"Of course. Don't be silly," said Dorothy, with a queer little catch in her voice. Dorothy King was not at all sentimental, but the splendidly democratic spirit of her college sometimes brought a lump into her throat.
Only once that morning did the radiant smiles leave Eleanor Watson's lovely face. That was when Katherine Kittredge, on the way out of chapel, rallied her about her famous theme.
"Now aren't you glad Miss Raymond got up early that morning?" she said.
It was the first time that any one had referred to the story in connection with her election to the Dramatic Club. Eleanor frowned and turned to Beatrice Egerton, who was standing close beside her.
"Bess," she said, pouting, "did you run me in because of that footless little story? Wasn't it for myself that you wanted me? Do say that it was."
Miss Egerton smiled her lazy, enigmatical smile, which her admirers considered the secret of her tremendous popularity. "Of course we wanted you for yourself," she said, "but that footless little story, as you call it, is a rather important asset. We expect you to keep on writing footless little stories, remember."
"How tiresome!" said Eleanor, with a shrug of her shoulders. "That's the bother of doing anything up here. What you do once, you are expected to repeat indefinitely. Now my method is to do one thing as well as I can, and then go on to something else."
"Just do them all as well as you did the story, and we shan't complain," said Miss Egerton. "And now, Eleanor, I must be off to Psychology One. Do you suppose anybody will give a dinner for you to-night?"
"Yes, Miss Egerton," called Jean Eastman, appearing around the corner. "Kate and I are giving one, and we want you to come, of course. And Eleanor," she went on, after Miss Egerton had left them, "we want you to answer to a toast—'My Story and How I Wrote It.' Now be just as clever and amusing as you can. I thought I wouldn't spring it on you—"
"Jean," Eleanor broke in suddenly, "I won't answer to anything of the sort. And if you have that story mentioned—even mentioned, remember—to- night, I shall get up and leave. Give me your word that I shan't hear of it in any way,—or give up the dinner."
Jean stared in astonishment. "Why certainly, Eleanor," she said, "but I thought you had given up being so absurd. Is there any one in particular that you want asked tonight?"
"Dora Carlson," flashed Eleanor, and hurried off, murmuring something about a nine o'clock recitation at the other end of the main building.
Jean looked after her for a moment, her mouth twisted into a funny grimace, and then pursued her way to the college library. At the door she met Betty Wales. "Your face is one big smile," she said.
"Of course," laughed Betty. "Isn't it perfectly splendid about Eleanor and Emily?"
Jean grinned cheerfully. "Considering last year I thought it was more or less amusing to see the two of them sitting up there together on the front row at chapel. I wonder if Eleanor remembers any of the remarks she used to let drop about the genius of 19—. See here, Betty," she added quickly, "have you any idea why Eleanor is so touchy about that story? She won't even have it toasted tonight at the supper."
"No," said Betty. "I asked her, but she didn't tell me anything except that she didn't care for it."
"Well, most people would begin to care for it a little, after it had pulled them into the Dramatic Club among the first four," said Jean, opening the library door and tiptoeing over to the anthropological alcove. There she spent the hour, busily engaged in making out a new list of toasts, that should avoid all mention of the objectionable story.
"But they must have some point," reflected Jean, sadly, as she ran her pen through "My Story and How I Wrote It," and "The Rewards of Literature" and "Our Rising Young Novelist," which she had intended for herself and Kate Denise.
"Bother Eleanor's tantrums!" muttered Jean, as the ten o'clock gong rang, and she picked up her books and hurried off to recite a French lesson that, because of Eleanor's "tantrums," she had not learned.
And for Betty Wales Eleanor's election to the Dramatic Club also brought disappointment. She had hoped that once Eleanor's ambition was gratified and all her hard work and careful planning rewarded, the anxious lines would leave her face and the sweeter, softer expression that she had worn in September would come back. But though Eleanor professed the greatest pleasure in the election, it did not seem to make her any less haughty or capricious, or any better content with life. She still snubbed or patronized her train of adoring freshmen by turns, according to her mood. She was still a devoted admirer of Beatrice Egerton, and a member of her very exclusive set. She received Betty's congratulations just as cordially as she had every one's else,—it was one of Beatrice's principles to treat everybody well "up to a certain point,"—but she did not come to the third floor of the Belden House except on errands.
By the middle of February basket-ball practice was in full swing again. The class teams had not yet been chosen, but every Wednesday and Saturday afternoon l9—'s last year's "regulars" and "subs" met in the gymnasium to play exciting matches. Of course there were some changes in the make- up of the teams. Two of the "sub" centres and a "regular" home had left college; the guard who sprained her ankle in the great game of the year before and whose place Katherine Kittredge had taken in the second half, was not allowed to risk another such injury; and one or two other players had lost interest in basket-ball and were devoting their energies to something else. So there was a chance for outsiders, and Betty Wales, who had almost "made" the freshman sub-team, was one of the new girls invited to play in the practice matches.
Helen Adams had cut basket-ball all her freshman year, because Miss Andrews never called the roll on basket-ball days. Now she could not get enough of it, nor of regular gym. On Wednesday and Saturday afternoons there were no classes, so she used to put on her gym. suit and go over to watch the teams. And if some player failed to appear or was late in arriving, T. Reed or Betty would suggest calling Helen down to take the absentee's place. Helen was painfully awkward and not very strong, but she had acquired T. Reed's habit of slipping under the outstretched arms of the enemy and T. Reed's fashion of setting her teeth and getting the ball in spite of opposition; and some of her plays were remarkably effective.
"I believe," Betty said to her one day, as they lay side by side in a sunny spot on the gym. floor, resting between the halves, "I believe, if you'd begun last year when the rest of us did, you might have been on one of the teams yourself."
Helen laughed a pleased little laugh. "Oh, no!" she said. "But I love to play with you sometimes, and I love to watch Theresa."
"Isn't she a wonder?" said Betty dreamily. "Do you remember that game, Helen? Wasn't it the most exciting thing? And this year it will be our turn to win. Bob Parker has seen the picked freshman teams play, and she thinks they haven't a chance against us."
"I hope you can be on the sub-team, Betty," said Helen.
"And I hope you can write your song for 19— to sing to its team," returned Betty gaily. "You haven't forgotten about our talk the day of the game, have you, Helen?"
"Oh, no!" said Helen, quickly. Not for worlds would she have let Betty know how much she counted on that song. She had written another little verse for her theme class, and that very morning it had come back with "Good work—charming lilt," scrawled across the margin. So Helen had high hopes for the song.
Just then the door of the gym. opened, and Lucy Merrifield, the president of 19—, came in.
"Hello, Lucy," chorused the group of sprawling figures nearest the door.
"You're just in time to see us do up the regular team," called ElizabethWest, who captained the "subs."
"Thank you," returned Lucy, "but I can't stay to see you do any such unbecoming thing. I came on an errand to Betty Wales. Isn't she here?"
"Here I am," called Betty, scrambling upright and brushing the hair out of her eyes.
"I came to tell you that you've been appointed to the Students'Commission, to serve until Christy Mason gets back," explained Lucy.
"Till Christy gets back?" repeated Betty in bewilderment.
"Yes, she's been called home very suddenly. Her mother is ill, and Christy is going to keep house and see to the children. She'll be away a month anyhow and perhaps all this term. And as there are a lot of important matters coming up just now, we decided that we would better appoint a substitute on the commission."
"I'm afraid I can't be much help," began Betty, doubtfully.
"Oh, yes, you can," declared Lucy. "Come to the meeting to-morrow at two, and we'll give you plenty to help about."
"Time's up," called the captain of the regulars, and Lucy ran for the door, leaving Betty in a state of pleased excitement. Dorothy King was president of her class this year, and therefore also president of the Students' Commission. Marion Lawrence was a representative from the junior class. To be even a temporary member of so august an assembly seemed to Betty a very great privilege. She was so busy wondering who had chosen her,—whether Lucy or the whole commission,—and what to-morrow's meeting would be like, that she deliberately threw the ball twice toward the wrong basket and never discovered her mistake until Elizabeth West begged her please to "come to" and help her own side a little just for variety.
On the way home Betty met Miss Ferris. "Come and have tea with me, little girl," she said.
"Could I, like this?" asked Betty wistfully, pulling back her rain-coat to show her gym. suit and the tightly braided pig-tails tucked inside.
Miss Ferris laughed. "I shouldn't mind, but some one else might drop in.It takes me ten minutes to make tea. Now run!"
Exactly nine minutes and a half later. Betty, looking very slender and stately in a clinging blue gown and a big plumed hat, her cheeks pink with excitement and her hair blown into fascinating ringlets from her brisk run across the campus, knocked timidly on Miss Ferris's door.
"Come in," called Miss Ferris. "You're early. The water hasn't boiled."
"It used to take me half an hour to dress, at the very fastest," said Betty, slipping into a low chair by the fire, where she could watch Miss Ferris making tea in a fat little silver pot, and pouring it into cups so thin and beautiful that Betty hardly dared touch hers, and breathed a deep sigh of relief when it was safely emptied and out of her hands.
Just as she was leaving, she told Miss Ferris about her appointment to the Students' Commission.
"Well," said Miss Ferris, "that won't be new work for you. You were an ex-officio member last year."
Betty looked puzzled.
"What you did for Miss Watson was Students' Commission work," explained Miss Ferris. "And judging by the position Miss Watson seems to be taking this year, I should call it very good work indeed."
[Illustration: "WELL," SAID MISS FERRIS, "THAT WON'T BE NEW WORK"]
"But you did it, not I," protested Betty.
"I did my part, you did yours," corrected Miss Ferris. "To be successful nowadays, you know, you must not only work yourself, but you must get other people to work for you."
"Yes," said Betty, vaguely. Then she laughed. "I'm afraid that I do the second more than the first, Miss Ferris. My roommate thinks that I get a great deal too much out of other people. And when I was at home Nan used to tell me to be more independent and see how I could get along if I were left on a desert island."
Miss Ferris smiled across the fire at her dainty little guest. "The best things in the world,—which fortunately isn't a desert island,—come about by cooperation," she said. "Be independent; think for yourself, of course, but get all the help you can from other people in carrying out your thoughts."
The dinner-bell began to jangle noisily in the hall and Betty rose hastily. "I've stayed too long," she said, "but I always do that when I come to see you. I shall tell my roommate what you said. Do you suppose I shall ever learn to think up arguments for myself?"
"Of course," said Miss Ferris, encouragingly. "That's one thing you're here for—to learn to argue and to dress in a hurry and to work on Students' Commissions. You'll master them all in time. Good-bye."
When Betty got back to the Belden House the bell had rung there too, and as the girls stood about in the halls and parlors waiting for Mrs. Cass, the matron, to lead them in to dinner, they were all discussing what Mary Brooks could mean by a "hair-raising."
"It sounds like a house-raising," said a girl from Nebraska. "I mean the sort of thing they have away out west, where laborers are scarce and the whole town turns out to help a man get up the timbers of his house."
"But there's no sense to that kind of a hair-raising," objected the Nebraskan's roommate, who was from Boston. "I think that Mary has invented a hair tonic and is going to try it on us before she has it patented."
"I'm sure I hope so," said Madeline Ayres, patting her diminutive twist of hair tenderly.
"Why, it's some kind of party she's giving for her mother," announced a stately senior, authoritatively.
"I don't see how that tells what it is, though," said Betty. "Am I invited?"
"Yes," explained Helen Adams. "Mary came in while you were out and asked us."
"But she hasn't said anything about expecting her mother."
At this everybody laughed and Marion Lawrence explained that Mary, being a very busy person, had a habit of putting away her letters unopened, until she found time to read them.
"And somehow she thought this was a book-bill from Longstreet's—you know how near-sighted she is—so she stuck it into her desk until she got her next month's allowance. But to-day she found some money that she'd put in her collar-case for safe-keeping and forgotten about; so she got out the bill to pay it, and it turned out to be a letter from her mother, saying she was coming up tonight. Mary wouldn't have her know for anything, so she decided to give a hair-raising to-night, as if she'd planned for it days ahead."
"But what is it?" demanded Betty.
If Miss Lawrence was in Mary's confidence she had no intention of betraying it; and there was nothing to do but wait for eight o'clock, the hour which Mary had mentioned in her invitations. Promptly on the moment all those bidden to the hair-raising made a rush for Mary's room.
"She hasn't come back from taking dinner with her mother," said Helen."Her transom is dark."
But "come in, children," called Mary, sociably, and opening the door just wide enough to admit one girl at a time she disclosed a room absolutely dark save for a gleam of light from a Turkish lantern in one corner.
"Goodness!" cried Betty, who went in first. "What am I running into? Oh, it's a skeleton."
"I'm all mixed up with a snake," added Katherine. "I feel my hair rising already."
"Girls, I want you to meet my mother," said Mary, briskly.
"Here I am," called a sweet voice from the shadows. "Wouldn't you better turn on the lights for a moment, daughter?"
"No, indeed," retorted Mary, firmly. "They're nothing to see, dear, I assure you, but if you insist on seeing them you can all go across to Laurie's room and come back after you've had a general inspection."
So everybody filed over to Marion Lawrence's room, where it was discovered that Mary's mother was, as Betty Wales put it, "a perfect little darling." She was small, like Mary, and she looked so young that Katherine gravely asked Mary if she was quite sure she wasn't palming off a sister on them instead of a mother. She entered into all the absurdities of the hair-raising, which proved to be only a particularly diverting sort of ghost party, with as much zest as any of the girls, and her ghost stories were the feature of the evening.
"You see, dear," explained Mary, when the lights were finally turned on and the hair-raising had resolved itself into a spread, "you see I had a hair-raising because you tell ghost stories so well. Why, ever since I read your letter I've been planning how I should show you off—Oh, mother, it's too good to keep." And Mary regaled her mother with the story of the neglected book-bill.
"Speaking of lost letters," said Marion Lawrence, "there's a letter for Frances West over on the zoology bulletin board in Science Hall. It's been there for two weeks."
"What a funny place for it!" said Mary. "Frances never as much as sticks her head inside Science Hall. She thinks it's wrong to cut up frogs and angle-worms. How did it get there, Laurie?"
"Postman dropped it, probably, and somebody who didn't know any better stuck it up there—the janitor, maybe."
"Perhaps Frances dropped it herself," suggested Madeline Ayres.
Marion shook her head. "Anyhow if she did, she hasn't read it. I noticed that it hadn't been opened."
"Perhaps it's a letter like Mary's, saying that her mother is coming," suggested Helen Adams.
"Guess again. It can't be that, because her mother wouldn't direct a letter to the editor-in-chief of the 'Argus.'"
"Hear that, Dottie," called Mary Brooks to Dorothy King, who was sittingon the divan below the Turkish lantern, talking busily with Mrs. Brooks."There's a letter for your chief over on the zoology bulletin board.You'd better stop in and get it for her."
"Isn't it funny," said Rachel Morrison, "that, as well as Frances West is known in college and as many juniors and seniors as look at that bulletin board, nobody has thought to take her the letter."
"Why didn't you take it to her, Laurie?" asked Mary severely.
"Oh, because I wanted to see how long it would stop there if I didn't take it," returned Marion easily. "I'm writing a theme on 'What's everybody's business is nobody's business,' and I want to get the psychology right. Oh, Mrs. Brooks," she called, getting up and going over to the divan, "did you know that Mary had set a fashion up here? Ever since her 'Rumor' story, we're all racking our brains to see if we can't get up some psychological experiments that will make Professor Hinsdale think we're clever too."
"And most of you," said Mary loftily, "just succeed in making your friends uncomfortable. I hope Frances' letter won't upset her the way mine did."
"Oh, I guess it isn't a hair-raiser," said Marion easily. "It's probably a bill for printer's ink or paper, or whatever they buy for the 'Argus.' You get it to-morrow, Dottie, and then you can tell us what is in it."
"I will," said Dorothy.
Just as she spoke the twenty-minute-to-ten bell clanged suggestively in the corridors, and the hair-raising came to an abrupt end.
"I don't think I care much for hair-raisings," said Betty, as she and Helen made hasty preparations for bed. "I think you have enough to worry about and be frightened over, without getting up a lot of extra things on purpose. I can hear that blood-hound panting under the window this very minute. Isn't Mrs. Brooks a wonderful story-teller?"
"Yes. I didn't suppose you were ever worried or frightened over things," said Helen.
"Well, I am," returned Betty. "I'm worrying this very minute about my to- morrow's recitations. I'd planned to study tonight but how could I hurt Mary's feelings by not going to the hair-raising? I suppose," went on Betty, when Helen did not answer, "I suppose you want to ask why I don't sit up to study? But if I did I should be breaking a rule, and besides," concluded Betty, yawning prodigiously, "I am altogether too sleepy to sit up, so I am just going to sleep and forget all my troubles." And Betty suited the action to the word.
A few moments later she roused herself. "Life is just full of things to decide, isn't it, Helen? And so often you can't tell which one is best— like me going to the hair-raising to-night, or Marion Lawrence and that letter."
"I think she ought to have delivered the letter," said Helen.
"But it was such fun not to," objected Betty. "And probably it was only an advertisement. Now I'm really going to sleep."
Dorothy King hurried down the steps of Science Hall and across the campus to the main building, carrying Frances West's belated letter in her hand. She stopped for a moment in Miss Stuart's office to tell her that the Students' Commission wanted to hold a mass-meeting of the whole college at the end of the month, and waited while Miss Stuart, who was an enthusiastic supporter of the commission, obligingly hunted up an available date for the meeting, and promised to hold it open until the final arrangements could be perfected. Outside the office door Dorothy hesitated and looked at her watch. Quarter past four; laboratory work was over for the afternoon, and there would be ten girls to one copy of Ward's "Poets" in the library.
"I'll go up there this evening," she decided swiftly, "and now for a skate before dinner," and she swung off toward the Hilton House to get her skates and her sweater. As she put out her hand to open the door, she suddenly noticed that she was still carrying Frances' letter, and gave an impatient little exclamation. "All out of my way," she thought, "so I might as well take it back now and get rid of it."
The editorial office of the "Argus" was in the Students' Building, over behind the gym. As she went, Dorothy congratulated herself that it was this errand, and not the one to Miss Stuart, which she had forgotten; for the main building was twice as far away. She wondered idly whether Frances would be in the "sanctum"; she often spent her free afternoons there, for the big building, which was used chiefly in the evening for club meetings, plays, and other social and semi-social functions, was generally silent and deserted earlier in the day; and the quiet and the view over Paradise river from the west windows of the sanctum appealed to the poetic soul of the chief editor. Dorothy, who was a very practical person herself, had a vast admiration for Frances' dreamy, imaginative temperament, and enjoyed her work as business manager of the "Argus" chiefly because it brought her into close contact with Frances; while Frances in her turn admired Dorothy's executive ability, and depended on her to soften the hearts of obdurate printers, stir the consciences of careless assistant editors, and in short to stand as a sort of buffer between her beloved "Argus" and a careless world. Dorothy hoped that Frances would be in the sanctum; it would be fun to tell her about the letter. But if not, all responsibility could be fulfilled by dropping it and a note of explanation into the editorial mail-box.
But Frances was there, and also Beatrice Egerton, who, as exchange editor of the "Argus," Dorothy had come to know well and to like for her quick wit and her daring, piquant ways, while she thoroughly disapproved of her worldly, self-seeking attitude toward college life.
"Hello, Dottie," called Beatrice, when Dorothy opened the door. "We thought you weren't coming, Frances and I."
"Why should I be coming?" inquired Dorothy curiously, tossing the letter into Frances' lap.
"Proof!" exclaimed Beatrice, with a funny little grimace.
Dorothy sank down on the long window seat, which ran across two sides of the sanctum, with a groan and a gesture of despair. "I entirely forgot," she said. "I was going skating. Could it possibly wait till to-morrow?"
Frances West looked helplessly at Beatrice. "I'm sure I don't know," she said. "You told me that to-day was the time. I always depend on you to keep track."
Beatrice laughed gaily. "I'm so glad I happened in," she said. "It's such a lovely spectacle to see the methodical Dottie King trying to persuade the poetical and always-behind-time Frances to put off till to-morrow what she ought to have done day before yesterday. Come, Dottie, take off your coat and go to work."
"I'm sorry I'm always late," said Frances, sweetly. "I've decided to try to be on time now that we've got our new rugs and these lovely green curtains. So I bought a calendar pad and put down my date for reading proof with you last week, when you first reminded me of it."
Dorothy had followed Beatrice's instruction to take off her coat. Now she sat down resignedly before the writing-table, pulled a long strip of printer's proof off the spindle, and dipped her pen in the ink, ready for work. "How do you happen to be here, Bess?" she asked.
"Came to read my mail," said Beatrice. "Some of the best exchanges are out about this time in the month. When you didn't come, I tried to correct proof with Frances, but we couldn't either of us remember the printers' marks; and our Webster's dictionary, that has them in the back, got lost in the shuffle of house-cleaning last vacation."
"Then if the dictionary is lost, you must stay," said Dorothy, "because I can correct proof, but I can't spell, and neither can Frances. Come, Frances, here's the copy for you to read."
Frances West's voice had a peculiarly charming quality, and her manner of reading was so absorbed and sympathetic that she never failed to interest her auditors; so that even the mechanical drudgery of correcting proof was endurable with her help. The work went on rapidly, Dorothy bending over the long printers' galleys, adding mysterious little marks here and there in the wide margins, Frances reading as expressively as though she were doing her best to entertain Beatrice Egerton, who curled herself up on the window-seat, listened, made flippant comments, perused her exchanges when the "Argus" articles did not interest her, and when appealed to by Dorothy, acted as substitute for the missing Webster's dictionary.
"Well, that's over," said Dorothy, at last, straightening in her chair and stretching out her cramped arms over her head. "Next month will be Laura Dale's turn again. I wonder if she'll do it."
"Poor Dottie!" mimicked Beatrice. "'Could you do it just once more? I can't seem to learn the marks.' That's what she'll say. You shouldn't be so capable, Dottie, and then you could go skating afternoons instead of doing your own work and the assistant business manager's too."
"Oh, I don't mind," said Dorothy, who was really very tired indeed, and so preferred not to talk about it. "Laura is a great deal of help with some parts of the work, and I don't blame any one for not wanting to correct proof—though I don't mind doing it so long as Frances will read for me. Aren't our new curtains lovely?"
"Such a cool, woodsy green," said Frances.
"Just right for poets to write behind," supplemented Beatrice, who loved to tease Frances, though in her heart she admired her as much as Dorothy did.
"Girls, it's long after six," said Dorothy, rising abruptly, "and I must go. I have an evening's work still before me."
As she picked up her gloves, she noticed Frances' letter still lying neglected on the window-seat. "Here, Frances," she said, "do just open this letter, and tell me that it's dreadfully important. I want to bother Laurie about it. She saw it on the zoology bulletin board last week and didn't trouble herself to bring it to you."
"Oh, I presume it's nothing," said Frances, dreamily. She was watching the sunset glowing gold and scarlet between the green draperies.
"Here, Frances," laughed Beatrice, thrusting the letter into her hands. "Read it by the light of the dying sun, if you prefer that to good green- shaded electricity. You owe it to Dorothy to take an interest when she bothered herself to bring it to you, and so got caught and deprived of her afternoon's fun. Poor Dottie! can't you go skating tomorrow?"
They were animatedly discussing the possibility of Miss Mills's neglecting to call for a recitation on Ward's "Poets" the next day, when Frances gave a little exclamation.
"Why, girls," she began, excitedly. "I don't understand. Isn't to-day the twentieth of February?"
"Yes, dear," said Beatrice. "You knew from that wonderful calendar pad, didn't you?"
Frances disregarded the question. "Then—Why, this letter is datedFebruary second. Where has it been all the time?"
"I just told you," repeated Dorothy, "that Laurie saw it on the zoology bulletin board last week. Perhaps it was there a week or two before she saw it. Is it really important, Frances? Laurie supposed from the direction that it was just a bill or an advertisement. She'll be very sorry."
"Oh, I don't know what it is," declared Frances, in bewilderment. "Read it," and she held out the letter to Dorothy.
"Read it aloud," suggested Beatrice.
"Yes, do," added Frances. "I haven't any idea what it means."
"'The Quiver' Offices,"—Fulton St., New York,"Feb. 2, 19—.
"MISS FRANCES WEST,"Editor-in-Chief of Harding"College 'Argus':
"DEAR MADAME:—It always gives me great pleasure to see the merits of 'The Quiver' recognized, particularly in haunts of high culture, like your alma mater. Nevertheless, you will readily understand that the little tribute to the genius of one of our contributors, contained in your December number, which, owing to my prolonged absence from the city, has just now come under my observation, is, to speak bluntly, deserving of some return from me. I have no doubt that you will be glad to offer the proper explanation. If, however, you insist upon leaving the matter in my hands, I assure you that I shall not mince matters. College honor is a point about which I am very sensitive. We go to press on the twentieth inst. Until that time I am
"Yours confidentially,"RICHARD BLAKE."
"Well," said Dorothy, folding the letter carefully and putting it back in its envelope, "what do you make of that, Bess?"
"Nothing," said Beatrice, "nothing at all. Who in the world is RichardBlake?"
"I don't know. Don't you, Frances?"
Frances shook her head. "But 'The Quiver' is a magazine. I've seen a copy once or twice."
"Then," said Dorothy, promptly, "Richard Blake must be the editor, or one of them."
"Well, did we say anything about him in the December number?" pursuedBeatrice. "Or anything about his magazine?"
"No," declared Dorothy, "of course not. 'The Quiver' isn't a college magazine, is it, Frances? It couldn't be on the list of exchanges?"
"Oh, no," said Frances, wearily. "'The Quiver' is a real magazine, Dorothy. It's new, I think, but I know Miss Raymond considers it very clever. I saw a copy once in her room."
"Clever or not clever," said Beatrice, calmly, "I'm sure this editor must be insane. There is absolutely no sense to his letter."
Dorothy unfolded Mr. Richard Blake's missive, read it through once more, and passed it without comment to Beatrice. Meanwhile Frances was rummaging through the files of the "Argus."
"Here it is," she said at last. "Didn't he say the January number?"
"No, December," corrected Beatrice, joining-Frances in her search for the missing magazine.
"There," said Frances, at last, reading down the table of contents. "'TheSelf-government System at Harding'—he wouldn't be mentioned in that. Mypoem is next—he certainly isn't in that. Then that story of EleanorWatson's, and an essay on 'Sweetness and Light.'"
"Perhaps he's in that," suggested Dorothy, hopefully. "It sounds as if it might mean almost anything."
Beatrice Egerton giggled. "You didn't take the course in nineteenth century essayists, I guess, Dottie. He's not in 'Sweetness and Light,' unless Richard Blake is an alibi of Matthew Arnold's."
"And he couldn't possibly be in any of these sketches," went on Frances, anxiously, "nor in the editorials, nor in the alumnae notes."
"Of course not," agreed Beatrice, scornfully. "See here, girls," she added, referring again to the note, "he doesn't tell us the name of his contributor—the simpleton! That's what we ought to look for. He says we printed a tribute to the genius of one of his contributors."
"I have it!" declared Dorothy, pulling the December "Argus" out of Frances' hands. "The contributor is a member of the faculty, and the article is spoken of in the faculty notes. That's it, of course."
But diligent search of the faculty notes failed to unearth any item about an article in "The Quiver."
"Besides," added Beatrice, who had returned to the note once more, "that wouldn't explain what he says about college honor. And what is this about 'offering the proper explanation'? Are people supposed to explain compliments?"
"I don't know," said Frances. "I suppose I've made some dreadful blunder, and he noticed it. And to-day is the twentieth; he evidently wanted an answer by that time. Do you think I ought to telegraph?"
"No," said Dorothy, after a moment's thought "It wouldn't be any use. If he went to press—or 'The Quiver' went to press—to-day, it's gone hours ago. You'd better write him to-night. He'll get your letter in the morning, and then he'll understand."
"But what am I to write?" asked Frances, helplessly.
"Tell him to study Genung on clearness," suggested Beatrice, flippantly.
"Don't, Beatrice," broke in Dorothy. "This is evidently a serious matter.I should tell him that you didn't know what he meant by his letter,Frances, and of course explain why you haven't written before."
"Will you two stay while I write it?" asked Frances. "I should never dare to take the responsibility alone."
Dorothy sat down on the window-seat in silence, and Beatrice followed her example. There was no sound in the sanctum but the scratching of Frances' pen, moving swiftly over the paper. When the brief note was finished, the editor-in-chief handed it to her colleagues.
"That's all right," said Dorothy, reading it through.
"Infinitely better than his," added Beatrice. "His reminds me of that verse of Marion Lustig's that was more obscure than Browning—the one we persuaded you not to print."
"Don't you think," began Dorothy hesitatingly, "that, until we know exactly what Mr. Richard Blake means, it would be better not to mention his letter?"
"Not even to the rest of the 'Argus' board?" asked Beatrice, who had been anticipating the sensation that the story of the mysterious letter would create. "Dottie," she went on, looking keenly at Dorothy, "I believe you have another idea about what that note means."
"I know just as little about it as you do," said Dorothy quietly, "but I think eight girls are too many to keep a secret and—it's Frances' letter. She must decide."
"I think Dorothy is right," agreed Frances. "I believe that we wouldbetter wait before telling the others. If it's some dreadful blunder thatI have made, perhaps I could correct it if only we three knew of it.Though I don't know whether that would be quite honest," she added sadly.
Beatrice put her arm around Frances' waist and led her to the door.
"You old dear," she said, "you're so proud of your beloved 'Argus.' I believe you worry over every word that goes into it."
"And over every s that is upside-down and isn't detected by my eagle eye," laughed Dorothy, locking the door and carefully hiding the key in the place where half the college knew it was kept.
It was seven o'clock—no use going home to dinner. Dorothy decided to get an early start with Ward's "Poets," and to dine later in the evening on ship's biscuit and a glass of milk. The library was very quiet. She read busily, concentrating her attention upon the pages before her, oblivious of her surroundings, forgetful even of the mysterious letter and the theory, which, despite her declaration to Beatrice Egerton, she had formed concerning it.
Presently some one tiptoed up behind her and clasped two hands tightly across her eyes.
"Who is it?" whispered a laughing voice.
"I don't know," answered Dorothy a trifle irritably.
"Did you give it to her?" demanded the voice imperturbably.
"Give what to whom?"
"The letter to Frances West."
"It's Mary Brooks," said Dorothy, pulling away the hands and turning to find Mary and Marion Lawrence standing behind her chair.
"Aren't you nearly through with that book?" asked Marion.
Dorothy nodded. "Leave me in peace for ten minutes and you may have it."
"Well, tell us first about the letter," demanded Mary. "Was it a hair- raiser?"
"Oh, no," answered Dorothy calmly. "It was—oh, a note of thanks, or something of the sort from some magazine that the 'Argus' had spoken of."
"Bother!" said Marion. "That's no good for an ending to my theme."
"No good at all," agreed Dorothy. "I shouldn't use it if I were you."
"I certainly shan't," said Marion. "I can invent a nicer ending than that. Come, Mary, leave her alone, so that I can have Ward. Oh, dear! I'm dreadfully disappointed about my theme."
The reply to Mr. Richard Blake, presumably editor of "The Quiver," had been dispatched on the evening of the twentieth. Two days later Frances, looking as if she had seen a ghost, stopped Dorothy on her way from morning chapel to her first recitation.
"Can you come to the sanctum right after lunch?" she asked. "Beatrice can come then."
"Yes," returned Dorothy. "You've got his answer?"
Frances nodded. "And oh, Dorothy, it's just dreadful!"
When Dorothy reached the sanctum that afternoon she found Beatrice andFrances there before her. Without a word Frances handed her the letter.
"MY DEAR MISS WEST—" it ran:
"Your note is received and the delay in sending it fully explained. I am sorry you could make nothing of my first letter. I intended to be vague, for I wanted to test your knowledge of the episode in question; but it seems I overshot the mark. So let me say, please, since you and your colleagues evidently do not read 'The Quiver' that a story in your December number by a Miss Eleanor Watson is practically a copy of one that appeared in our November issue, which I am sending you under separate cover. All I ask is that some public acknowledgment of the fact shall be made, either by you or by me. I have delayed the notice I intended to insert in our next number, until I hear from you.
"Let me say that I blame neither you nor your associates in the matter.'The Quiver' is young, and plagiarists will happen.
"Yours very truly,"RICHARD BLAKE."
"Has the magazine come?" asked Dorothy, without exhibiting the least surprise at Mr. Blake's startling announcement.
"Yes," said Frances. "There must be some dreadful mistake."
"Can't you find the story he means?"
"Yes, but of course Eleanor Watson didn't copy it. No Harding girl would do such a thing."
"Eleanor Watson is different," said Dorothy.
"You mean you think she did it?" asked Beatrice Egerton. "You don't think it was a coincidence? Frances knew of something like it happening once, entirely by chance."
"This wasn't chance," said Dorothy slowly. "Oh, Beatrice—you know Eleanor Watson better than I—I don't want to be uncharitable. That was why I didn't tell you girls the other day, when it occurred to me that this was what Mr. Blake meant. Can't you see that it explains everything? Don't you remember I told you how queer she was about giving me the story; and before that, just after she handed it in, she went over to get it back."
"Yes," said Frances eagerly. "I remember. We thought it such a good joke. Oh, let us go and ask her how it was. She will surely be able to explain."
"But Frances," began Dorothy and stopped, glancing uncertainly atBeatrice.
"Oh, you needn't mind me," said Beatrice calmly. "If this is true, I wash my hands of Eleanor Watson." She turned to Frances, and her face softened. "You dear old idealist," she said, pulling Frances down on the seat beside her. "Can't you see that appealing to Eleanor Watson wouldn't do at all? Can't you see that if she is mean enough to plagiarize 'The Quiver's' story, she is probably capable of lying out of it? And how should we know whether or not she told the truth?"
"Or suppose that she did convince us," said Dorothy gently, "you see there is still Mr. Blake. I don't believe Eleanor's denial would satisfy him."
"Well," said Beatrice resignedly, "next to Eleanor Watson herself, I suppose I am the person who would profit most by having this whole affair hushed up. It's going to be mighty unpleasant for me, what with my having put her up for Dramatic Club and all that. But frankly, I don't see what there is to do but let Mr. Richard Blake go ahead and say what he pleases. Eleanor Watson will probably leave college. Some people will believe the story and some won't. Some won't even hear it—'The Quiver' seems to be a very obscure magazine. And in nine days every one will forget all about it."
"But Eleanor Watson will never forget," added Frances softly. To her art was sacred and the idea of stealing it horrible.
There was a silence broken at last by Dorothy.
"Frances," she said, "you're right, you always are. You divine things that the rest of us have to reason out. This affair is unpleasant for everybody concerned, but it isn't a vital matter to us or to Mr. Blake. The only person to be considered is Eleanor Watson. If the matter is made public—"
"It would serve her right, and it might be the best thing in the world for her," broke in Beatrice, who was growing more angry with Eleanor the longer she thought of the intimacy between them.
"That," said Dorothy, "is the question we have to decide. I for one am not at all sure what to think. Being publicly humiliated might be a good thing for her, or it might ruin her whole life."
"Oh, I can't bear to have people know about it," said Frances, her face white with horror. "Let us go home now and think it over, and let us be oh! so careful not even to hint at what has happened. We may have to confide in some others, but let us not give up the chance of keeping our secret by telling the wrong people now. And let us meet again tomorrow afternoon."
"In your room," suggested Beatrice. "This place is too conspicuous."
The three editors crept down the stairs like so many conspirators, separated with soft good-byes in the lower hall, and went their several ways, each feeling that the weight of the world rested on her shoulders. To Beatrice the affair was a personal one, involving her judgment and her status in the college world; Frances mingled pity for Eleanor with jealousy for the fair name of the "Argus"; Dorothy was going over the career of Eleanor Watson since she entered Harding, wondering whether it would be possible, by any method of treatment, to make her over into a trustworthy member of the student body, and whether she would ever be worth to the world what her evil influence had cost her college. All at once a bitter thought flashed upon Dorothy. She herself was partly responsible for Eleanor's downfall; for had she not persuaded her, against her will, to give the story to the "Argus"?
Betty Wales sat in Dorothy King's big wicker easy chair, an expression of mingled distress and perplexity on her usually merry face. Dorothy had sent word that she was ill and wanted to see her little friend, and Betty had hurried over in her first free period, never guessing at the strange story that Dorothy had summoned her to hear. The story was told now. It remained only for Betty to decide what she should do about it.
"It's the most annoying thing," Dorothy was saying from the bed where she lay, pale and listless, among the pillows. "I've heard of girls being ill from overwork, and I always thought they were good-for-nothings, glad of an excuse to stay in bed for awhile. But I can't get up, Betty. I tried hard this morning before the doctor came, and it made me so sick and faint—you can't imagine. So there was nothing to do but submit when she insisted upon my going to the infirmary for two weeks."
"I'm so sorry," murmured Betty sympathetically.
"She tried to make me promise not to see any one except the matron before I was moved," went on Dorothy, "but I told her I must talk to you for half an hour. I promised on my honor not to keep you longer than that, and we haven't but ten minutes left. Now won't you decide to go and see Mr. Blake?"
"Oh, I don't know what to decide!" cried Betty in despairing tones. "It's so dreadful that Eleanor should have done it. That's all I can think of."
"But listen to me, Betty," began Dorothy patiently. "Let me show you just how matters stand. Frances can't go down to New York alone—you can see that. She doesn't know the city, and she'd get lost or run over, and ten to one come home without even remembering to see Mr. Blake. You can't believe how absent-minded she is, till you've worked with her as I have. Besides, she is too dreamy and imaginative to convince a man of Mr. Blake's type.
"And Bess Egerton mustn't go; Frances and I are agreed about that. She's too flighty. She'd be angry if Mr. Blake didn't yield his point immediately, and say something outrageous to him. Then she'd go off shopping and come back here in the best of spirits, declaring that there was nothing to be done because Mr. Blake was 'such a silly.' And I can't go."
"If you only could!" broke in Betty. "Then it would be all right. Isn't there any chance that you might be able to by the end of next week?"
Dorothy shook her head. "I couldn't get leave, on top of this two weeks' illness, without telling Miss Stuart exactly why I needed to go, and I don't want to do that. Miss Raymond knows all about it and approves, and we don't want to confide in any one else. Besides, I doubt if Mr. Blake will wait so long."
"Well then, Dorothy, why not write to him?"
Dorothy shook her head again. "We tried that. We wrote one letter, and when his answer came we tried again, but eight pages was the least we could get our arguments into. No, it's a case where talking it out is the only thing to do. You could take him unawares and I'm sure you'd bring him round."
"That's just it," broke in Betty eagerly. "I know you're mistaken, Dorothy. I couldn't think of a thing to say to him—I never can. It would be just a waste of time for me to try."
Dorothy took a bulky envelope from under her pillows and held it out to Betty. "Here," she said. "These are the letters we wrote. We all three tried. Here are arguments in plenty."
"But I should forget them all when I got there."
"You mustn't."
"Besides, it would look so queer for me to go, when I'm not on the'Argus' board, and have nothing to do with the trouble."
"Didn't I tell you why we chose you?" exclaimed Dorothy. "No? I am so stupid to-day; I put everything the wrong way around. Why, there were two reasons. One is because you are so fond of Eleanor and understand her so well. Nobody on the 'Argus' staff, except Beatrice and myself, has more than a bowing acquaintance with her, whereas you can tell Mr. Blake exactly what sort of girl she is, and why we want to save her from this disgrace. The other reason is that, while Christy is away, you are one of the two sophomores on the Students' Commission; Eleanor is a sophomore and either you or Lucy Merrifield is the proper person to act in her interests in a case of this kind. Because you know Eleanor best, we chose you—and for some other reasons," added Dorothy, truthfully, remembering the confidence they had all felt in Betty's peculiar combination of engaging manner and indomitable pluck and perseverance, where a promise or a friend was concerned.
"Oh, Dorothy!" sighed Betty, feeling herself hopelessly entangled in the web of Dorothy's logic.
"There is a third reason," went on Dorothy, inexorably, "just between you and me. Of course you understand that I feel personally to blame about this trouble. If I hadn't lost my horrid temper and said something disagreeable to force her hand, Eleanor Watson might never have allowed the story to be printed and the worst complications would have been avoided. Now I personally ask you, as the person I can best trust, to go to Mr. Blake for me. You know Eleanor. You agree with us that it is very likely to spoil her whole life if this is made public—"
"But, Dorothy, I'm not sure it's right to keep it a secret," broke inBetty.
"I believe you will feel sure when you have had a chance to think over all sides of the question," resumed Dorothy, "and to see how much to blame I am. Then you are a typical Harding girl, the right sort to represent the college to Mr. Blake, who seems to be very much interested in knowing what sort of girl Harding turns out."
"Oh, no!" demurred Betty. "I'm not the right kind at all."
"Besides, you have a way of getting around people and persuading them to do what you want," concluded Dorothy.
"Never," declared Betty.
Dorothy smiled faintly. "You have the reputation," she said. "Of course I don't know how you got it; but now that you have it you're bound to live up to it, you know. And if you don't go, we shall have to risk writing and I am perfectly certain that no letter will keep Mr. Blake from publishing his notice next month, whereas I think that if he were to talk over the matter with you, he might very easily be persuaded to give it up."
Dorothy lay back on her pillows and closed her eyes. "It does certainly seem like shirking to be ill just now," she said.
Betty rose hastily and came over to the bed. "Dorothy," she began, "I must go this minute. You are all tired out. I wish I could promise now, but I must think it over—whether I can do what you want of me and whether I ought. I'll tell you what," she went on eagerly, "I can't see you again, but I'll send you a bunch of violets the first thing in the morning, and I'll tuck in a note among the flowers, saying what I can do. And it will be the very best I can do, Dorothy."
"I know it will," said Dorothy. "Don't think that I don't realize how much we're asking of you."
"I like to be trusted," said Betty, ruefully, "but it seems to me there are hundreds of girls in college who could do this better than I. Good- bye—and look out for the violets, Dorothy."
A moment later she opened the door again. "Of course Eleanor doesn't know that you've found out?"
"No," said Dorothy. "We've told no one but you and Miss Raymond. We thought it would only complicate matters and hurt her needlessly to tell her now. I suppose she will have to know eventually, to guard against a repetition of the trouble, if for no other reason; but we haven't looked so far ahead as that yet."
It was fortunate that Betty was not called upon to recite in her next class. Refusing the seat that Bob Parker had saved for her between herself and Alice Waite, she found a place in the back row where a pillar protected her from Bob's demonstrations, and leaning her head on her hand she set herself to work out the problem that Dorothy had given her. But the shame of Eleanor's act overcame her, as it had in Dorothy's room; she could not think of anything else. She woke with a start at the end of the hour to find the girls pushing back their chairs and making their noisy exit from the room, and to realize that she might as well have learned something about Napoleon's retreat from Moscow, since she had decided nothing about her trip to New York.
"I say," said Bob, joining her outside the door, "why are you so unsociable?"
"Headache," returned Betty, laconically, and with some truth.
"Too bad." Owing to the fact that she had never had a headache in her life, Bob's sympathy was somewhat perfunctory.
"When you have the written lesson to study for, too," mourned Alice.
"Written lesson?" questioned Betty, in dismay.
"Yes. Didn't you hear Professor White giving it out for to-morrow? All ofNapoleon—that's five hundred pages."
Betty gasped. "I suppose he made a lot of new points to-day. I didn't hear a word."
"Next time," said Bob, severely, "perhaps you'll be willing to sit down among people who can see that you keep awake."
"Don't tease her," begged Alice. "She must have an awful headache, not to have heard about the written lesson. What did you think we were all groaning so about, Betty?"
"I didn't hear that, either," said Betty, meekly. "Will one of you lend me a notebook?"
Betty could have hugged Helen Adams when immediately after luncheon she announced that she was going down to study history with T. Reed and should stay till dinner time. Betty hung a "Busy" sign on her door—the girls would think that she too was studying history madly—and set herself to read over the original of Eleanor's story in "The Quiver" that Dorothy had lent her. It was the same and yet not the same. Plot and characters had been taken directly from the original, but the phrasing— Betty knew Eleanor's story almost by heart—was quite different, and a striking little episode at the end that Miss Raymond had particularly admired was Eleanor's own.
"I like hers best," thought Betty, stoutly. "I wonder if the resemblance couldn't have happened by chance. Perhaps she read this story a long while before and forgot that she had not thought it up herself."
Betty looked at the date of the magazine and then consulted her calendar. The November "Quiver" had come out just two days before the afternoon of the barge ride, which had also been "theme afternoon." Betty remembered because her monthly allowance always came on the third. She had borrowed her quarter for the ride of Helen and paid her out of the instalment that arrived the very next morning. That settled it,—and as Dorothy had pointed out, all Eleanor's seemingly inexplicable queerness about the story was now explained.
Betty threw the magazine on the table and going to the window gazed drearily out at the snow-covered campus. The next thing to settle was whether it were right to help Eleanor to cover up her deceit? Dorothy felt, from the little she knew of Eleanor, that open disgrace would take away her last chance of being honest and upright. "She is terribly sensitive," Dorothy argued, "and if she feels that nice people don't trust her, she will go as far as she dares to show them that they are right. Perhaps she can be led, but she certainly can't be driven. She isn't strong enough to meet disgrace and down it." That might be true, but there was the mathematics examination of the year before. Miss Hale had argued as Dorothy did. In the hope of ultimately winning Eleanor by kindness, she had not let Miss Meredith know that Eleanor had told her an untruth. For a while afterward Eleanor had been scrupulously honorable, but now she had done something infinitely more dishonest than the deception of Miss Meredith. No doubt Dorothy regarded the affair of the story as a first offense, and Betty could not tell her that it wasn't. She had been glad enough to help save Eleanor from the consequences of her foolish bragging, the year before; but saving her from the consequences of deliberate dishonesty was a different matter. Betty had been taught to despise cheating in any form, and to avoid the least suspicion of it with scrupulous care. And now Dorothy wanted her to aid and abet a—a thief. Betty flushed hotly as she applied the hard name.
All at once the memory of her last interview with Eleanor flashed upon her. "I was an idiot last fall. Now I have come to my senses—" that was what she had said. When her voice broke, it must have been because she was sorry for the change—sorry that the old, shifty, unreliable self had come back to take the place of the strange new one whose ideals had proved too hard and too high to live by. The sad, hunted look that Madeline had spoken of was explained too. Eleanor was sorry. But was she sorry, as she had been in the case of the mathematics examination, only because she was afraid of being found out, or did she honestly regret having taken what was not her own, and used it to gain honors that she had not earned?
There was another point that Dorothy had not spoken of—perhaps had not thought of. What about the Dramatic Club election and the other college honors that had come or would come to Eleanor, one after another, all because, at the beginning of her sophomore year, she had made a reputation for brilliant literary work? Eleanor had been right, when she was a freshman, in insisting that it was the start which counted. Then, despite her first abject failure, she had compassed the difficult achievement of a second start. How proud Betty had been of her! And now all her fair hopes and high ambitions had crumbled to dust and ashes. Was it right to help her cover up the ruin? Was it fair to girls like Helen Adams, who worked hard and got no recognition, that Eleanor should get recognition for work which was not her own?
Anyway, she was not going to New York. Those three editors could choose some one else. And yet if she refused—oh, it was all dreadful! Betty flung herself on the couch and buried her face in the pillows. A moment later the door opened stealthily, and Madeline Ayres stuck her head in. In spite of her caution, Betty heard her and sat up with a nervous start.
"I hope you weren't asleep," said Madeline, settling herself comfortably at the other end of the couch. "I didn't mean to wake you; that was why I came in without knocking."
"I wasn't asleep," returned Betty faintly. "I was just resting."
"You look as if you needed to," said Madeline cheerfully. "Does your head ache now?"
"Not—not very much," stammered Betty.
"Have you read over all this?" Madeline reached out a long arm for the life of Napoleon that lay on the table.
"No, hardly any of it," confessed Betty, reddening as she remembered the"Busy" sign.
But Madeline remarked briskly, "That's good. Neither have I. I don't feel a bit like cramming, so I shall bluff. When father was studying art in Paris, he knew a man who had been one of Napoleon's guards at St. Helena. He was old and lame and half blind and stunningly homely then, and an artist's model. He used to tell merry tales about what a tiger of a man—" Madeline stopped short in the act of replacing the life of Napoleon on the table and stared at Betty in unfeigned admiration.
"Betty Wales," she said at last, "you are certainly a splendid actress. I never dreamed that you knew."
Betty's eyes followed Madeline's to the table, and then to "The Quiver," lying in full view where she had dropped it an hour before. There was one chance in a thousand that Madeline meant something besides Eleanor's story, and Betty resolved to make sure.
"Knew what, Madeline?" she asked steadily, trying not to blush but feeling the tell-tale red spread over her cheeks in spite of all she could do.
It was no use. Madeline picked up the magazine and flipped over the pages carelessly till she came to Eleanor's story. "That," she said, holding it out for Betty to see. Their eyes met, and at sight of Betty's frightened, pleading face, Madeline's hand dropped to her side.
"I beg your pardon," she said quickly. "I didn't mean to hurt you, Betty. I see now how it is. You didn't know before; you've just found out, and when I came in you were mourning for your fallen idol. Shall I go?"
Betty stretched out a detaining hand. "No," she said, "tell me,—quick before Helen comes,—how did you know?"
"Read it in 'The Quiver,' away back last fall, before Miss Watson's story came out in the 'Argus.' It's been—oh, amusing, you know, to hear people rave over her wonderful theme."
"Does any one else know?"
"I doubt it. 'The Quiver' isn't on sale up here. Father thinks it's clever and he sends it to me. I suppose he knows the editor. He's always knowing the editors of little, no-account magazines and having to sit up nights to do them cover-designs or something; and then they send him their magazines."
"But—I mean—you haven't told any one?" stammered Betty.
Madeline shook her head. "It wouldn't make a pretty story, do you think?"
"Madeline"—Betty's voice thrilled with earnestness—"did you ever think you ought to tell?"
Madeline stared at Betty for a moment in silence. Then her gray eyes twinkled. "You absurd little Puritan," she said, "is that what you're bothering your head about? I know you don't want to tell. Why aren't you satisfied to let matters take their course?"
"Because," Betty hesitated, "because if they take their course,—suppose, Madeline, that somebody else knows and wants to tell? Ought I to interfere with that?"
Madeline spread out her hands with a gesture that suggested helpless resignation. "My dear, how should I know? You see in Bohemia we're all honest—poor, but honest. We never have anything like this to settle because we're all too busy enjoying life to have time to envy our neighbors. But I think"—Madeline paused a minute—"I think if a man stole a design and got, say a medal at the water-color exhibit, or a prize at the Salon, I'd let him have it and I'd try to see that he kept it in a conspicuous place, where he'd be sure to see it every day. I think the sight of his medal would be his best medicine. If he was anything of a man, he'd never want another of the same sort, and if he was all cheat, he'd be found out soon enough without my help. So I'd give him the benefit of the doubt."
"And you think that would be fair to the one who ought to have had the medal?"
"If he was much of a man he didn't paint just for the medal," returned Madeline quickly. "He painted because he couldn't help it,—because he meant to make the most of himself,—and a medal more or less—what's that to him?" She turned upon Betty suddenly. "Don't you see that the great fault with the life here is that we think too little about living and too much about getting? These societies and clubs and teams and committees— they're not the best things in life; they're nothing, except what they stand for in character and industry and talent. No, I shouldn't worry because Eleanor Watson got into Dramatic Club, if that's what you mean, and may get into other things because she cribbed a story. That very fact will take all the fun out of it, unless she's beneath caring,—but she isn't beneath caring," Madeline corrected herself swiftly. "No one with a face like hers is beyond caring. It's the most beautiful face I ever saw—and one of the saddest."
"Thank you very much, Madeline," said Betty, soberly. "I'm so glad I could talk it over with you."
Madeline was never serious for long at a time. "I've been preaching regular sermons," she said with a laugh. "The thing I don't understand is why this editor of 'The Quiver' hasn't jumped on Miss Watson long ago. Editors are always reading college magazines—hoping to discover a genius, I suppose."
"Are they?" said Betty.
A tap sounded on the door.
"Don't worry, whatever else you do,—and hide your magazine," said Madeline, and was off with a cheerful greeting for Helen Adams, who had come back from her afternoon at T. Reed's crammed full of Napoleonic lore and basket-ball news.
"Theresa had made a table of dates and events," said Helen eagerly. "I copied it for you—it's lots of help. And Betty, she says the teams are going to be chosen soon, and she is almost sure you will be on."
Madeline Ayres wondered idly, as she dressed for dinner, how Betty Wales had come into possession of a four months' old magazine which was not to be had at any library or book-store in Harding. Then, being a person born, so she herself asserted, entirely without curiosity, she ceased wondering. By the time dinner was over and she had related a budget of her Napoleonic stories to a delighted group of anxious students, she had actually forgotten all about Eleanor's affairs.