a chicken-bone to a stone," answered Miss Phillips. "And nothing will induce pussy to leave."

Frightened by the voices, the cat fled immediately, and the procession continued. In a minute or two, Doris caught sight of a ghost. But this time she was not really frightened.

"I know it's only a dummy!" she said. "I'm not afraid any more!"

But when the ghost actually began to stretch out its arms and move towards her, Doris admitted that she was scared, and clung, trembling, to Roger. For the hands of the ghost were the bony structures of a human skeleton, and its head was an empty skull!

"That's our lab skeleton, I'll bet!" exclaimed Roger. "But who's moving it?"

"I am!" laughed David Conner, throwing off his disguise.

With another yard, light was visible ahead, and the basement of the gymnasium came into view. Doris breathed a sigh of relief.

"It's nice to stand up straight again, isn't it?" remarked Marjorie, as the whole party reached the less cramped quarters. "But that was a great idea, Captain!"

"Wouldn't it make a jolly place to haze freshmen?" commented Ruth, who never grew tired of playing tricks.

"Refreshments are ready!" announced the Captain. "Look for your place-cards."

The basement was so cleverly camouflaged and the table so charmingly decorated that the effect could not have been better in the most elaborate dining hall. Corn-stalks, crepe-paper, candles, and favors worked wonders with the usually ugly room.

It seemed, too as if there were everything imaginable to eat—sandwiches, doughnuts, cider, apples, nuts, and candy—indeed, Marjorie regretted that she must eat carefully, for she was still in training.

Seated with David Conner next to her on one side and Dick Roberts on the other, she had not a single dull moment in which to regret the absence of John Hadley. All too soon the party came to an end.

"If only our good turns were as successful as our good times," remarked Marjorie, as she and Lily made their way to their room, "Pansy troop would be wonderful!"

"You're worrying about Frieda Hammer again," remonstrated Lily. "Do try to forget her!"

"I almost wish I could!" replied the other, with a sigh.



CHAPTER XI

THE HAUNTED HOUSE

It was the first of November, the day when the reports were to be given out!

Marjorie had no fears for her own marks now, she knew that she would pass creditably. But she glanced sympathetically towards Alice Endicott, and Daisy Gravers, those freshmen who were so anxiously waiting for the deciding factor.

She recalled the parallel situation, early last spring, when she had awaited her own report with such trepidation. And then to have been disappointed—through Ruth's cruel dishonesty! She hoped with all her heart that there was no such disappointment in store for Alice.

Miss Allen's secretary read the list, and the girls came forward to receive their reports, stumbling back to their seats in their haste to examine them. Marjorie found herself calm when her own name was called, but actually trembling when Alice answered the summons.

Miss Phillips had promised to hike to a certain so-called "haunted house" in the vicinity, taking a picnic supper,—in celebration of the new Scouts. The troop had agreed to meet for a moment at the rear of the assembly room to learn who these girls would be.

But Marjorie did not need to wait for the meeting to know the news from Alice. The girl's expression of bitter mortification told the story only too plainly! Marjorie dropped her eyes; she could not bear to see her cry.

And then an overwhelming feeling of remorse took possession of her. Perhaps it was her fault! Perhaps, if instead of wasting time and thoughts upon good-for-nothing Frieda Hammer, she had helped Alice in her studies, she might now be a Scout! And yet Marjorie was sincere enough with herself to know that she did not, even now, care so much about Alice or her success, as she did about Frieda. She realized, too, that although a week had gone by, she was still hoping that the runaway would return. Every day she went to the library to read the advertisements and personals in the newspapers in search of a clue. And every day, too, she read about the crimes, fearful lest she might discover Frieda's name, or a description of her, among the accounts.

Bringing her thoughts back with an effort to Alice Endicott and the Scouts she hurried over, at the dismissal of the assembly, to the place where the freshman was standing.

"What branch did you fail in, Alice?" she asked, in the most matter-of-fact tone she could assume. She knew that here in public was no place for sympathy.

"Chemistry!" answered Alice, with a brave effort to suppress a sob.

"Chemistry?" repeated Marjorie. "But I don't understand—I thought you made ninety-five in that test!"

"I did; but I cut three afternoon lab periods for hockey!"

Marjorie laughed in relief. "Why, child, you can easily make that up! In less than a week you'll be a Scout! Is everything else all right?"

"Apparently."

Immensely cheered by Marjorie's words and manner, Alice proclaimed herself ready to join the Girl Scouts at the other end of the room. Here they encountered wild hilarity. Everybody was congratulating the new girls. Mae VanHorn, Florence Evans, Daisy Gravers, and Barbara Hill had all made the required mark.

Alice, now quite calm and self-controlled, told her story, to which Marjorie added her own interpretation.

"But you'll miss the hike!" exclaimed Florence.

"Oh, are you going right away?" asked Alice, dolefully.

"This very afternoon!" replied Miss Phillips. "I'm sorry, Alice, but the arrangements are all made. Anyhow, we'll soon have another!"

The leaves were falling, and the air was quite sharp; the Scouts wore heavy sweaters and woolen caps to protect them from the cold.

"We'll look for nuts," said Miss Phillips. "Remember our lesson on edible plants?"

"Yes, indeed!" they all cried. "But you didn't tell us anything about nuts."

"We'll make it a game," answered the Captain. "Each girl who finds a new variety will get a point. Whoever has the greatest number of points by the time we reach the haunted house, wins!"

"How are we to know the haunted house, Captain?" asked Doris. "I've never seen it. Is there a story about it?"

"There is really no way of telling that the house is haunted, Doris; it looks like any other house, except that it is larger, and was once upon a time much finer than any of the other houses for miles around. I have seen it on a number of occasions, and I have heard the legend that is still told about it; but I've never been inside, so I'm rather curious to see what it's like. That's why I suggested that we have our suppers there."

"But does anyone live there?" asked Lily.

"No," replied Miss Phillips; "it has not been occupied for years and years—not since anybody around this locality can remember. Some of the uneducated people hereabouts still believe it is haunted, I understand; but it is rather unreasonable to suppose that any of the more cultured ones take any stock in the old story. While the fact that it was supposed to be haunted may have kept people from living in it a good many years ago, I think the real reason it is vacant nowadays is because it is so large that it would require a fortune to fix it up—it never seems to have had any care taken of it—and another fortune to keep it going after it had been made habitable. I believe it is still owned by the heirs of the original owner, who live in England, and that the estate is looked after by a firm in Philadelphia, which rents the ground to the farmers. Why, a few years ago, I passed by the house often, and after I had heard the legend, I determined to go inside, but I could never get up enough courage."

"Did you use to live around here, Captain?" asked Marjorie.

"That was when I was a student at Miss Allen's," answered Miss Phillips.

"A student at Miss Allen's?" echoed the girls, in surprise.

"I never knew that," said Marjorie. "You never told us before, Captain," she added reproachfully.

"Didn't I?" laughed their leader. "Well, I did go to Miss Allen's; and I liked it so well that I did not want to leave; so when I finished college, I went back as teacher."

"No wonder you seem so much like one of us," remarked Marjorie.

"Do I?" said the other, rather flattered by the suggestion, in the girl's remark, of the place she held in their affections. "Perhaps that is because I feel like one of you."

"Captain, won't you tell us the story of the haunted house?" begged Doris, who, while she was the most timid girl among them, was always the most eager to hear about ghosts, as if she really enjoyed the creepy feeling that it gave her.

"Oh, it's too long to tell now, Doris. But I may tell you some other time; perhaps if I told you now, some of you would not want to visit the place."

"Captain! I've got a chestnut!" cried Ruth, holding up a small, familiar nut.

"Sure enough—there's the tree! Let's stop here a minute, and all get some."

Most of the girls succeeded in gathering a handful, before they started on. They proceeded at a leisurely pace, pausing now and then to hunt for nuts or to examine other objects of interest to the student of nature.

"Why, there are some birds, and they're not sparrows, either!" said Daisy Gravers, indicating several slate-colored birds about the size of English sparrows. "I didn't know there were any other winter birds around here!"

"They are Juncos, or Snowbirds," explained the Captain. "They are a winter bird with us, and as soon as the warm weather comes they will fly north. Don't forget to put them down in your notebooks, girls."

They had now reached the outskirts of the woods, through which they had been walking for some time, and Miss Phillips called a halt and suggested that they count their nuts. Ruth, who had been the most diligent searcher, won the game, having found a greater number of varieties than any of the other girls. The Scout Captain told them something about each variety and the tree upon which it grew, before they continued their walk.

"Only a short distance along this road, and we reach the haunted house," said Miss Phillips.

The girls walked closer around her. They had emerged into open country, and were climbing a winding road which extended before them uphill; on their left the land descended gradually to a valley below them, where in the distance, they could see the scattered houses nestled among the fields of fertile farm-land.

"The nearest village is about a mile down the valley," the Captain informed them. "When the haunted house was built it was the farthest away from the village, but since that time a number of others have sprung up all around here."

Mounting to the top of the hill, they found that the road, instead of dipping suddenly down again, was level; and that to the right of it there started a high stone wall which followed the irregularities of the road for a considerable distance. It was covered with lichen and moss, and showed gaps here and there where the mortar had crumbled away and the stones fallen in a heap upon the ground; while in other places, the tangled growth of ivy vines almost entirely obscured the stonework.

The Scouts kept to the road until they came to a break in the wall which formed the gateway. Wide open and sagging inward, two massive gates of iron grill-work had rusted and settled upon their hinges until they were firmly imbedded and immovable in the ground. The girls stopped and were examining the intricacy and beauty of the design in the wrought iron-work, when an old woman came hobbling along the road towards them. Doris shivered; in fact, all of the girls trembled in spite of themselves: for the creature, thin, tattered, and old, reminded them of a ghost herself.

"I wouldn't go in there, if I was you girls," she warned them, holding up her bony hand. "There was a strange-lookin' figer there last week or so! Nobody seen her come, and nobody seen her go—only once or twice some of us that lives near-by saw her through the winder. Some said she were a human, out of her mind, some says she were a spirit—only but for the boat she brung with her, and went away in again!"

"The boat!" repeated Marjorie, breathlessly. "Was it a canoe?"

But the old woman shook her head; she did not know any distinction among varieties of boats.

"She must 'a come by the stream at the back of the house, and vanished the same way," muttered the stranger; "but whoever she was, she wan't no good! What with her, and the old ghost that some says shrieks around the house o' nights nobody'd get me inside! I wish you wouldn't go in!"

"Oh, nothing will hurt us," said Miss Phillips, gently. "We want some place that is protected from the wind where we can eat our supper."

"It was Frieda! I know it was Frieda!" cried Marjorie, after the old woman had left them.

"Well, what if it was?" remarked Ruth. "You'll never see your canoe again, so there's no use of your getting so excited."

"Probably not," assented Marjorie, making a desperate effort to calm herself. For Ruth could never understand what the thing meant to her. Nevertheless, she was encouraged to have this much information about the girl.

Close together, and keyed up with excitement, they advanced eagerly along the lane leading to the house, which they could see about a hundred yards away, gray-white through the grove of tall trees which surrounded it. And as they drew nearer their agitation seemed to become intensified, as if they were about to discover—they knew not what!

The house itself was a perfect example of old Colonial mansion, with its wide, hospitable doorway before which tall columns supported a balcony. Its exterior, despite the appearance of age and decay that was everywhere apparent, was still impressive by reason of its great beauty of design.

Standing among the rank weeds which grew waist high about the place, they gazed in awe at the walls which once were white, but now were streaked and weather stained; at the windows, whose broken panes admitted the rain or the sunshine, and from which the shutters were sagging or had fallen completely away; at the shingles of the roof, violet-toned and curling up; and at the nests the birds had built in the chimneys and eaves.

As Miss Phillips stepped upon the low porch, the rotting boards bent beneath her weight. Trying the knob of the massive door, she found it locked.

"I guess we'll have to get in some other way," she said. "Let's walk around and investigate."

They followed her around to the back, where through the trees they caught sight of the glistening water of the stream. But here also the doors were locked, and not wishing to effect an entrance through a window if a door were available, they passed around to the left wing. Here they mounted the broad piazza, and Ruth turned the knob of the door, which opened. She entered boldly, while the rest of the girls followed more cautiously behind her. They were in a large room, well lighted by its many windows. A damp, musty odor pervaded the place.

"This was evidently the conservatory," remarked the Captain. "Let's look farther."

They explored room after room, holding their breath as they entered each one, as if they were about to discover something strange and terrifying there. But there was nothing but dust and cobwebs to greet their eyes. They went about opening doors, investigating bedrooms, peering into closets; but they could find nothing interesting or exciting—not the slightest vestige of a ghost.

"I guess this ghost only walks at night," said Lily,—"or at certain seasons of the year."

"It certainly looks that way, doesn't it?" agreed Doris, grown quite brave.

Up to this time, not one girl had actually admitted to herself that she did not expect to find a ghost; and none could tell from the Captain's expression what she thought of it; but now they were positive that they did not believe in ghosts—the idea was too preposterous—especially when Lily, upon opening a closet-door, exposed an old wig-form which lay on the shelf, and which caused them great amusement.

"I dare say the people who lived here wore artificial wigs, both men and women," commented Miss Phillips; "it was about that period."

If there ever was a ghost, it was one which left no traces; and the girls became more at ease in this atmosphere of emptiness. They did, however, have one brief moment of panic. They had all climbed the stairs to the third floor and had paused upon the landing, undecided as to which way they should go first, when a sharp whirring or rustling was heard in the room nearest them.

For an instant they all stood perfectly still, paralyzed by fright. Then Miss Phillips, with a quick step forward, flung open the door. This act started the rustling again; and through the open doorway they could see that it was nothing but a swallow which had in some way become imprisoned there. Marjorie caught it in her hand, where it lay palpitating distressedly; and thrusting her arm through a broken pane of glass, allowed the creature to escape.

The short autumn day was drawing to a close, and the chillness of the damp, musty atmosphere was beginning to affect the girls unpleasantly. The sight of another fireplace—there seemed to be one in every room—recalled Miss Phillips's thoughts to practical things.

"Let's go down to that big room," she suggested, "and prepare our supper."

In fifteen minutes a bright fire was going and the kettle boiling cheerily. The girls were so busy hurrying to and fro in preparation of the meal that they had forgotten the ghost.

It was only after they were seated on the floor, and had time to look around, that Marjorie recalled the situation to their minds by remarking,

"Can you imagine Frieda Hammer staying here all night long by herself?"

The girls shuddered at the suggestion.

"Wouldn't it be great if we could trace her?" said Edith, after a moment's silence. "I hate to think of her all alone—with no protection."

"Yes," answered Miss Phillips, "though I haven't said much about the matter, the girl has been constantly in my mind. And I wanted to tell you that I have written to a friend of mine, a woman who is a private detective, and asked her to look into the matter. She would, of course, make nothing public, but would only try to bring Frieda back here, or send her home.

"But I have been thinking that perhaps some of you girls might have a plan, so I am going to offer a medal of merit to any Scout who locates her. During Thanksgiving—well, I will leave it to you! But we simply must find Frieda!"

The fire had died down to the coals, and the girls grew silent as they gazed dreamily at the pictures their imaginations invented. It was Doris who spoke first.

"Now is a good time for the story, Captain. Please tell us!" she pleaded.

Miss Phillips hesitated, glancing keenly at the eager faces of the girls around her, who now seemed perfectly calm and self-possessed. Then she looked at her watch; it was not quite six o'clock. There would still be time; but she hesitated to tell a ghost-story in the same house—in the very room!—where the ghost was supposed to appear. It was the girls' own tranquil manner that decided her.

"When I was a freshman at Miss Allen's," she began, "I roomed with a sophomore whose home was not far from here. Several times I went with her to spend week-ends with her parents. On one of these occasions, after we had finished dinner and were comfortably seated around the open fire, her grandfather—a very old man with snow-white hair—was talking of his boyhood in this neighborhood. Even then this house was believed haunted, but the story was better known than it is now, when there are few living who could tell the details. It was my good fortune to hear it from his own lips, just as his grandfather had told him.

"His grandfather, he said, was a frequent guest here in the old days. The man who built this house came over from England, it was said, to escape scandal. Very wealthy, handsome, and of noble birth, to all appearances he was a gentleman, having a very gracious way about him; but in reality he was wayward, headstrong, and dissipated. He entertained lavishly, and his parties were the talk of the countryside—especially the dress-ball which he gave every New Year's Eve, starting at midnight and continuing throughout the next day and night. It was after one of these New Year's parties, which was particularly riotous, that he disappeared as mysteriously as he had come. Friends who called at the house several days after the event found that the servants and the furniture had vanished, no one knew whither, and the house completely empty. Naturally, this gave rise to much speculation on the part of the townsfolk, who invented many stories; some said that he had repented of his evil ways and fled into retirement; others that the devil had carried him off for a companion in wickedness.

"Meanwhile, the house remained deserted, and decay set in. It was not until the following New Year's Eve that it was seen occupied again; then, two men who were returning late from a revel took a short-cut through the garden in front of the house. The moon, flooding the house with a pale light, showed shadows passing and repassing before the windows of the reception hall. The watchers clutched at each other in sudden fear.

"'This is the anniversary!' said one, in a hoarse whisper; and they went home to talk it over.

"They agreed to say nothing about it; but when the next night still another saw the same occurrence, they made the story known. That was the beginning of the ghost legend. And while the place continued deserted and silent at all other times, year after year on the anniversary of the great ball, some late reveler was sure to report tales of strange doings there. It formed a fine topic of discussion on a winter evening at the inn, when the wind outside howled about the four corners.

"Now there were those who believed in these old wives' tales, and those who did not; and numbered among the scoffers was one Simon Some-body-or-other, whom the village folk called Simple Simon, partly because of his foolish appearance, and partly because of his great love for pies. Simon was the village fiddler—in fact, he had never been known to do anything else—and was in great demand at all the feasts and dances about the countryside. His awkward, angular form was a familiar sight at all such festivities, where he could be found in a corner by himself, out of the way, his head cocked to one side, eyes gazing up at the ceiling, and an idiotic smile on his face, fiddling as if his life depended on it. If the dancers had been as tireless as Simon, they would never have stopped to rest, for he ran on from one tune to another without the slightest intermission; indeed, the only times he paused at all would come right in the middle of the piece, and the dancers would wait, stranded in the center of the floor, while he raised the mug of ale which always stood well filled at his elbow; for they never allowed him to go thirsty. This eccentricity they overlooked, because Simon was himself so obliging.

"One night in the inn-parlor, three gossips, heads together and elbows on the table, were discussing the haunted house. Simon joined them, scoffing as usual.

"'I tell you what I'll do,' said one. 'You sleep the night there, this coming New Year's Eve, and I'll buy you a keg of the best ale in this cellar!'

"Simon could only gasp at this proposal; but the magnificence of the reward was too much for him. 'Done!' he cried; and without considering the consequences, agreed to pass a night among the ghosts. The only requirement was that he should go to the house before midnight, and remain there until sunrise.

"The weeks passed, and the wager was apparently forgotten; at least, Simon hoped that it was, for he had repented his rashness. But it was not forgotten; when the time drew near, he was reminded of it, and became more apprehensive. Were those stories true? He doubted. Only at night, as he lay in bed sleepless, he felt a peculiar sinking sensation within him. It was noticed that he became pale and worn, was quieter than usual, and played more out of tune; and he even seemed to be losing his appetite for pies.

"But none of these things let him off; and when the fateful evening came, Simon, with his beloved fiddle tucked beneath his arm for companionship, and a lantern, appeared at the inn. They wished him good luck and pleasant dreams, doubting nevertheless that he would have either; and the landlord, a kindly soul, slipped a cold snack and a jug of his best ale into his hand.

"Outside he paused to look back upon the cheery comfort of the inn-parlor. Well, there was nothing now but to go ahead with it, he reflected; and with a heavy heart, he turned his steps in the direction of the haunted house.

"Though the moon had not yet risen, there was sufficient light from the stars for him to see his way. It was strange, he thought, how familiar objects which he had never particularly noted before, now had a friendly look, with the whiteness of the frost upon them. Simon walked fast, as if to keep up both his circulation and his courage, and his step sounded crisply upon the hard dirt road.

"When he was abreast of the house, he hesitated. The moon, mounting above the treetops, was shining upon the windows. There was no sound, no movement, from within. Breathless, he entered. His own footsteps echoed and re-echoed about the bare, vault-like hall, emphasizing its emptiness. He closed the door behind him, made a light in his lantern, and whistling loudly to keep up his courage, entered the living-hall. The air was damp and chilly; his breath came like smoke from his nostrils. Setting his lantern upon the floor, he crossed to the fireplace and tossed in fagots and logs from the supply which was still there. The merry crackle of the burning logs, and the warmth and light of the fire cheered him, somewhat; and he attacked the jug and the meat-pie provided by the thoughtful landlord. Revived by the food, he lit his pipe, and taking up his violin, commenced to play. He went over all the tunes he knew, played them in different keys and with variations, to while away the evening; and every time he felt his courage deserting him he turned to his jug for moral support. As you can guess, he did this pretty frequently until, just as he was draining the last drop, he heard a door bang somewhere upstairs, and a rustling in the hall above him. Almost afraid to breathe, he sat there waiting for a recurrence of the sound. Everything was perfectly still except the burning logs in the fireplace. After a while Simon began to fancy that he had not really heard anything, but that his overwrought nerves were playing a trick upon him; so he rose, tiptoed across the room and stood back in the shadows of the great curving stairway, listening. Again he heard sounds above him, more rustling, and footsteps this time. A chill passed over him and the blood froze in his veins; at every fresh noise he felt as if a million pins were pricking his scalp. But nothing happened, and when the sounds had apparently ceased, he waited where he was, leaning against the stairway, so paralyzed with fear that he could not move from the spot.

"He remained thus, listening, while the evening wore away. In spite of his fear Simon became drowsy. The wind outside had risen, and was rattling the shutters and roaring in the chimney, causing the fire to brighten and burst into a feeble flame. Then a wonderful thing happened! The great hall suddenly became ablaze with the light of hundreds of candles. In wonder Simon raised his head and saw a stately procession of men and women, fully fifty couples, arm-in-arm descending the stairs. They wore beautiful clothing—not a bit like the people in the village—but such as Simon had never seen before, except in pictures. He who was apparently the host strode over to the fire and kicked the logs into a blaze, while others gathered about it to warm their hands. Simon thought the scene a grand sight, with their lace ruffles, knee-breeches, wigs, and buckled shoes; and he was lost in admiration of the women, with their powdered hair and white shoulders, their jewels, and their bright eyes which shone so coquettishly above their fans. If these were ghosts, he reflected, they were very gallant ones, and good to look at; he was beginning to be glad he had come when the host suddenly clapped his hands together, and looking his way, ordered the music to begin. There seemed nothing out of the way in all this to Simon as he tucked his fiddle beneath his chin, and drawing the bow across the strings, commenced playing a waltz. Partners were chosen, and the dancing began. Simon, as usual, went from one tune to another, but these people never tired; all night long the dancing continued; and when Simon, weary and thirsty, paused from habit to reach for the mug of ale which was not at his elbow, the host glared at him so furiously that he went on playing more frantically than ever. Faster and faster the mad phantoms danced, swirling around and around the room; faster and faster he fiddled, till his arm ached and his back felt broken; and just as the revel had reached the highest pitch and the fiddle was squeaking its loudest, the stairway against which he was leaning seemed to give way, and Simon fell with a crash. Dazed and bruised from the fall, he sat up; the phantoms had vanished, the lantern was out, and the fire had burned down and was casting flickering shadows about the walls. In growing horror, Simon ran screaming from the house, and down the road to the inn as fast as his legs could carry him. He burst in upon them, his fiddle clutched tightly in one hand, the picture of terror.

"Of course, his story was greeted with knowing looks and sly winks behind his back; and he told it to all who would listen. He continued to fiddle about the village as he had done before, but he was never quite the same after that adventure; the haunted house seemed to have a fascination for him, and it was noticed that he hung about it frequently, though he never entered. And when he announced his intention of spending the next New Year's Eve with the phantoms, the people knew he was crazy and urged him not to do so. But he could not resist; early in the evening of that last day of the year, he was seen making his way towards the haunted house, his fiddle beneath his arm.

"He never came back!"



CHAPTER XII

THE DINNER-DANCE

"And I thought all along that Miss Phillips didn't care!"

Marjorie made the remark softly, almost as if she were talking to herself instead of to Lily, as the girls sat together in their room crocheting after supper. All the Scouts had pledged the hour of seven to eight in the evening, unless something unusual was going on, to work for the bazaar.

"Didn't care about what?" asked Lily. "Men?"

Marjorie laughed. "No, not that. I mean about Frieda's being lost."

"Yes, I thought it was funny, too, though, of course, I didn't expect her to throw up her job and go on an aimless sort of journey to find her. Miss Phillips has too much good sense for anything wild like that."

"She has done the wisest thing possible by using that private detective," continued Marjorie; "but somehow, Lil, I don't think she'll ever find her. I think it's sort of up to us."

"But how?"

"That I don't know, except to keep our eyes open."

"Oh, Marj!" exclaimed Lily, interrupting her, and changing the subject. "Do you 'spose the mail's been sorted? It was late to-night, you know."

"What makes you so anxious?" teased Marjorie. "Hearing from Dick Roberts?"

"Now Marj—don't be silly!"

"But you are expecting something?"

Lily toyed with her crochet needle, pulling out a long loop of the wool and holding it over her finger. The baby's sweater that she was making was almost finished.

"Guess I will run down to the office," she said, putting her work upon the table; "I'll be right back."

By the time she returned Marjorie had forgotten all about the mail; her thoughts were again with Frieda, imagining all sorts of horrors for the ignorant, unresourceful girl, in some strange place.

"Three letters!" cried Lily, triumphantly. "I didn't open mine either; I waited for you!"

Marjorie's eyes brightened; mail was always welcome.

"You have to guess the postmark, or who it's from!" teased Lily, holding her hand over the letter.

"Princeton?" asked Marjorie, bending over her crochet to hide a blush.

"Nope!"

Lily tossed the missile into the other girl's lap, for she was too eager to open her own two letters to cause any further delay. She and Marjorie had each received square, khaki-colored envelopes, with the well-known fleur-de-lis on the flap. They were from the Boy Scouts.

"A dance!" cried Marjorie, jumping up in glee, and dropping her crochet upon the floor. "In honor of the hockey team!"

"Isn't it great, Marj? Who's inviting you?"

"David Conner! Who's your partner?"

"Dick!"

"Of course he is! I needn't have asked."

"John Hadley had better look out," remarked Lily; "or somebody else will have his girl."

"I'm not anybody's girl!" protested Marjorie, indignantly. And then, demurely—"Only father's!"

"A dinner-dance!" repeated Lily, reading her invitation for the third time. "Marj, have you ever been to one?"

"Never!"

"How do you suppose they got Miss Allen's permission?"

"Oh, Miss Phillips saw to that! She can get anything she wants!" returned Marjorie.

"I hope we beat Miss Martin's team, or we'll feel rather blue. And think of so much in one day—a hockey game with them, and a dinner and a dance with the Boy Scouts! And all the day before we go home for Thanksgiving!"

"Who's your other letter from, Lil?" asked Marjorie, noticing the envelope unopened on the table.

"Oh, I forgot! And I ought to be ashamed. It's from mama."

She read a few lines and her face lighted up happily. "Marj," she said, looking up shyly, "mama and papa want you to spend the Thanksgiving holidays with us. Can you? Oh, please——"

Marjorie threw her arms about Lily, squeezing her for joy.

"I'd love to! I've never been in New York. Oh, if father and mother will only let me!"

"We'll go to the theater, and ride on the bus—and maybe invite John and Dick there for dinner—and—and——!"

Marjorie let go of her room-mate, and went over to her desk. "I'm going to write home this very minute," she announced, and seated herself to begin the task.

The Boy Scouts had included thirteen girls of the hockey squad in their invitation, and Miss Phillips, of course. Twelve of these girls were Girl Scouts; Alice Endicott, who had not yet made up her chemistry laboratory work, was still outside of Pansy troop.

The hockey game, the dinner-dance, and the holiday preparations made the very air seem to tingle with excitement and anticipation. When the day came, Marjorie made no attempt to reserve her energy for the later events; she sang and danced about all morning with happiness. This year she was well prepared to meet Miss Martin's team, not only individually, for she was in good practice and excellent physical trim herself, but as captain of her own team, she felt confident of her players.

The girls were out on the field early, practicing "passes," and warming up for the game. Everyone on the team expected to play; but Helen Stewart and Barbara Hill, besides one or two other moderately good players, came in readiness to substitute should they be needed.

As the team from Miss Martin's approached the field, the critical observer could mark the difference between these girls and those from the home team. Long hikes, sensible clothing and food, and two weeks at the Scout camp with exposure to all kinds of weather, had hardened Miss Allen's girls and added something almost boyish to their bearing. And in Marjorie they had an excellent captain, resourceful and confident of success, whose calm assurance inspired them.

From the opening stroke when Marjorie, the center forward, sent the ball at one bound across the field to her left forward, who dodged the opposing half-back, the game seemed almost a walk-over for Miss Allen's girls. Only once did Miss Martin's side make a goal, and then Lily Andrews took all the blame for it upon herself.

"I thought it was too easy," she afterward explained to Marjorie, "and I didn't work hard enough. It served me right, but I'm sorry for the team."

At the end of the first half, with the score six to two in their favor, Miss Phillips decided to give both the regular substitutes a chance. But instead of making it easier for the opponents, it became more difficult, for Helen Stewart had always been a good player, and Barbara Hill, who had successful streaks, seemed to be particularly lucky. It was an easy victory for Miss Allen's girls; the final score was fourteen to two.

"This decides me!" exclaimed Miss Martin, after she had congratulated Miss Phillips and her team. "Now I am convinced of the value of a Girl Scout troop."

"If you'd see our reports, you'd be still more convinced," remarked Miss Allen, coming up behind her, and overhearing the remark.

"When can you come over and demonstrate?" pursued the visitor, turning again to the gym teacher.

"Better wait till after Christmas, hadn't we?" suggested Miss Phillips. "Does that suit you?"

"Perfectly," replied the other.

Marjorie and Lily lingered only long enough to avoid being rude to their guests, and then hurried off to their room to prepare for the party.

"Isn't it fun to be able to wear something besides the Scout uniform?" remarked Lily, as she removed the muslin with which her pink canton-crepe was covered. "I don't believe the Boy Scouts have ever seen me in anything else! And I'm going to curl my hair."

Marjorie smiled; Lily certainly did look better in pretty dresses, for she was not the type of girl who could wear a uniform to advantage.

They dressed leisurely, and by half-past five were ready to go over to the gymnasium, where they were to meet the other girls. They arrived early, but Ruth and Mae and several others were already there.

"It doesn't seem like an athletic event," remarked Ruth, glancing at the dainty dresses of the girls. "It seems more like a musical comedy."

"And that reminds me," said Miss Phillips, who had just come in, charming in a gray georgette with a lavender girdle, and wearing a bouquet of violets, "that reminds me that I would like the Scouts to give a sort of musical comedy in the spring."

"Great!" cried Ruth. She had a passably good voice, and she knew it—also, she knew that Marjorie could scarcely carry a tune.

By this time everyone had arrived, and they all started for the tea-room in the village which the boys had obtained for the occasion. Marjorie was curious to know who gave Miss Phillips her violets, but not daring to tease her, she tried to content herself by whispering about it to Lily.

If the girls, in their pretty party dresses, made a sensation with the boys, the latter, in their turn, appeared very different in their neat, dark suits to the girls, who were so accustomed to seeing them in their official uniforms. There were only thirteen boys present, who had been chosen according to their standing, and Mr. Remington, the Scoutmaster.

The girls descended the stairs, after leaving their wraps in the dressing room, and each boy sought his own particular partner to escort her to the dining-room. Two long tables, each seating fourteen persons, were beautifully decorated with yellow crepe-paper, favors, and large bunches of chrysanthemums in the center. The lights, too, were covered with yellow paper.

"It's lovely!" cried Marjorie with delight. "And hockey season's over, so we can just eat and eat!"

It was a typical Thanksgiving dinner, with turkey and brown gravy, and cranberry sauce. There was only a simple salad but everybody was expected to eat both mince pie and ice-cream, and to finish with nuts, raisins and candy.

"I'll never be able to dance a step," sighed Lily at the conclusion of the feast, as she languidly stirred her coffee.

"We're not going to, for a while," answered David. "For we have other entertainment."

"What?" asked Ruth, overhearing the conversation, and always eager for novelty.

"A fortune teller!" he replied. "She is going to tell all the girls' fortunes!"

Marjorie clapped her hands. "What fun! Nothing could possibly be nicer," she said, happily.

"And will she answer questions?" asked Lily.

"One question for each girl!" said Dick.

"I know what mine will be!" declared Marjorie, without the least hesitation.

"'Does Princeton miss me?'" teased Ruth.

"Wrong again, Ruth," said Marjorie, shaking her head.

The fortune teller, a real gypsy, arrived in a few moments, and the party adjourned to the dance room to listen. Sitting down upon the floor near the fireplace, she produced a soiled pack of cards; then, addressing the girls one by one, she painted glorious futures for them, with ocean trips, "dark" or "blond" men, letters, and inheritances. It was all good fun, and most of the girls did not take her seriously. Their favorite question was, of course, "Will I get married?" to which the woman invariably answered "Yes"—or, sometimes, "Twice!"

But Marjorie's question was a little different.

"Where is Frieda Hammer?" She asked it seriously, trembling in spite of herself.

The fortune teller half closed her eyes, and there was intense silence for a moment. Then she replied slowly,

"New York!"

"Oh, thank you!" cried Marjorie, believing in spite of her better judgment. "And we'll find her, Lil!" she added, glancing significantly at her room-mate.

Around nine o'clock the dancing began, David Conner had naturally arranged Marjorie's program to give himself the first dance.

"Did you know Jack invited me home with him for Thanksgiving?" he asked, watching her closely, hoping to see an expression of pleasure cross her face.

But her eyes did not change.

"That's nice," she replied. "I'm sorry I won't be there—I've accepted an invitation to go home with my room-mate."

David looked disappointed. Did Marjorie still care for John Hadley, to the exclusion of all other boys? He could not help wondering about it, and, somehow, felt vaguely jealous.

The hour and a half of dancing passed all too quickly, and the girls were summoned by Miss Phillips to get their wraps. As the boys joined them to accompany them back to school, David sought Marjorie, hoping to have her to himself. But he did not find her conversation very satisfactory, for her mind seemed far away, and he was relieved to have Lily and Dick join them.

Marjorie had enjoyed her evening, but now she was eager to be alone with Lily, to discuss, in private, what the fortune teller had said about Frieda's whereabouts.

"And I really can't help attaching some importance to what she said," she remarked, when the girls were finally alone. "Oh, Lil," she added, "just suppose we should find her! This very week, perhaps!"

"But New York's a big place, Marj!" observed Lily, rubbing her eyes, sleepily. "So don't get your hopes too high!"



CHAPTER XIII

THE THANKSGIVING HOLIDAYS

Seven o'clock came all too soon for Marjorie and Lily, as they opened their eyes at the sound of the rising bell.

"Don't you wish we could stay in bed?" yawned Marjorie, glancing at the clock.

"We can to-morrow; mama will let us have breakfast in bed every single morning, if we like."

"Oh, Lil, that sounds too good to be true! I know we'll have a wonderful time."

There were only three hours of classes; after an early luncheon, school was dismissed. Everybody took the one-o'clock train for home.

"Frieda saved me the trouble of expressing my canoe home," remarked Marjorie, when the girls were comfortably seated together in the train. "But how I wish I'd find it—and her, too!"

"Maybe we shall," said Lily. "Don't forget the fortune teller!"

"But New York's pretty big, isn't it?" Having lived all of her life in a small town, Marjorie had only a vague idea of the size of the great city.

Lily laughed good-naturedly. "Wait till you see it," she said. "It's simply tremendous—and so crowded and confusing."

"Poor Frieda!" sighed Marjorie.

Mrs. Andrews's chauffeur met the train, bringing the former's regrets at not being present in person.

"Mama's out so much," explained Lily. "Teas and charity work, you know."

As Marjorie entered the big limousine, she realized that she had never ridden in so luxurious a car before. She glanced at the soft upholstery, the bouquet of real flowers, and felt the warmth of the artificial heat. Lily's parents were obviously rich, although the girl evidently gave it little thought now. But Marjorie remembered how impressed her room-mate had been with the fact when she entered Miss Allen's, and suddenly she decided that, had she known all this, she would not have blamed her so severely.

Then the streets claimed her attention. They were filled with traffic of all kinds, which she watched silently. Her thoughts flew to Frieda Hammer; she wondered what were her impressions as she entered this great, noisy confusion, that is called New York. How would she feel herself, if she had come all alone—with no Lily to direct her, no car to meet her, no friends to entertain her? Alone, with little or no money in her purse, and no qualifications to fit her for work! She shuddered at the very idea; a sort of despair seized her, so that for the instant she suffered vicariously as acutely as if she were the other girl in the situation.

But Lily's voice brought her back to reality.

"That was the Grand Central Station, where we came in," explained the New York girl. "And this is Sixth Avenue."

"And you live in an apartment, too, don't you, Lil?" asked Marjorie, her gaze resting upon her companion. "Do you know, I've never been in an apartment!"

"It's an apartment-hotel," corrected Lily. "We don't even get our own meals!"

Half an hour later, the girls were sitting in Lily's dainty boudoir, sipping chocolate and enjoying a glorious hour of pure idleness.

"Are we doing anything to-night, Lil?" asked Marjorie, leaning back contentedly against the cushions on the window seat. "Not that I think we need to——" she hastened to add, lest her hostess might attribute her remark to impoliteness.

"Yes, we're going to the theater," replied Lily, laughingly. "It's a musical comedy. I hope you will like it."

"I'm sure I will. Do you know, Lil, I've never been in a real theater in my life!" She paused a moment, and then blurted out, unexpectedly, "Suppose Frieda should be a chorus girl! Do you think we'd recognize her, with all her paint and powder, if she were?"

Lily smiled at the other's simplicity. Evidently Marjorie had no conception of the great number of theaters in New York, or of the difficulty, for a novice, in obtaining a part in a show. And the idea of Frieda Hammer—rude, awkward, and uncouth—on the stage, was absolutely grotesque.

"I hardly think she'd be able to get the job, Marj," she replied, succeeding in hiding her amusement. But in order to forestall any more such remarks, she decided to change the subject.

"We're going to the game to-morrow," she announced, "with papa and mama, and——"

But Marjorie was only politely enthusiastic.

"We surely won't see Frieda there," she remarked. "Isn't it dreadfully expensive?"

"Not only that, but she wouldn't be interested. Of course, Frieda Hammer wouldn't understand football! But I'll tell you who will be there!"

"Who?"

"Guess!"

"The boys?"

"Yes; John Hadley and Dick Roberts!"

"Oh, I'm awfully glad!" exclaimed Marjorie. "I haven't seen John for ages."

And in the conversation that followed, the Girl Scouts' runaway ward was forgotten.

Thanksgiving day was bright and clear, and just cold enough to give a bracing tingle to the air. The boys arrived only a few minutes before the time to start for the game, and among so many people, Marjorie and John exchanged only the most formal greetings.

During the automobile ride, and later at the game, it seemed to Marjorie that John was unusually quiet. Perhaps, she decided, it was because he was with strangers,—or perhaps it was because he had changed. She knew that he was working his way through college, and she wondered whether the responsibility was weighing him down. Or perhaps, she thought, he was no longer interested in so youthful a person as herself.

But to John Hadley, Marjorie Wilkinson was the same merry, charming girl who continued to hold first place in his affections.

Mrs. Andrews invited the boys to dinner after the game, and they accepted gladly. It was not until after the meal was over, and Marjorie and John were dancing in the hotel ball-room that the girl lost her shyness and felt herself back again on the old familiar ground with him.

"May I come to see you at Christmas time?" he whispered, as they glided across the floor.

"But I'm not sure that I'll be home," replied Marjorie, thinking of Frieda Hammer, and wondering whether she might not try to trace her again at that time, if she failed now.

"Are you going far away?" he pursued, in a woeful tone.

"I don't know. But you can write!"

The young people danced until the first intermission, when Mrs. Andrews rose to go, and the girls, after saying good-bye to the boys, accompanied her to the apartment.

"I looked at every waitress in the dining-room," said Marjorie, when she and Lily were alone in their room, "and I tried to see all the people I could on the streets to-day, but none of them looked like Frieda!"

"Oh, Marj! You're hopeless!" replied Lily, in exasperation. "Here I expected you to rave about John Hadley, or at least the football game, and the very minute he's gone, you begin on that girl again!"

"Do I bore you, Lil? Or do I seem unappreciative?" asked Marjorie, penitently.

"No, you old dear!" laughed Lily, relenting. "By the way, what is it you want to do to-morrow?"

"Go shopping!" replied Marjorie happily, for the idea of the novel experience was pleasing to her.

Mrs. Wilkinson had given her daughter some money with which to go shopping, and the girls planned their trip for Friday. Mrs. Andrews decided to send the chauffeur with them, allowing them to go otherwise unaccompanied, for she knew how much pleasure it would afford them to go alone.

Early after lunch the following day, the girls started on their expedition. After they left the car and entered the shops, Marjorie wanted to proceed slowly, stopping everywhere to look at displays and to examine the beautiful things spread alluringly before their eyes. She really bought little; the experience was so new to her that she could scarcely make up her mind what to choose.

At quarter after four Lily looked at her watch.

"I'm dead, Marj!" she announced. "Let's go and get some hot chocolate, and then go home."

"All right," agreed Marjorie reluctantly. "But I sort of hate to leave. By the way, Lil, have you been noticing the salesgirls?"

"Not 'specially. Why?"

"I thought one of them might be Frieda."

"If you mention Frieda Hammer again," threatened Lily, "when I get back to school, I'll go poison that fortune teller for getting you so worked up."

"Oh, please don't, Lil!" begged Marjorie, good-naturedly.

She followed her hostess out of the brilliantly lighted department store, across the street, and into a cozy, softly lighted tea-room. The contrast between the glaring, noisy shops and this quiet, restful retreat worked wonders with the tired girls. They seemed almost immediately to imbibe the peaceful atmosphere, and to become refreshed.

"It's lovely!" exclaimed Marjorie, refusing even to look at the menu. "Anything you order will suit me."

Although Marjorie had decided not to plague Lily again with the mention of Frieda, she had by no means forgotten her. Accordingly, she followed the proceeding she had adopted upon every occasion since she had entered New York; she looked carefully at every young girl she saw, hoping that it might prove to be Frieda.

As soon as her eyes became accustomed to the dim light, she peered eagerly,—almost rudely, she was afraid—into the faces of the waitresses. Suddenly, her heart stood still; at the far corner, near the swinging door leading to the kitchen, stood a girl bearing a striking resemblance to Frieda! Could Marjorie be dreaming—or was it possible that the runaway had a double? She dared not trust her own eyes.

"Look, Lil!" she whispered. "Could that be Frieda, there?"

Lily followed the direction indicated by Marjorie, and saw a slim girl in black, wearing a waitress's cap and apron. The girl was neat, and her hair was tidy; indeed, one would have to stretch the imagination to picture her as the one of the troop's adoption. And yet her features—and something about her bearing were decidedly like Frieda.

"Oh, Frieda Hammer would never get a job in a place like this," remarked Lily, discouragingly. "They only employ refined girls here!"

Still not daunted, however, Marjorie half rose from her seat, but just at that moment the waitress in question disappeared with a tray of dishes.

Lily gave her order for hot chocolate with whipped cream, and fancy cakes, to the waitress who stood at their table. "Does that suit you, Marj?" she inquired.

"Yes, thanks!" replied Marjorie; but at that moment she would have agreed to corned-beef and cabbage. She watched eagerly for the girl to reappear; finally she was rewarded by seeing the two waitresses enter together.

As her own girl came towards them, she leaned over and asked earnestly,

"Can you tell me the name of the waitress—over there?"

"Jennie Perkins," replied the girl, quietly.

Marjorie's face fell; she must be mistaken. Then an idea came to her; perhaps it was Frieda, under an assumed name!

"Has she worked here long?" pursued Marjorie.

"I think so—but I've only been here a week myself, and she was here when I came!"

The girl had disappeared again, and Marjorie turned reluctantly to her refreshment. She kept watching the swinging door, hoping that the girl would reappear and give her an opportunity to question her. But she did not return before Marjorie and Lily had finished their chocolate, so they were obliged to leave the shop, as much in the dark as ever.

The remaining two days passed without further adventure, and on Sunday evening they were back again at Miss Allen's.

"I wonder whether the fortune teller was mistaken, after all?" thought Marjorie.



CHAPTER XIV

THE CHRISTMAS BAZAAR

Two weeks had passed by, and the swimming team had been chosen during that time. Four more girls, in addition to Alice Endicott, who was now a Scout, were eligible for Pansy troop and were to be admitted that evening. Three of them were freshmen: Dorothy Whitcomb, Gladys Staley, and Mildred Cavin. And the fourth girl was Evelyn Hopkins.

Miss Phillips called the meeting to order, and then hastened through the opening ceremony and necessary routine.

"There is much to do and to talk about," she said, after the preliminary matters had been settled, "that I feel as if I can't talk fast enough. But I think we shall consider the regular Scout business first.

"First of all, I wish to welcome the new girls with the sincere hope that they will soon pass their Tenderfoot test and be registered as regular members of Pansy Troop. If they all do, we shall then have twenty-four girls, or three patrols.

"Accordingly, after the first of the year we shall re-divide into three patrols, and the three Scouts with the highest standing—counting the number of merit-badges, etc.—will be the three patrol leaders, and may choose, in turn, the members of their respective patrols.

"Next, after the New Year, the second-class girls will study for their first-class test; for during spring vacation I am going to take the first eight girls who pass this test successfully, to Washington. The expenses are to be provided by a wealthy friend of the troop!"

"Who?" they all shouted, curious. "Oh, it is too wonderful!"

But Miss Phillips refused to reveal the name of their unknown benefactor.

"Now, about our Good Turn. Of course, to-morrow is the day of the bazaar, about which we shall go into detail later; but now I want to discuss what we shall do with the money. I have a report from Miss Smith, the private detective."

At these words, Marjorie leaped to her feet. Forgetful of the formality of the occasion, she asked, excitedly,

"Did she find Frieda?"

"Yes; but she lost her again. A girl answering to her description was working, under an assumed name, as a waitress in a Fifth Avenue tea-room in New York. But as soon as Miss Smith had collected her facts, and was reasonably certain that the girl was Frieda Hammer, she disappeared."

"Oh, Lil!" gasped Marjorie, sinking into her seat. She could not even explain what she meant to the others; only her room-mate realized her tremendous disappointment.

"Now I have not paid my friend anything so far," continued Miss Phillips; "but I do not feel like allowing her to go on using so much time without remuneration, for she has to work to earn her own living. So I want to know what you wish to do—drop the case?"

Marjorie was on her feet again, instantly.

"No, no, Captain! Please, not that! Can't we use the rest of the fete money—and add some from the bazaar?"

But Ruth, as usual, opposed the idea.

"I move that we pay Miss Smith for her services, and then dismiss the matter for once and all. If Frieda Hammer can get work, she certainly isn't suffering, and there are a good many more worthy channels to which we can apply our money. In my opinion, she never was any good!"

"Is there a second to Ruth's motion?" asked Captain Phillips.

"I second it!" said Barbara Hill.

"Any discussion?"

Then Lily, aroused to the support of Marjorie rather than of Frieda, made an appealing speech, telling of the vastness of New York City, and its great temptations. She mentioned the troop's responsibility toward Frieda, at least until they could get her back home. She spoke earnestly, and the girls were greatly impressed. Marjorie cast a grateful look in her direction as Lily sat down.

The votes were taken, and the "nos" carried the day, probably rather because Marjorie and Lily were more popular than Ruth and Barbara, than because of any particular love on the part of the troop for Frieda. Indeed, most of the girls disliked her heartily, and were angry at her for stealing Marjorie's canoe; but that was Marjorie's affair, and if she wanted to search for Frieda, they intended to stand back of her.

The rest of the evening was spent in discussing the Bazaar, and all the while the girls worked busily with their needles, finishing odds and ends that had been left till the last minute.

Miss Phillips had begun with the senior Scouts and had given first them, and then the juniors, charge of the booths. The sophomores, with the single exception of Marjorie Wilkinson and Lily Andrews, and all of the freshmen, were to act merely as aids. The former two girls had been assigned the "Baby Table" for the simple reason that there were not enough upperclassmen to take charge, and they, of all the younger girls, appeared most interested.

So anxious were they to have their booth look attractive, Marjorie and Lily arose at six o'clock the morning of the bazaar, in order to decorate it before breakfast. They secured white tissue paper, and with this completely covered up all the dark boards. Here and there articles were suspended by narrow pink and blue baby ribbon; and a great bowl of pink roses stood on one side of the counter, while on the other side was displayed a life-size doll, dressed in the most exquisite hand-made layette. The effect as a whole was dainty and charming.

Soon after breakfast the other booths—for candy, sandwiches and ice-cream, household goods, embroidery, basketry, toys, and what not,—were all arranged, and Miss Phillips threw open the doors. Dressed in their neat khaki uniforms, with spotless white aprons over their skirts, the Girl Scouts presented an attractive appearance; and Captain Phillips, gazing about her critically, felt that she had reason to be proud of her girls and their accomplishments.

The morning was not a particularly busy one; only twenty or thirty people from the village, besides a few of the pupils and teachers, dropped in. Miss Phillips' expression began to grow more anxious as the noon hour approached, and all the Scouts felt a trifle worried.

When the clock struck twelve, Marjorie picked up her almost empty candy box for the tenth time to count the few coins that jingled forlornly when she shook it. She knew what the result would be—she had sold only two articles-but she repeated the process hopefully, as if by some magic, the total might have increased. There were exactly two dollars.

"Do you suppose it is because our things aren't pretty?" she asked Lily, although she really could not conceive of anything more exquisite than the diminutive garments on the table.

But Lily reassured her. "You just wait!" she answered; "the big crowd'll come this afternoon! Don't forget those wonderful posters Frances and Edith made—they ought to bring the buyers!"

"I hope they do!" said Marjorie, somewhat cheered by the other girl's words. "Especially after all the trouble we had putting them up!"

Both girls laughed at the recollection of climbing posts, entering stores, and respectfully requesting shop-keepers to display their home-made posters. A slight snowfall had added spice to the adventure, and helped to make the experience one to be remembered.

During the lull that followed, the Scouts seized the opportunity to leave their posts and rush over to the sandwich booth to purchase a hasty luncheon. Through their patronage, the number of sales there was increased, and the cash box returned an agreeably "full" sound when shaken. Ruth Henry, who was serving as an aide at this table, looked well satisfied.

Business at all the other booths, however, continued to be dull until shortly after two o'clock, when the gymnasium door burst open, and what appeared to be an endless succession of noisy, laughing girls crowded in. It proved to be Miss Martin's entire seminary, turned out in a body to support their sister school in its good work.

"Hurrah for the Girl Scouts!" they shouted, and proceeded to spend a great deal of money in the purchase of both refreshments and Christmas presents.

Unfortunately for Marjorie and Lily, however, very few of the girls were interested in their booth, and therefore did not come over to buy. Three or four girls, who boasted of baby-brothers or sisters, purchased caps and fancy rattles; but the total value of their sales had hardly reached ten dollars, when the visitors left the bazaar. Both Marjorie and Lily were glad to see the other Scouts more successful than they had been during the morning, but they despaired of making their own booth worth while.

Toward half-past three, Ruth, who had been busy steadily until that time at the sandwich table, sauntered over to visit the girls at the baby booth.

"We're almost sold out," she remarked, carelessly. "How are you getting along, Marj?"

"Not so good!" sighed Marjorie. "But I surely congratulate you!"

"We have over twenty-five dollars," continued the other. "But you ought to have more because we have to sell sandwiches so cheap."

"I have only ten," admitted Marjorie, sadly.

"Only ten!" repeated Ruth. "Well, if that's all you're going to make, I don't see why you should have so much say about what we do with the money!" This last remark was added spitefully, it seemed to Marjorie.

The latter made no reply, however, and Ruth turned away.

"She certainly can be nasty, when she wants to be!" remarked Lily. "But don't you care, Marj! Anybody could sell sandwiches—especially when our own girls buy them!"

Marjorie shrugged her shoulders, and began to hum, in the attempt to regain her cheerful spirits. But no one came near her table for almost half an hour; then, about four o'clock, a dozen or more young married women hurried over in her direction.

"Baby things!" exclaimed one. "You never can get them at Jones'!"

"I wonder why they don't keep them," remarked another. "Well, here's our chance!"

The women, who were evidently coming from a tea or some such social function, simply surrounded Marjorie's table and purchased lavishly. They exclaimed admiringly over everything, and bought so fast that the girls had to summon extra aides to help them. Finally, when they had gone, Marjorie had a minute to count the contents of her cash box. She had fifty-six dollars and twenty-five cents!

But her triumph was not yet over, for scarcely had she put the money away when a slender little woman, who had all the while been watching proceedings, approached, and called her to the side.

"I buy for Jones' store, in the village," she said quietly, "and I should like to offer you fifty dollars for the remainder of your stock."

Marjorie listened incredulously, making no attempt to hide her joy at the idea of the transaction. Glancing hastily at the clock, she saw that it was half-past four, within half an hour of closing. She accepted the woman's offer immediately.