Ever since Lily Andrews had taken up her duties as sophomore president she found a noticeable change in the attitude of certain members of the class towards her. Foremost among this group were Ruth Henry and Evelyn Hopkins, who boasted proudly among the other girls of their friendship with the president. If Ruth harbored any resentment against her successful rival, she carefully concealed it; and most of her classmates spoke of her as Lily Andrews' "right-hand man."
Without a doubt, Ruth was a great help to the new officer. Marjorie, always more interested in athletics and Scout affairs, paid only a half-hearted attention to Lily's official problems; and Doris Sands was really tired out and needed a rest. So, in sheer desperation, Lily sought Ruth, and always found her interested and helpful.
One afternoon when Marjorie was out walking with Alice Endicott, Lily, with notebook and pencil in hand, hurried over to Ruth's room. She found hersitting languidly beside her wicker tea-table, playing with the tea-ball, and carrying on a disconcerted conversation with Evelyn.
"How many times do I have to tell you not to knock, Lily Andrews!" she exclaimed. "I thought you knew us well enough by this time——"
Lily laughed, nevertheless highly flattered. It is always more or less of a triumph to conquer a dislike, and Lily felt genuinely pleased at the change in Ruth's attitude toward her.
"You're awfully good——" she began.
"Not at all!" protested Ruth. "But Evelyn and I are always at home to our friends!" Then, noticing the notebook, "What's the important business now, Lil?"
"Oh, it's class stuff again! I want your advice, Ruth."
"It's yours for the asking!" replied the hostess, magnanimously, well pleased to be so obviously within the "inner circle."
"You really ought to be class president, Ruth. You do more work than I do, and don't get the credit."
"I don't want credit," lied Ruth; "all I want is our class's good."
"Yes, I know. Well, here is my present trouble. You know, every single class since the foundation of the school has succeeded in holding their meeting in spite of the sophomores' attempt at interference.Why can't we break the spell? What could we possibly do?"
Ruth sat up straight in her chair and half closed her eyes, lost in contemplation.
"Wewillbreak the spell!" she announced, slowly. "I think I have a new idea!"
"Ruth, you are so clever!" exclaimed Evelyn, who could not keep out of the conversation. "I almost believe you can do it!"
"Tell us what your plan is!" begged Lily, impatient with even a moment's unnecessary delay.
"The private detective system—and by that I mean to have each girl in our class responsible for one or two freshmen, and know where they are every minute of the day. In that way, all of us would really be on guard all the time!"
"Wonderful!" cried Lily enthusiastically. "Would it really be possible to do it?"
"I don't see why not; the struggle lasts only six weeks—nearly two are gone already. And if everybody will work——"
"That's great, Ruth," interrupted Lily, deciding instantly to adopt the plan; "I'll post a notice for a meeting this very evening, and we'll put it up to the class. Then, if everybody approves of the scheme, I want you to be chairman of the Vigilance Committee—the leader, you know, to whom the girls would report any suspicions."
Ruth's heart gave a bound of delight: the appointmentwas just what she desired. With a little tact and diplomacy, she could make Lily a mere figure-head, and herself the power behind the throne; in this manner she could pave the way for her own election to the presidency for junior year.
But she did not dare to betray to Lily the fact that she was eager for the office. She even hesitated a moment before she accepted.
"Of course it will mean an awful lot of work, but if you really think I am capable, Lily, you know I'd do anything for the sake of the class."
"Of course you're capable," reassured the other, "and you must take it. It will remove a big weight from my mind, too, if you do."
The girls discussed the matter in detail, while Evelyn made tea. Then, refreshed and encouraged, Lily returned to her own room.
At the class meeting that evening, when Lily announced that Ruth Henry was chairman of the Vigilance Committee, the general wave of surprise that spread over the room was apparent. For most of the girls remembered how ungraciously the latter had treated her the previous year, before there was any talk of Lily's rising to prominence. But the act only served to enhance the admiration the girls felt for their president; they realized anew how magnanimous she was, and how much she valued the good of the class.
Ruth presented her plan so effectively that it wasimmediately approved and adopted. Each girl was allowed to select her own freshman, for, as Ruth remarked, if the sophomores chose their particular friends there would be less cause for suspicion. She herself picked out two charges—Esther Taylor and Florence Evans—both girls of unusual energy. Marjorie Wilkinson naturally selected Alice Endicott. Each sophomore was equipped with a whistle which she was instructed to blow if necessary, unless she happened to be inside of the dormitory building. And since, according to Miss Allen's rules, it was forbidden to hold the meeting before the rising bell in the morning, or after the supper bell in the evening, the difficulty of the problem was reduced fifty per cent.
The freshmen, in the meantime, were striving to formulate some definite plan for concerted action. But with no officers to assume responsibility or give directions, and with no opportunity for general discussion, there seemed to be little hope of their getting together. However, as in all cases heretofore, they relied upon the resourcefulness and hesitance of the junior president.
The holder of that office was Ethel Todd, one of the very cleverest of the Girl Scouts. Exceptionally capable, she usually accomplished what she set out to do. When she learned that Ruth Henry was chairman of the Vigilance Committee she was more determined than ever to check-mate any plans theother might make. Taking matters in her own hands, she arranged for a thorough consultation with Florence Evans and Mildred Cavin, whom she considered class leaders.
"Ruth Henry has some clever scheme," she informed them, "you can just depend on that. But I mean to beat her, no matter how perfect her system is," she added. She had never forgiven Ruth for the contemptible manner in which she had treated Marjorie the previous year, and she could not resist the temptation to do everything in her power to get even.
So she set about to discover the sophomore's plan, and to outwit the girls if she could. She watched Ruth's movements closely, and saw her follow Esther Taylor to the library the following afternoon, remain there as long as the freshman did, and come out again a few seconds afterward, dogging her footsteps to the hockey field. This same occurrence took place the day after; at the same time she perceived that Lily Andrews seemed always close on the trail of Mildred Cavin, and Marjorie of Alice Endicott. Ethel retired to her own room to think over this in quiet.
What could it all mean? Did Ruth and Lily and Marjorie think that the other freshmen could not hold a meeting without these few girls—that they, leaders though they were, were indispensable? She glanced out of the window and saw Daisy Graverswalking down the path to the gate; a few steps behind her came Doris Sands, apparently unconcerned about things in general, but every now and then glancing at Daisy, and then looking hastily toward the dormitory. Then, in a flash, the system was disclosed to the junior President!
"PRIVATE DETECTIVE SYSTEM!" she exclaimed aloud, jumping suddenly to her feet. "Each freshman shadowed by a soph!"
She hit upon a brilliant, yet simple, plan. She would beat Ruth bycleanliness! Accordingly, she wrote forty notes to forty freshmen, telling them to wear kimonas, carry soap and towels, and be in the shower-bath compartment on the third floor at one minute after seven the following day. If the sophomores were up early enough to notice the freshmen's absences, they would not suspect anything unusual in such a proceeding.
The next morning was a dark one, and, much to her annoyance, Ruth overslept by ten minutes. Jumping up suddenly, she hastily put on her bathrobe, and, passing along the hall by way of Esther Taylor's and Florence Evans' rooms, made her way toward the shower. She did not hear any stir as she went by the freshmen's doors, but being late, she hurried on. A moment later, she reached the shower-bath compartment.
As she was just about to enter, the swinging door was abruptly flung open, and a noisy crowd of girls,in kimonas and bath-robes, almost knocked her over. They were freshmen, and they were all tremendously happy over something; in a flash, she read the news of their victory. She did not even need Mildred Cavin's announcement: "Florence Evans is freshman president!" to confirm her fears.
The hot blood rushed to Ruth's face as she caught sight of Ethel Todd's triumphantly gleaming eyes. Dejected, defeated, she disappeared into the shower to drown her disappointment in cold water.
For, in her own imagination, she saw the junior presidency fading from her grasp!
Marjorie and Lily were seated in the old-fashioned, comfortably furnished parlor in the home of Mrs. Johnson, that motherly woman who, through her interest in both the Girl Scouts and their ward, had promised to board Frieda for six dollars a week. The girls had come down to see her to venture a little plan of theirs, and Marjorie was relieved to find her so easy to become acquainted with. Mrs. Johnson was just the sort of person—placid, sympathetic, jolly—that any normal girl would love. This fact, thought Marjorie, ought to help them a great deal in their success with Frieda.
"You see," explained Marjorie, idly running her finger along the surface of the horse-hair sofa on which she was seated, "we want to make Frieda enjoy herself from the very beginning. Some of the freshmen at Miss Allen's were pretty homesick at first, and we want to avoid all that with her. For she really belongs to us, you know; we're responsible for her!"
"Yes, yes," agreed Mrs. Johnson, still in doubt regarding the purpose of the girl's remarks. Was Marjorie afraid that she, Mrs. Johnson, would not treat her kindly?
"But what——?" she began.
"What I am trying to tell you about," laughed Marjorie, interrupting her, "is that, provided you are willing, we want to have a little surprise party here for her when she arrives. We thought we'd order cake and ice-cream, and have everybody hide somewhere in the house. Then, when Miss Phillips and Frances and Frieda come in, you suggest that she go to her room, and take off her things, and come down again.
"While she's upstairs, we'll come out of our hiding-places and play the piano, and sing her a welcome song. Ethel Todd, one of the Scouts, has written a dandy—a parody on 'Jingle Bells'!"
Mrs. Johnson beamed happily.
"Indeed, I do heartily approve of your plan, my dear," she said. "Now won't you and your friend"—she rose from her seat—"come up to see her room? I wish I could have put her on the second floor, but you know my father and mother live with me, and they demand the first consideration."
Mrs. Johnson led the way up two flights of stairs and into a little room with a gabled roof. The room itself, the curtains, the rag rug, the bed, and the old fashioned bureau, were very neat and clean, but thewhole effect of the furnishing was too bare to allow the room to be regarded as really attractive. Marjorie wondered what it would seem like to Frieda, unused as she was to luxury of any sort.
"It's awfully nice," she said with sincerity. "I'm sure Frieda will like it."
"I hope she does!" sighed Mrs. Johnson; "but you never can tell about young people these days."
When Saturday finally came, there was great excitement among the members of the Girl Scout troop. They felt like people who are about to adopt a child, so interested were they in the girl's welfare. Ruth alone was indifferent. She refused to believe that any good would come of the whole project. Some of the Scouts thought she harbored resentment against Frieda for disclosing her deceit in borrowing the baby at camp. Ethel Todd, always suspicious of Ruth, thought that she naturally was hostile toward any scheme in which Marjorie was deeply interested.
But Ruth's opposition in reality was caused by neither of these things; for once her reasons were impersonal. She really doubted Frieda's ability to appreciate what was being done for her, and though she could not exactly explain why, she felt positive that the girl would betray the troop's confidence, and make them wish that they had never considered the undertaking.
A dull, dreary rain on Saturday morning seemedto presage failure for the girls' plans at the very start. It was always dismal, Marjorie thought, to go anywhere in the rain, but especially to a new town. Frieda would receive a bad impression of the place from the beginning, and, if she had any tendency toward homesickness, the inclemency of the weather would only help to intensify it.
"I certainly am glad we planned this party, Lil," she observed, as the girls were donning their Scout uniforms. "That will probably be the only bright spot in the day for Frieda."
"You forget," said Lily reprovingly, "that Frieda is to be met by our Captain!"
"That's right, Lil! She's lucky!"
She looked dreamily out of the window, not seeing the rain, but thinking of the first time Miss Phillips had talked with her. From the very start she had meant more to Marjorie than any of the sorority girls.
"And yet," she added wistfully, "Miss Phillips didn't seem able to make much impression upon either Frieda or her mother before. Oh, I do hope Ruth is mistaken!"
At half-past two, fourteen Girl Scouts, all in uniform, were concealed on the first floor of Mrs. Johnson's house. Two of the girls were in the cellar-way, three in the roomy kitchen, two under the dining-room table, four behind chairs and the sofa in the living-room, one underneath the sofa, and twoin the dining-room closet. While they tried not to become hilarious, for they expected their guests at any moment now, suppressed whispers and giggles were heard from time to time from all parts of the downstairs.
Mrs. Johnson, apparently the only person in the room, sat in a chair beside the table, knitting a white sweater for Frieda. Marjorie, sprawled at full length under the sofa, was making vain attempts to keep up a conversation with Lily and Ethel, who were behind it.
Suddenly a step was heard on the porch, and instantly a hush fell upon the room. The girls in the dining-room and kitchen became silent, too, as Mrs. Johnson answered the bell. But the Scouts' hearts fell as they distinguished the deep tones of a masculine voice.
"Michael Doyle, the plumber, told me to come here and look at the kitchen sink," they heard. "I'm his helper. Didn't you send for someone, Mrs. Johnson?"
"Why, to be sure!" replied their hostess genially, opening the door to admit the man. The girls remained in their hiding places, and only with great effort suppressed their desire to giggle. Mrs. Johnson led the way to the kitchen, where she explained the cause of the difficulty to the man.
In the meantime, more steps were heard outside; the hearts of the concealed girls beat all the morewildly with excitement because of the false alarm they had just experienced.
It was evident, after a moment or two of silence, that Mrs. Johnson had not heard the bell. Probably she had gone down the cellar with the plumber. Marjorie was debating in her own mind whether she ought not to creep out of her hiding place and open the door, for the day was too disagreeable to keep anyone outside longer than necessary, when Miss Phillips tried the knob, and, finding that it turned, she opened the door and walked in. Frieda followed, and then Frances.
Frieda Hammer, a girl of fourteen or fifteen, was dressed in an old-fashioned woolen suit of a style of nearly ten years back. Its bedraggled, uneven skirt reached down to her ankles, while the sleeves of the coat came far short of her wrists. Her hair was arranged in an exaggerated fashion, with huge ear-puffs, according to her idea of the latest mode; and on her head was a dirty straw hat, trimmed with big artificial roses. She slouched into the room, dragging her muddy feet over the carpet, and threw herself into Mrs. Johnson's chair.
She glanced around the room with a look of the utmost disdain; then closed her jaw tightly, causing her lower lip to protrude, as is often the habit with persons of sullen dispositions. Marjorie caught sight of her attitude and could hardly repress a sigh of dismay; then she espied Frances, looking nervousand unhappy, and her last hope vanished. Ruth must be right after all!
Miss Phillips sank into a chair opposite to Frieda, as if she were both mentally and physically exhausted. Then, breaking the silence at last, she remarked, in a tone which she tried to make pleasant,
"It's nice to be home, isn't it?"
But she received no reply from the girl. Her sullen expression never changed; it might seem that she had not heard Miss Phillips' remark.
"I guess Mrs. Johnson will be here in a minute," the latter added, cheerfully. "And then you can go to your room and wash."
Still there was no word or sign from Freida. "She certainly isn't very appreciative," thought Marjorie; "but maybe she's homesick."
"Would you like to try on your new things?" asked Miss Phillips.
With a shrug of the utmost indifference, Frieda replied,
"I don't care!"
"You're not a bit homesick, are you, Frieda?" asked Frances, more, it would seem, as if to make conversation, than because she really thought there was any likelihood of this contingency.
The girl regarded her questioner scornfully.
"For them folks?" she asked sarcastically. "I don't want to see them no more!"
Frances sighed—and surrendered. Ever since sheand her Captain had met the country girl, she had tried to be friendly and sympathetic; in every instance Frieda had repulsed her in this rude manner. At first Frances had felt hurt; with a great deal of effort she had kept back the tears that the sharp replies would bring dangerously near to the surface. Then, too, the girl had been so outrageously ungrateful; she had almost made a scene in a store where Miss Phillips tried to buy a ten-dollar dress, and had declared that she would never wear it! Finally, they had compromised on a dark skirt and two middy blouses; but Frieda took no pains to hide her resentment at the cheapness of the clothing. Many of her remarks had been absolutely insulting; and now Frances was utterly disgusted with her, and wished that Pansy troop had taken Ruth Henry's advice, and let Frieda Hammer stay where she was till the end of her days.
Just at that moment Mrs. Johnson appeared with a great, warm smile of welcome on her motherly face. Surely, Frances thought, this would have melted the hardest heart. She and Miss Phillips both rose at her entrance; but Frieda sat perfectly still, and gave no indication that she was aware of the other's presence.
"Stand up, Frieda," commanded Miss Phillips, pleasantly, and the girl shuffled to her feet, still keeping her eyes fixed on the piano.
"Mrs. Johnson, this is Frieda Hammer. Frieda,you are very lucky to have such a lovely home, and such a kind, adopted mother! Won't you shake hands?"
The girl thrust out her hand awkwardly, still avoiding the eyes of the older woman. "A bad sign"—thought Mrs. Johnson, unconsciously—"she never seems to look anyone in the eyes."
"I will take you to your room, my dear," she said. "Then you can come down again and have something to eat!"
This last remark was made with a side glance at Miss Phillips, and a twinkle in her eye. But for once the latter did not respond; she was so discouraged and mentally worn-out, that she had completely forgotten the surprise party.
"Don't want nuthing!" protested Frieda, rudely. And, seizing her bag, she followed Mrs. Johnson up the stairs.
As soon as she was out of sight, the girls began to move cautiously from their hiding places. But suddenly they all stood perfectly still, arrested by the unbelievable words they now heard, which Frieda literally shouted at kind Mrs. Johnson.
"You ain't a-going to put me in the attic!" Her bag fell to the floor with a bang. "I didn't come here to be no servant girl! I knew there was a trick to it!"
"But, my dear——" Mrs. Johnson's soft voicepleaded in words that were not distinguishable to the girls below.
By this time the Scouts were gathered about the piano. Frances sank on the sofa and buried her face in her hands, and Miss Phillips sighed deeply. Marjorie looked frightened, as if something dreadful were about to happen. Ruth alone was unaffected; she had been right from the first!
"Oh, Ruth!" cried Frances, forgetting all about the surprise party. "If we only had taken your advice!" Her voice died in a wail.
"Sh!" cautioned Marjorie. "Oh, girls, don't let's give up! Please! Let's try our song. Maybe that—and the ice-cream——"
But to her dismay, she received no word of encouragement from Miss Phillips. Their Captain seemed to have reached the lowest depths of despair.
Ethel, however, struck the chord, and the girls chimed in weakly. Then, the music, strengthening their hopes as it progressed, made them more cheerful. Loudly, they brought out the words of the chorus:
"Frieda dear, Frieda dear, we're so glad you're here!Frieda dear, Frieda dear, your Scout friends are near——"
"Frieda dear, Frieda dear, we're so glad you're here!Frieda dear, Frieda dear, your Scout friends are near——"
and they fairly shouted the name in hope of evoking some response.
But none came; in five minutes Mrs. Johnson reappeared with wet eyes. She felt so sorry for the Scouts.
"It's no use, girls," she said, sadly; "she wouldn't come down. And when I stepped out into the hall to show her the big closet for her wraps, she locked the door in my face!"
Marjorie burst into tears and hid her face on her room-mate's shoulder. She felt as if she had never been more disappointed, even when she failed to make the Scout troop.
"Don't cry, dear," said Mrs. Johnson, "she'll come around in time. Now let's have the party, anyway. Suppose you change it, and have it in honor of me instead! Day after to-morrow is my birthday!"
Marjorie looked up, smiling through her tears; and the girls all went out to prepare the refreshments. Miss Phillips flashed Mrs. Johnson a grateful look; the tact and good sense of the older woman had prevented the misfortune from becoming a tragedy.
When the disappointed girls left Mrs. Johnson's home at the conclusion of the surprise party, Marjorie probably looked most dejected of all. She resolutely avoided Ruth's society, feeling that she could not bear her "I told you so" attitude; instead, she sought Lily, who seemed to understand how she felt. The girls walked in silence; Lily knew her room-mate well enough now to realize that talking would not help, and she discreetly refrained from intruding upon her thoughts.
When they reached their own room, Marjorie threw herself upon the bed with a sob. Lily sat down beside her and put her arm around her neck.
"Marj, please don't take it so hard," she begged. "It won't do any good."
"Of course it won't," Marjorie replied, brokenly. "But I cared so much about her liking us."
"Well, she may, yet. Maybe she was frightened—and homesick. Why don't you go down to see her all by yourself?"
The suggestion brought Marjorie a ray of hope. She dried her eyes, and squeezed Lily's hand gratefully.
"I certainly will do that!" she exclaimed. "Thank you for suggesting it."
The following day, Sunday, was mild and beautiful; Marjorie was so glad to see that the rain was gone, and so hopeful about her new project, that she felt quite cheerful again. She selected one of her prettiest dresses—a pale pink voile—and also wore her pink silk sweater which matched it so perfectly.
"I won't bother with a hat," she thought. "It's so warm, and it will seem more informal without one."
It was only a few minutes' walk to Mrs. Johnson's house, and she reached it in no time. With trembling fingers, she rang the doorbell. The woman herself answered the summons.
"How do you do, Mrs. Johnson?" she said pleasantly. And then, just as if she were paying an ordinary call on one of her own friends, "Is Frieda in?"
Mrs. Johnson smiled. "Yes. Do come in, and sit down—Marjorie—isn't that your name? Let's talk a little first, and then I'll call her."
Marjorie sat down upon the edge of the sofa, and leaned forward eagerly. She was curious for news of this strange girl, who so baffled everybody, even Miss Phillips and kind Mrs. Johnson.
"She isn't civilized, Marjorie," said the older woman. "That's exactly what it is; she has livedwith people all of her life who have no conception of morals, or manners, or training, and she simply acts like a sort of mental savage."
"But there were the Brubakers—her father worked for Mr. Brubaker. Don't you suppose——?"
"No; I don't suppose she ever saw anything of them. She is used to wandering about just as she pleases. Whatever education she has acquired was probably beaten into her by some rough, country schoolmaster."
Marjorie sighed hopelessly.
Mrs. Johnson read her thoughts. "But it isn't hopeless, my dear," she added softly. "Frieda is a human being, with a soul. And she is young, too. If we can keep her here, away from her parents' bad influence, we may yet be able to civilize her. Don't give up yet!"
Marjorie was unconsciously encouraged by these words. But she wanted more definite details of the girl's behavior.
"I sent her supper to her last night," said Mrs. Johnson, "by Annie, the girl who comes in to help me cook and wash dishes. She said that Frieda opened the door and snarled at her something which she could not understand, except the word 'servant,' and snatched the food and slammed the door in her face.
"She did not appear at breakfast, but I heard hergo out for a walk; and when she came back, I was home from church and had dinner on the table. I asked her to come in, and she followed me to the dining-room.
"When I introduced her to father and mother, and Mr. Johnson, she paid not the slightest attention. Her manners at the table were terrible; she evidently knew nothing about the use of a knife and fork. She ate greedily, as if she were very hungry. And, by the way, I think the girl is decidedly undernourished.
"Immediately after dinner she went to her room again. Now, if you want to go up and see her, you can do as you like. You know the facts."
Marjorie jumped to her feet.
"Oh, I will go!" she cried impulsively. "There must be some good in her."
"Yes," agreed Mrs. Johnson, "or else she would not have consented to come here."
Marjorie lowered her eyelids. She was thinking of that remark of Ruth's: that Frieda had only seized the opportunity as another chance to steal something. But she resolutely suppressed the idea; she did not want to antagonize Mrs. Johnson to any greater extent against the girl.
Up the steps she ran, two at a time, so that she might not have time to lose courage and change her mind. She knocked at the door of the room.
"Who is it?" This, gruffly.
"It's Marjorie—Marjorie Wilkinson! The girlwith the canoe. I want to take you for a ride in my boat!" This last proposal was made on the inspiration of the moment.
To her surprise, she heard Frieda step forward and unlock the door.
"Whew!" she whistled, gazing at Marjorie's costume in open-mouthed amazement. "Some dress!"
Marjorie smiled, all the while noting with pleasure the changed appearance of the other. For Frieda wore the pleated skirt and middy that Miss Phillips had bought for her the day before, and her hair was arranged quite simply in the style Frances Wright adopted, without, of course, the artificial ear-puffs.
"How nice you look, Frieda!" she observed, admiringly.
"None of that!" shouted the other girl. "This dress makes me sick, when I look at yours!"
Marjorie perceived the jealousy in Frieda's eyes, and hastened to change the subject.
"Will you go out in my canoe with me now?"
"Nope! Not in this rig!"
"But Frieda——"
"If you like it so much," she interrupted, "you wear it—and give me yours!"
Now Marjorie's pink voile was one of her favorite dresses, and she had counted upon wearing it in the evenings all winter. But it was not really expensive, and she felt that she would gladly part with it if it would effect a reconciliation. The sweaterwould be a weightier matter; it had been a birthday gift from her father. Still, she would sacrifice that, too, on the altar of this, her greatest desire of the present time.
She considered making a bargain and extracting a promise of friendship from the girl, but this, she felt, might antagonize her. So she merely said,
"All right, Frieda; but you can't wear this to school. I'll wear yours back to the dormitory, and then I'll put on another dress and give this back to you again."
Frieda could hardly believe her ears when she saw Marjorie actually take off her sweater and start to unfasten her dress. Then she clapped her hands with delight; she was not so uncivilized as to lack the feminine characteristic of love of pretty clothing.
The change was effected quickly, and the girls walked out together and back to Miss Allen's where Marjorie changed the dress; and then to the lake. Marjorie tried to talk naturally, but, only receiving monosyllables as replies, finally gave up. Untying the canoe, and taking the paddle from the bottom, she bade Frieda get in, and pushed off.
"Ain't it locked?" asked Frieda in astonishment.
"No, everybody here is honest. And people from outside the school don't know about it."
They drifted on, Marjorie glancing now and then at her companion, who sat back lazily—in fact, almost contentedly—watching the sky and the water,and listening to the rhythmic dip of the paddle. A wave of great happiness surged over Marjorie; she felt that she had progressed farther than she would have dreamed possible, after the previous day's experience.
"Frieda, will you come to our Japanese party on Friday evening, if I give you a ticket?" asked Marjorie, as she left the girl at Mrs. Johnson's.
"Maybe. What's it going to be like?"
Marjorie explained the plans, but she saw that they conveyed little meaning to the country girl. Nevertheless, she resolved to send her a ticket.
It happened that Friday night, which was the last of September, was clear and mild; the stars twinkled brightly over the pretty scene at the edge of the lake. Japanese lanterns were strung all about the trees, and the tables, containing refreshments, were decorated with gay autumn flowers. Robed in Japanese kimonas, with long, Oriental pins in their hair, the girls flitted about from place to place, welcoming their guests and serving the dainty food. Out on the lake, where Marjorie was drifting in her canoe, a victrola was playing soft music.
"The boat reminds one of Venice," observed Miss Allen, who was one of the first to arrive. "I believe I'd enjoy a ride!"
Lily, to whom the remark was directed, whistled softly to her room-mate. Instantly, the girl turned around, and made for the shore.
"Venice or Japan, whichever you like, Miss Allen," laughed Lily, "just so long as we make the money—for the cause is a good one, you know."
Teachers, girls from the school, people from the village,—a larger crowd than the Scouts had dared to hope for—continued to arrive. Charmed by the novel idea, they bought lavishly; and few escaped without first visiting the fortune-telling booth presided over by Miss Phillips, or taking a ride in one of the row-boats, or in Marjorie's canoe.
All the while, however, Marjorie watched anxiously for the appearance of Frieda. Would the girl disappoint her? Marjorie had been so busy during the week that she had not been able to go to see her, but Mrs. Johnson had told Miss Phillips that Frieda had gone regularly to school, and that her teacher reported progress.
Towards nine o'clock, however, just as Marjorie was landing her canoe with two of the teachers who had been for a ride, she caught sight of a familiar pink dress.
Ruth, who had joined their group in order to serve the guests with ice-cream, also noticed the newcomer.
"I wonder who that is!" remarked Ruth, vainly attempting to identify the girl in the dim light. "She's all dolled up, too!"
A smile spread over Marjorie's face, and she waved her hand in welcome. Frieda advanced slowly, as if she were not sure that she desired tojoin the group. When she was within half a dozen steps of them, Ruth recognized her.
"Frieda Hammer!" announced Ruth, in a stage whisper that was perfectly audible to the girl herself. Then, turning to the others, and laughing, she added, "Hold on to your jewelry! Nothing's safe——"
"Sh!" cautioned Marjorie, in the deepest distress. "Do be careful, Ruth. She'll hear you!"
But the girl had evidently overheard the remark, for a hard look came into her eyes. She grit her teeth fiercely, but said nothing; then, turning swiftly around, she disappeared among the trees.
The older women, sensing a scene, sauntered away; but Ruth stood where she was, smiling defiantly. Marjorie might have cried, had she not been so angry.
"It's all your fault!" she exclaimed; "Frieda was just getting friendly, and here you had to spoil it! Just the way you spoil everything I try to do!"
"Calm yourself, Marj!" remarked Ruth, with a superior air. "She can't feel things like we do! Besides, she is a thief, so why not call her one?"
"Would you like to have all your sins thrown in your face?" retorted Marjorie. "And you know——"
"May I have a canoe ride?" said a pleasant voice behind them, and the girls turned around to see Mrs. Johnson, with her husband, standing near them.
"Certainly," murmured Marjorie, ashamed of her loss of temper, and hoping that the others had not heard the angry words. Ruth turned away, and Marjorie once more paddled out on the lake. But the evening was spoiled for her.
For Frieda Hammer had again been antagonized!
"Marjorie!"
Lily Andrews, entering the room, found it necessary to speak twice before she aroused the attention of her room-mate, who was seated on her couch, idly fingering the geometry book she was supposed to be studying, and looking into space. Lily could not remember when she had seen her look so dejected. But she had a piece of news that she thought would bring a smile to Marjorie's lips.
"Miss Phillips wants you!"
"She does! What for?" This, eagerly.
"Oh, I don't know—hockey, or something, I guess!"
The look of happiness died from Marjorie's face. She seemed tremendously disappointed. Lily looked at her questioningly; heretofore, the girl had always been delighted to be summoned by her favorite teacher, for no matter what purpose.
"What's the matter, Marj?"
"Nothing; only I hoped that maybe it had something to do with Scouts."
"With Scouts?"
"Well—with Frieda, then!" This explanation was given rather grudgingly, and with a greater degree of impatience than she was wont to use with Lily.
"Didn't you tell me you hoped she'd come to the Japanese fête, Marj?" pursued the other.
"Yes; and she did come!"
"But I didn't see her!"
"Well, then you missed her, that's all." Marjorie arose from her seat, as if to end a very distasteful conversation.
But Lily was not through.
"Marj, is it true that you gave her your pink dress?"
"Yes, it is."
"Oh, I'm so glad!" cried Lily, in the most relieved tone. "Ruth saw Frieda wearing it—and your sweater besides—and she said Frieda stole it!"
"And you believed that!" Marjorie's eyes flashed in anger. "Oh, Lil, how could you?"
"Well, you didn't tell me; and you know she did steal before. So Ruth thought probably——"
"Ruth Henry makes me sick!" exclaimed Marjorie, now tried to the utmost. "And I'll bet she got you to pump me——"
"No, not exactly," replied Lily, a little ashamedof her questions; "but we were both curious to know."
Marjorie shook her head with disgust, and resolved to say nothing further.
"Where is Miss Phillips?" she asked.
"In her office."
"Thanks."
Without another word, she left the room, and went straight to the gymnasium.
"Good afternoon!" said Miss Phillips, pleasantly, as Marjorie entered the little office; "sit down here. I want to talk about the hockey squad."
"Yes, of course," murmured Marjorie, making a great effort to collect her thoughts and show an interest in the conversation.
"And I consulted you first," continued Miss Phillips, "because you have been at practice most faithfully, and played the best of anyone since the beginning of the term."
The compliment, which should have brought happiness to the girl, only touched her lightly; she hardly acknowledged it with a weak smile. Picking up a pencil, she ran the thick end along the edge of the desk, as if she were giving the teacher only a small part of her attention. Miss Phillips noticed and was annoyed, but she said nothing. She realized that even the loveliest characters experience perverse moods.
"I have decided on yourself, Ruth Henry, EthelTodd, Frances Wright, and Mae VanHorn for forwards; Edith Evans and Marian Guard for two of the half-backs, and Lily Andrews for goal. That leaves one half-back and two full-backs yet to be chosen, and I think we ought to have about five substitutes. Now whom do you suggest? Let's think of each class in turn."
Marjorie concentrated her attention upon the matter at hand, and thought hard.
"Is Helen Stewart's ankle all right by now?" she asked. The latter, who was to have been the heroine in the play at the last Commencement, had sprained her ankle the day that the Scouts had entertained a group of settlement children, and had been obliged to give up athletics for a while. Apparently, however, she was all right now.
"Yes; but it isn't very strong. Suppose we put her as one of the substitutes?"
"All right," agreed Marjorie.
"And there's nobody else in the senior class."
"No."
"Nor in the junior. Ada Mearns could play well, if she would only try, but she won't bother. Now what do you think about your own class?"
"Could Doris Sands possibly——?"
"Marjorie!" reproved Miss Phillips. "You're letting your personal feelings enter into the consideration. Doris Sands is very sweet and very capable, but—she's no hockey player!"
"That's true," admitted Marjorie. "Well, how about Evelyn Hopkins? She never seems to get anything."
But again the teacher shook her head. "Evelyn doesn't go about things right," she answered. "Individually, she's a good player, but she's miserable in team work. Evelyn plays selfishly."
Marjorie smiled; Miss Phillips seemed to sum up the girl's character correctly.
"Of course, Mae's new; do you think she will make good, Captain?"
"There's no doubt about it," replied Miss Phillips positively; "making the sorority last year was bad for Mae VanHorn, but losing out on the Scout troop was a good thing. All of her best friends are Scouts, and she certainly has buckled down to work well. The other teachers tell me she is getting along beautifully thus far in her lessons."
"We can never get seven girls out of the freshman class!" remarked Marjorie, skeptically.
"Then we'll just appoint the best ones for the regular positions, and trust to luck for substitutes till we have a regular game. It's all we can do!"
"Well, Edith Evans' sister Florence can play almost any position," said Marjorie. "She surely is a dandy girl; I think she'll be another like Edith."
"Let's put her in for full-back; that's a mighty important position," suggested Miss Phillips. "Andwhat do you think of Alice Endicott? She's certainly worked hard!"
Marjorie's eyes brightened; she wanted that little homesick girl, whom she had been pleased to call "her freshman," to win out. A shadow crossed her face as she thought how she had neglected her lately, while all her thoughts were centered on Frieda Hammer. And Alice appreciated every little attention so much, while Frieda was so ungrateful.
"I'm so glad you think so," she said enthusiastically; "I have watched her, too, and I think she could hold her own as half-back."
"Oh, that reminds me," exclaimed Miss Phillips, "I think Daisy Gravers could play full-back."
The team was complete.
It became apparent that Marjorie was anxious to dismiss the subject, for she rose to go.
"But we have only one substitute," remarked Miss Phillips.
Marjorie paused a moment before she replied. Then,
"What would you think of Barbara Hill?"
"Good—but erratic. Yes, she'd do for a sub forward. All right, then, I'll notify the girls, and call a meeting to elect a captain. We must beat Miss Martin's this year!"
Marjorie flushed at the recollection of the previous year's game, which, she had always considered, she had lost for her school.
"Let's make everybody go into training this year!" she said, prompted by the recollection.
"All right!" agreed Miss Phillips. Then, abruptly changing the subject, she looked straight into Marjorie's eyes, and asked softly,
"What's the matter, Marjorie?"
The girl colored again under her scrutiny. But there was no use in attempting to hide anything from the Captain.
"Oh, just about Frieda! I'm discouraged."
Miss Phillips rose, and laid her hand upon her shoulder.
"Don't worry, dear; it will be all right in the end. But it is a long process. Anyhow, I have kept in close touch with Frieda's public school teachers, and they say that she is attending to her work, and making good headway. She even stays after school for extra instruction. And you know, Marjorie, there is nothing—except perhaps religion—that can change a person like education."
The Captain's cheerful words encouraged Marjorie.
"We did make a good deal on the Japanese fête, didn't we?" she asked.
"Over a hundred dollars! And the returns aren't all in yet."
"Well, I will try to be patient," said Marjorie, walking toward the door of the office. Then, turning around, she added,
"Miss Phillips, couldn't you urgeallthe Scouts to adopt a friendly attitude toward Frieda? We'll never get anywhere till they do!"
"I didn't know they hadn't!" replied Miss Phillips; "but I will deliver a gentle lecture at next Scout meeting if you think there is any doubt."
Marjorie flashed her grateful look, and was gone. Temporarily, she felt cheered and relieved, but she knew that the feeling would not last. Deep in her subconscious mind, she sensed dangerous rocks ahead, and probably treacherous waters to go through, before Frieda would be safe—morally safe—as she and Lily and all her friends, were safe.
But she would be brave; she would not cross her bridges before she came to them!
It was in October that the hockey squad was announced, and a meeting held. The list of names which Miss Phillips posted upon the bulletin-board was examined with breathless interest by every girl in the school; for there would be no new Scouts chosen from among those who had not already qualified in hockey.
Except among the fortunate few, a great feeling of disappointment prevailed all over the school. Girls who knew that their report marks would be high, and who had looked eagerly forward to becoming Girl Scouts of Pansy troop, were sick with despair at falling short of the coveted goal.
For the same reason, however, the few new girls who had made the team appreciated the honor all the more. It meant a great deal to Mae VanHorn, who had lost out the previous year, and who cared more for Marjorie and Frances and Ethel, than any of the other girls in the school. It brought a feeling of pride to Barbara Hill, who admired Ruth soardently. But perhaps it carried the greatest happiness of all to the three freshmen who were chosen—Florence Evans, Alice Endicott, and Daisy Gravers. If their marks would only permit them to become Girl Scouts!
For the past week Marjorie had been happy. With an easy majority, she had been elected captain of the team, and the position and the popularity pleased her. Then, too, she spent much of her time with Alice Endicott, who simply bubbled over with joyousness all the time, so that it would have required real trouble to allow anyone to be sad in her presence. And Frieda, although she had never gone so far again in accepting Marjorie's friendship as she had on that first Sunday afternoon, was at least civil. She treated Mrs. Johnson with a fair degree of courtesy, but she seemed to distrust the Scouts, and avoided them on every occasion. At one time Pansy troop had invited her to go with them on a hike, but she had refused in a formal little note, written in an uneven hand, and evidently dictated by her teacher.
"It must have been that insulting remark of Ruth's, the night of the fête!" Marjorie assured herself, over and over. "Except for that, we'd probably be good friends by now!"
Then she would remind herself that Frieda really was progressing, that the troop was doing its part, and that there was actually no cause to worry.
On one afternoon that was warm and beautiful, and for which there was no hockey practice scheduled, she was debating in her mind what to do, when Lily threw open the door.
"Marj!" she exclaimed, "inside, on a day like this!"
"Oh, I'm going out," her room-mate replied slowly. "Only I can't decide where. What are you going to do?"
"Play tennis with Doris."
"That's nice."
She watched Lily put on her bloomers, which the girls were allowed to wear on their own courts, and her sneakers, still undecided as to her course of action.
"Want to play, too?" invited Lily. "Why not get Ruth, and we'll make it doubles?"
Marjorie wrinkled her nose; in her own mind she still harbored resentment against Ruth, and the idea of her company was rather distasteful.
"No—thanks! I don't want to do anything very strenuous."
A knock sounded at their door, and in answer to Lily's cheery, "Come!" Alice Endicott entered.
"If I bother you people too much, just put me out!" she announced gaily. "I simply must have company!"
"Not homesick?" asked Marjorie.
"No, indeed! Only I want to go for a walk, ordo something; and your society's so infinitely more pleasant than my own——"
"I'll tell you what I'll do," interrupted Marjorie. "Let's go canoeing!"
Alice clapped her hands with delight. She had never been out in Marjorie's canoe since the day when their friendship had really started, and she longed to be invited again.
"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 allaround 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 theirgorgeously 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 thisafternoon, 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 seriousproportions, 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.