Elizabeth Hobart at Exeter Hall

Elizabeth raised her cup to the toast.

ELIZABETH HOBART

AT

EXETER HALL

BY

JEAN K. BAIRD,

AUTHOR OF

“DANNY,” “CASH THREE,” “THE HONOR GIRL,” ETC., ETC.

ILLUSTRATED BY R. G. VOSBURGH

THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING COMPANY

New York Akron, Ohio Chicago

COPYRIGHT, 1907

By THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING COMPANY

Contents

ELIZABETH HOBART AT

EXETER HALL.

CHAPTER I.

PREPARATIONS FOR SCHOOL.

Bitumen was what its name suggested. There was soft coal and smoke everywhere. Each day the clothes on the line were flecked with black. The buildings had the dull, dingy look which soot alone can give. The houses sagged on either side of narrow, unpaved streets, where during a rainy period ducks clattered about with their broods, and a few portly pigs led their shoats for a mud bath.

During a summer shower barefooted urchins waded knee-deep in the gutters, their trousers rolled to their thighs. Irish-Americans shot mud balls at black-eyed Italians; Polanders and Slavs together tried the depths of the same puddles; while the little boys of the Russian Fatherland played in a group by themselves at one end of the square.

The houses were not so much homes as places of shelter. Walls painted red were the popular fancy. Although there was room enough, gardens were unknown, while blooming plants were rare enough to cause comment. Each dooryard had its heap of empty cans and pile of ashes. Ill-kempt women stood idly about the doorways, or sat upon unscrubbed steps with dirty babies in their arms.

Bitumen was not a place of poverty. There was plenty of work for the men, and good wages if they chose to earn them. They lacked nothing to eat or wear. Money, so long as it lasted, was spent with a prodigal hand. The Company store kept nothing too good for their palates. Expensive fruits and early vegetables were in demand. The cheap finery bought for the young folk lasted but a few weeks, and was tossed aside by the next “pay day.”

There was one saloon in the place. It did a thriving business in spite of some unseen influence working against it. Its proprietor was one Dennis O’Day, who held the politics of the little town in his palm. He was a little brighter, a little keener and much more unscrupulous than the other men of the place, but he felt at times the force of some one greater than himself, and it was always directed against his business. He perceived it when he received orders that, in fulfillment of the law, he must remove the blinds before his windows, and keep his place open to the public view. He felt it again when he received a legal notice about free lunches, closing hours, and selling to minors. Never once had he stepped beyond the most rigid observance of the law but he was called to account for it. He knew some keen eye was upon him and some one ready to fight him and his business at every turn.

The great blow came when the Club House was established. An empty store-room had been fitted up with chairs and tables and a supply of books and magazines. Here the boys had the liberty of coming to smoke and talk together while Joe Ratowsky served coffee and sandwiches cheaper than O’Day could sell beer.

It was not Ratowsky’s doings. There was some one else behind the scenes who provided the brains and money to keep the business moving. Dennis O’Day meant to find out who that person was and square accounts with him. But for three years he had been no nearer the truth than now. To learn anything from Ratowsky was impossible, for the man had a tied tongue when he chose.

In the midst of all the dirt and squalor there was one touch of dainty hominess and comfort. This was found near Mountain Glen, where the superintendent of the mines lived. The house was an unpretentious wooden building with great porches and big, airy rooms, but the windows shone in the sunlight, the curtains were white as snow, and the worn floors of the porches were always scrubbed.

In front and at the sides of the house was a lawn mowed until it looked like a stretch of moss. Masses of scarlet sage and cannas grew near the house, while at the rear a white-washed fence gleamed white.

The superintendency of the Bitumen mines was not the most desirable position, cutting off, as it did, the man and his family from all congenial companionship. The salary attached was fairly good, quite sufficient to provide a comfortable, if not luxurious, living. The present incumbent had begun his profession with other ambitions than living in a little mining town.

Twenty years before, Mr. Hobart, then newly married, had every prospect of becoming prominent in his profession. He had new theories on mining and mine-explosives. He had brought to perfection a substance to destroy the explosive gas which collects in unused chambers of mines.

Just at the time when the mining interests were about to make use of his discovery, his health failed from too close application. He was threatened with consumption, brought about by inhaling poisonous gases. He was ordered from the laboratory into the mountains. The Kettle Creek Mining Company offered him a position at Bitumen, one of the highest soft coal regions in the world. The air was bracing and suited to his physical condition. Confident that a few months would find him restored to health, he accepted. But with each attempted return to lower altitudes the enemy came back, and months passed into years, until he came to look upon Bitumen as the scene for his life work.

Here his only child, Elizabeth, was born. Here she grew into girlhood, knowing no companionship except that of her parents and Miss Hale, a woman past middle age, who, in her youth, had travelled abroad and had spent the greater part of her time in the study of languages and music. She had come to Bitumen with her father for the same reason that had brought Mr. Hobart.

She had a quaint old place just at the edge of town. Here, during the warm weather, she cultivated flowers and vegetables. In her home were unique collections of botanical and geological specimens, books, and music. She found recreation in painting both in oils and water colors, and in plaster-casting.

She paid little attention to dress. Most frequently she might be seen in a gown ten years behind the fashions, driving a dashing span of horses along the rough mountain roads in search of some member of the mission school in which she was interested. Most of the miners were Catholics, but here and there among them she found members of her own church and sought to bring and keep them together. Her appearance might cause a stranger to smile, but when once he heard her cultivated voice, and caught the varying expression of her face, he forgot all else.

Miss Hale taught Elizabeth French and music. Few days in recent years had been too cold or stormy to keep her from driving down the rough road to the Hobart home for the sake of the lessons.

The other branches of his daughter’s education, Mr. Hobart took under his own charge. He taught her mathematics as conscientiously as though he expected her to enter his own profession.

This line of work had not been a burden to her. She had her father’s aptitude for study, and took up an original problem in geometry as most girls take up their fancy work.

Elizabeth had no girl friends at Bitumen. Her father was the only really young person she knew, for although in years he was not young, yet in the joy he took in living, he was still a boy. He had the buoyancy of youth and the ability of manhood. No laugh came clearer or more often than his. No one could be dull in his presence.

His daughter took part in his pleasures. She was interested in his work; even his business affairs were not unknown to her. There was one subject, however, with which she was not acquainted. Many times while she was at her books, her parents with Miss Hale were deep in a discussion, which ceased when she joined them.

She had finished her second reading of Cicero, and reviewed all the originals in solid geometry. Her summer suspension of study was about to begin. She was conscious that something of importance to herself was brewing in which she took no part. Miss Hale had made unusual visits and had been closeted with her parents for hours. One day Elizabeth sat studying in an upper room, and from her window she saw Miss Hale drive away. At the same instant her father called, “Elizabeth, Elizabeth!”

She ran down-stairs. Her father and mother stood at the foot looking pleased.

“I know she will be glad,” her mother said.

“Of course she will,” replied her father.

She paused on the stairway in wonder. She was very good to look at as she stood so. Her soft hair was drawn loosely back from her face, and hung in a long, fair plait down her back. She was not beautiful, only wholesome looking, with a clear, healthy color, and large, honest eyes. Her dress was a simple, inexpensive shirtwaist suit, but every article about her was in order. There was no sagging of belts, or loose hooks.

Her father held out a book as she came toward them. He was brimming over with joy at the prospect of her delight.

“It is a catalog of Exeter Hall, Elizabeth. That is the school Miss Hale attended. I’ve looked over dozens of catalogs and this pleases your mother and me best. We want you to go in the fall.”

“Oh!” was all she said then, but it was expressive enough to satisfy her parents. She had read stories of schoolgirl life which seemed more like fairy stories than experiences of real girls.

“Look it all over, Elizabeth. The course of study is mapped out. We think the classical course suited to you. Your mother and I are going to drive down to the mines. Study the catalog while we are gone and be ready to tell us what you think of it when we come back.”

She needed no second bidding to do this. By the close of the afternoon, she had read and re-read the prospectus. She became so excited she could scarcely sit still. There was one matter which did not fully satisfy her. She had advanced beyond the course at Exeter in some branches and smiled as she read the amount of work laid out in botany for the Middle Class. She had far exceeded that, for she had found and mounted every specimen of plant and flower that grew for miles around Bitumen.

The cost of a year’s schooling was a surprise. Her father and Miss Hale could teach her everything that the course at Exeter included. It seemed foolish to spend so much money when all could be learned at home.

That evening Miss Hale drove over to see how Elizabeth was pleased with the prospect of going away to school. The matter was discussed from all points of view. Then Elizabeth expressed the thought which had come to her while studying the catalog:

“But I have had more work than the Freshman and Middle Classes require. It would not take me long to complete the work for the Senior year. I want to go,—I think I have always wanted to go to school, but it seems such a waste of money. You can teach me more, I can really learn as much at home.”

Her father laughed, “Impossible! The girls at Exeter will teach you more in one term than I can in a year. I do not expect you to be a Senior. I shall be more than satisfied with your entering as a ‘Middler.’ You’ll need plenty of time for extras.”

“Extras? What extras must I take?”

“Chafing-dish cooking and fudge making,” replied Miss Hale, promptly. “It will take a full term for you to find your place among young people, and learn all they will teach you.”

“But they will know no more than I do,” said Elizabeth.

“Perhaps not so much; but what they know will bear no relation to what they teach you. I’m willing to promise that you will learn more from your roommate than you do from any instructor there.”

Elizabeth glanced from one to the other. She failed to understand.

“We will have no more lessons after to-morrow,” said Mrs. Hobart. “Elizabeth and I will begin putting her clothes in order. There will be a great deal to do, for she will need so much more at school than she does at home. We do not wish to hurry.”

“Only eight weeks yet,” said Elizabeth, “I wish I was going next week.”

The day following the work on the outfit for school began. “Plain and simple,” her mother declared it should be. But Elizabeth fairly held her breath as she viewed the beautiful articles laid out to be made.

“This pale blue organdie will do for receptions and any public entertainments you have,” her mother explained. “Every girl at school needs some kind of a simple evening dress. You’ll need a cloth suit for church and shopping. Then, of course, the school dresses.”

Every morning Elizabeth on her way down-stairs to breakfast slipped into the sewing room to view the new dresses. She had never so much as thought, not to say expected, to own a rain coat and bath robe, and a soft eider-down sacque. But there they lay before her. Their existence could not be questioned.

“Do you think the other girls at Exeter will have so much?” she asked of Miss Hale. “I don’t want to look as though I was trying to out-dress anyone.”

“If you find they have less than you, keep some of your good things in your trunk. You do not need to wear them all,” was Miss Hale’s advice. “No doubt they are fixing themselves up, too,” she added.

Elizabeth had never thought of the matter before. Now the mere thinking about it seemed to bring her into relation and sympathy with those hundreds of unknown girls who were, like her, counting each penny in order to spend it to the best advantage, all the while looking forward to the first of September.

It came at last. The big trunk was brought down from the attic. The new dresses were folded and packed. The books which she might need at Exeter were put into a box. The trunk was locked and carried into the lower hall, waiting for the drayman to call for it early the following morning.

At this juncture going away from home changed color. It was no longer something to look forward to with pleasure, but something to dread. Elizabeth was not the only one who felt the coming separation. She noticed through a film of tears that the best linen and china were used, and that her favorite dishes had been prepared for the last home supper.

Despite their feelings, each made an effort to be cheerful. Mr. Hobart told incidents of his own school-days, and rallied Elizabeth on being homesick before she had started.

Afterward, they sat together on the porch. The father and mother talked but Elizabeth sat silent. She was thinking that the next evening would find her far away and among strangers. She dreaded meeting girls who had been reared with others of their age, and who had been in school before, feeling that she would appear very awkward and dull until she learned the ways of school. She half wished that her father would tell her she need not go. She came closer and seating herself on the step below him, rested her head on his knee. “Father, I do not wish to go to Exeter. May I stay home with you and mother? Be a good daddy and say ‘yes.’”

“I shall be good and say ‘no.’ Our little girl must go away to-morrow. I can’t tell you how lonely we shall be, but we have had you so long that we were almost forgetting that you had a life of your own. We must not be selfish, so we send you off, bag and baggage.” Her mother added: “Unless she oversleeps, which I am sure she will unless she goes to bed right away. It is later than I supposed. Come, Elizabeth.”

As she spoke, Joe Ratowsky came across the lawn. In the moonlight, he looked like a great tawny giant. He spoke in English: “Mr. Hobart, that beeznez is no good. He no stay to-morrow. To-day homes he goes quick.”

“Where is his home? Doesn’t he live here?”

“Dennis O’Day, b’gosh, niver. So many as one children he have. Milton, he live.”

“Why doesn’t he bring his family here? I didn’t know the man was married.”

“Umh—yes, b’gosh. His girl tall like your girl. He no bring her. He proud like the tivil. Never he tell his girl what he do here—no, b’gosh, he don’t.”

“Well, come in and I will talk the matter over. We can’t do much else than wait.” Then turning to his daughter, “Good-night, Elizabeth, I must talk to Joe now.”

Elizabeth ascended the stair. Joe’s visit had taken her mind from her going away. She wondered what the Pole could have in common with her father. Joe was not even a miner.

CHAPTER II.

THE JOURNEY.

Only accommodation trains ran between Bitumen and Exeter. Elizabeth found herself in a motley crowd of passengers. To her right sat a shabbily dressed mother with a sick baby in her arms; back of her was a plain little woman of middle age dressed in a gingham suit and rough straw hat; while before her sat two young women, perhaps a year or two older than herself. They talked loudly enough to attract the attention of those about them. Elizabeth learned that the larger was named Landis, and her companion “Min.”

They were handsomely though showily dressed. Min seemed to be less self-assertive than her companion. Landis evidently had confidence enough for two. She frequently turned to look around, gazing into the faces of her fellow passengers with a self-assurance that in one of her age amounted almost to boldness.

She had been careful to arrange her jacket that its handsome buckle and silk lining were in evidence. She was a girl of large physique, with broad shoulders, which she carried rigidly. This, with the haughty pose of her head, attracted attention to her even in a crowd.

Her companion was as tall, but more slender. It was evident that she looked up to Landis and depended upon her in every emergency. A reader of human nature could have seen at a glance that she was the weaker.

From their conversation, it appeared they knew all places and people of importance along the route. As the train stopped at Westport, Landis viewed the town with critical eye.

“Tacky little hole, isn’t it? I should simply die if I were compelled to live here.”

“You would never stand it. You’d run away, Landis, or do something desperate. Isn’t this where the Gleasons live?”

“It used to be. But they live at Gleasonton now. They have a perfectly elegant place there. Of course, it is just their summer home. I’d like to take you down there sometime. I feel like taking the liberty for they are such old friends. They are in Washington during the winter. He’s United States Senator, you know.”

“Have you ever been there to visit them, Landis?”

“How could I, Min? I’ll have to leave all such times until I’ve finished school and have come out. I don’t doubt that Mrs. Gleason will ask me there for my first season. She’s not a society woman. She hasn’t much ability that way, and has sense enough to know it; so she goes in for charity, and temperance work, and all that.”

A suppressed exclamation from the seat behind her caused Elizabeth to look around. She was just in time to see the plainly-dressed woman suppress a laugh. As Elizabeth glanced at her, she was pretending absorption in a magazine, but her lips were yet twitching with amusement.

The baby across the aisle began a low, fretful cry. The mother soothed it as best she could, holding it in her arms, patting it on the back, and trying all manner of devices to keep it quiet. A little boy several years old was on the seat beside her, and the instant the baby began to fret, he set up a distinct and independent howl of his own.

Landis made no attempt to conceal her discomfort.

“How annoying!” she exclaimed in tones that could be heard half the length of the car. “Anything but a crying baby! Why don’t women with babies stay at home? It wouldn’t matter so much if there was a decent train on this road, but one can’t get a Pullman for love or money. If there is anything I despise, it’s traveling with a mixed set. You never know whom you are getting next to.”

Her companion agreed, offering her subtle flattery in sympathizing that one of her station should be compelled to mingle with such people.

Again Elizabeth, in her hurried glance, caught a twinkle of amusement in the eyes of the woman back of her. Elizabeth could form no opinion about the girls in the seat ahead. She had no precedent to guide her. All she knew was learned from her parents and Miss Hale.

The train had been advancing at a steady if not rapid rate. They had descended the mountain, and were moving close to its base through a country barren of vegetation and population. There came a sudden jolt,—then a creaking sound as the train gradually slowed and then stopped.

The passengers looked from the window. No station or village was in sight. There was a moment of uneasiness. A few men got up and went to see what the trouble was. An half-hour passed. The restlessness expressed itself in words. Some complained loudly; some grumbled, others walked up and down the aisle, every few moments looking at their watches, while their faces grew more expressive of displeasure and annoyance.

The baby across the way fretted. The little boy cried aloud. The tired mother worried over them until she herself was almost sobbing.

The half-hour lengthened into an hour. Then a trainman entered the car with the unpleasant news that they would be delayed yet longer. The air-brake had failed them, and they must wait until the wreck-train came down from Westport with another car, so it might be an hour before they would be able to proceed.

The girls, Landis and Min, left their places to walk up and down the aisle. Landis looked infinitely bored. She turned to her companion with deprecatory remarks about second-class traveling, where one could not have either a lunch or dinner.

The dinner hour had passed. Some of the travellers who had a day’s journey before them had fortified themselves against hunger with a lunch.

The baby continued crying. The older child clamored loudly for something to eat. Elizabeth crossed the aisle.

“You look tired,” she said to the mother. “Will you trust your baby with me?” She held out her arms, but the child clung closer to its mother while its fretful cry grew louder.

“Perhaps I can persuade her to come,” said Elizabeth, going to her lunch box and returning with an orange. The bright color attracted the child at once. Elizabeth took her in her arms and began walking up and down. The other passengers, absorbed in their lunches or growling at their own discomfort, paid little attention to her.

The little boy continued his pleadings for something to eat. The mother endeavored to call his attention to other matters.

“Have you nothing for him?” asked Elizabeth.

The woman’s face flushed at the question. She was a subdued, worn-out little soul whose experience with the world had made her feel that every one was but awaiting an excuse to find fault with her. Her manner as she replied was more apologetic than explanatory.

“No; I hain’t. I counted on being home before noon. My man has a job in the brickyard at Italee, and we’d been there now if the train hadn’t stopped. I was up to Leidy a-buryin’ my mother,” she added, as though she expected that Elizabeth might blame her for being on the train at all.

Landis and Min had gone back to their seats. Hearing this bit of conversation, Landis turned her head to look at Elizabeth and her friend. Judging from her expression, she had no sympathy with a girl like Elizabeth who could hob-nob on a train with a common-looking person like this woman.

Landis turned back to her companion, who had opened a small leather lunch-case and was spreading out napkins on the seat before her. The napkins were of heavy linen with drawnwork borders. The drinking-cup was silver. The lunch was in harmony with its service. There were quantities of dainty sandwiches, olives and pickles, fruits, the choicest bits of roast chicken, slices of meat-loaf, and several varieties of cake and confections. The sight of it was quite enough to make one’s mouth water.

The lady back of them had also opened her lunch. She, too, had heard the conversation between Elizabeth and the woman with the babies. Arising with her lunch in her hand, and a traveling cape over her arm, she came over to where Elizabeth stood with the baby.

“The trainmen tell me we shall have an hour to wait,” she said, addressing them. “I see a pretty little bit of grass out here, not far from the car. There is shade, too. Don’t you think it would be pleasant to sit out there and eat our lunch together? It would be rest from the close car.”

Undoubtedly she was one whose suggestions were followed, as she expected them to be now. Before she had ceased speaking she had the boy in her arms, and was on the way to the door. The mother and Elizabeth with the baby followed.

A narrow green bank lay between the railroad and the creek. A large forest oak stood there, making the one bit of shade within sight. The woman, with the boy in her arms, hurried to this. Spreading out her traveling cape, she put him down upon it, and immediately taking a sandwich from her lunch, placed it in his hands. His cries ceased. He fell to munching the sandwich, at intervals giving expression to his enjoyment.

Elizabeth trudged after with the baby. She had never carried such a burden before, and was surprised to find how heavy the frail little child was. It was all she could do to keep it from slipping from her arms, or jumping out over them. The uncertainty of what its next move would be caused her to clutch it so tightly that her muscles and nerves were at a tension, and she was glad to put it down on the cape also. The mother, with her eyes open wide at this unexpected goodness of strangers, was close at her heels.

“It’s her sleeping time,” she explained. “That’s what makes her fret so.”

“Will she eat a piece of orange?” asked Elizabeth, preparing to remove the rind.

“I don’t know but what she will.”

Elizabeth held it out. The baby knew whether she would or not. Instantly her fingers closed about it, and carried it to her mouth. It was only a few moments until the eyes closed and the child was fast asleep with the bit of orange tight in her hand.

“Your husband works at Italee?” asked the woman of the child’s mother, as she was arranging her lunch for them.

“Yes’m, he works in the brickyard there. We hain’t been there long. I was just up home buryin’ my mother.”

“What is your husband’s name?”

“Koons—Sam Koons. He’s a molder. They pay pretty well there. That’s why we moved. He used to work up at Keating; but it seemed like we’d do better down here.”

“There’s no brickyard at Keating?”

“No; but there’s mines. Sam, he’s a miner, but he’s takin’ up the brick trade.”

“Yes; I see. I do not wonder that you were glad to leave Keating. It surely is a rough place. I have never known a town so reeking with liquor. There’s every inducement there for a man’s going wrong, and none for his going right.”

“Yes’m,” said Mrs. Koons. Her deprecatory, worried expression showed that she appreciated the disadvantages of the place. “That’s what I’ve always told Sam,” she continued in her apologetic, meek voice. “When a man’s trying to do his best and keep sober, there’s them what would come right in his house and ask him to drink. A man may be meanin’ well, and tryin’ to do what’s right, but when the drink’s in his blood, and there’s them what’s coaxin’ him to it, it hain’t much wonder that he gives up. Sam, he’s one of the biggest-hearted men, and a good miner, but he’s no man for standin’ his ground. He’s easy-like to lead. We heard there wasn’t no drinkin’ places about Italee—they wasn’t allowed—so we come.”

“Yes; I’ve heard that Mr. Gleason tried to keep the place free from drink.”

“Yes’m, but folks down there say that the Senator don’t have much to do about that. It’s his wife that does all the bothering. She’s the one that tends to that. Her bein’ a woman and trustin’-like, mebbe, is what makes it easy to deceive her.”

“Oh, they do deceive her, then?”

“Yes’m. There hain’t no drinkin’ places open public-like. A stranger couldn’t go in there and buy a glass of anything; but them what’s known can get pretty much what they want.”

“Someone keeps a speak-easy?”

“Yes’m. Big Bill Kyler gets it every week, and the men get what they want.”

“Bill Kyler—um-m,” said the lady. “And where does he get it?”

“Dennis O’Day, the man what owns the brewery and the wholesale house, sells to him. Big Bill drives down in the afternoon and comes home after dark.”

“Each Saturday, you say?” asked the woman.

“Yes’m.”

During the conversation, Elizabeth had also been emptying her lunch-box. She listened eagerly to the conversation between her companions. This Dennis O’Day was the man who was doing all in his power to demoralize Bitumen. She was interested because she knew of him, and moreover, by the feeling that these questions were asked from more than passing curiosity.

“This O’Day is about at the end of his string,” continued the lady. “There are too many people watching him, eager to find him overstepping the letter of the law. I can promise you, Mrs. Koons, that he or his friend, Bill Kyler, will not be long at either Gleasonton or Italee. But come, let us dispose of the lunch while the babies are taking care of themselves.”

She had arranged the repast as daintily as her surroundings would permit. Several discarded railroad ties served as a table. Over these, she had spread napkins. Together the three sat at the improvised table until not a scrap of lunch remained.

“I didn’t know how hungry I was,” said Mrs. Koons. “We have to drive five miles to the station and that gets us up pretty early. An’ by the time I got the children up and dressed and got dressed myself, I hadn’t no time to eat much. I was just settin’ down when pap drove round and told me I should hurry up or we’d miss the train, and I couldn’t miss it, for Sam was expectin’ me to-day. He’s been gettin’ his own meals and he wanted me back home; so I didn’t scarcely finish my coffee. I was expectin’ that I’d be home in time for dinner, and I would if the train hadn’t been late.”

“You can’t get to Italee to-night, then,” said her benefactress. “There’s only one train a day from Gleasonton to Italee and it has gone by this time. They don’t wait on the accommodation.”

“Can’t I? Isn’t there?” Mrs. Koons’ countenance fell. “But I’ve got to get there! There hain’t no one I know in Gleasonton. If it wasn’t for carrying the children, I’d walk. It hain’t more than five miles, and mebbe I’d meet someone going up. The trucks come down pretty often. I’ve got to get there even if I have to walk.” Back of her years of repression, her native independence showed. She had set out to reach Italee, and she meant to. Difficulties like a walk of five miles with two children in her arms might hamper but not deter her.

“Do not worry about that. I get off at Gleasonton, and I’ll get someone to drive you over. The roads are fine now and it will not take long.”

“Yes’m. Oh, thank you! It will be kind of you, I’m sure, for walkin’ with two babies in your arms ain’t very pleasant. Do you live in Gleasonton, ma’am?”

“I’m not living there now. All summer I have been out on the Creighton farm beyond Keating.”

“Hain’t it lonely out there? I’ve driv by. It’s fixed up grand with big porches, and swings, and loads of flowers and all that, but there hain’t a house for miles about. I’d think you’d find it lonely?”

“Not at all. I take my children along, and I’m too busy while I’m there to be lonely.”

“Oh, you’re a married woman then, and have a family of your own. I was a-thinkin’ just that thing when you picked up little Alec here. You had a knack with him that don’t come to a woman unless she’s used to handling young ones. How many children have you? They’re pretty well grown, I suppose.”

Again Elizabeth caught the merry twinkle of amusement in the woman’s eyes. “Really, you may think it strange,” she replied, “when I declare that I really am not certain how many I have. There are so many that, at times, I almost forget their names. None of them are grown up; for when they are, I lose them. They go off into the world—some do well and some do not. One or two remember me; but the others forget that such a person as I ever lived.” It was not in a complaining tone she spoke, rather in a spirit of light-hearted raillery.

Elizabeth smiled. She understood the speaker, but Mrs. Koons did not. Elizabeth had been accustomed to hear Miss Hale speak thus of her mission boys and girls. Miss Hale looked upon them as a little family of which she was the head.

Mrs. Koons was amazed. She had heard, in a misty way, of a woman who had so many children she did not know what to do, but she had never heard of one who had so many that she did not know how many. Yet she supposed that such a thing might be true, and accepted the statement in good faith.

“Pap was tellin’ me when I was home that Senator Gleason had bought the farm, and it was him that fixed it up so grand. Pap says they’ve only Jersey cows on the place,—no common stock—and chickens that they raise for layin’, and some for hatchin’, and some that’s for eatin’. But the Senator don’t never stay up there much. He farms just for fun. But he must work pretty hard to get any fun out of it. I was raised on a farm and stayed there till I was married, and I never saw no fun anywhere about.”

Again the laugh and again the merry twinkle came to her eyes.

“It’s just the way we’re used to. If you had never been on a farm, perhaps you’d think it lots of fun to stay on one for awhile. I’m sure I thoroughly enjoy every minute I spend on the Creighton farm. The days are far too short for me.”

“But perhaps you don’t have no work to do. Gettin’ up early is what makes it hard.”

“I get up at daybreak, and I am busy every moment. I wash and dress and feed a dozen children. I have no moment to myself.”

Suddenly Mrs. Koons seemed to understand. “It’s too bad,” she said sympathetically. “Life’s pretty hard for a woman when she’s a family and has to look out for herself.”

When they had finished their lunch, and began gathering and folding the napkins, Elizabeth observed something which had escaped Mrs. Koons’ notice. The left hand of their unknown companion bore a heavy gold band, undoubtedly a wedding-ring, guarded by a diamond noticeable for its size and brilliance. Her hands, too, were worthy of notice. They were white and soft, showing both good care and skilled manicuring. They were not the hands of one accustomed to manual labor.

As Elizabeth assisted her in clearing away the remains of the lunch, the conversation was directed toward herself.

“You got on the train at Bitumen,” she said. “I took particular notice of you, for there one expects to see only foreigners board the car.”

Elizabeth smiled. She knew how few were the times when an American-born woman or girl ever was seen near the station.

“We are mostly foreigners there,” she replied.

“Don’t you find it dull?”

“I never have so far. But then I never have known any life but that at Bitumen. This is my first trip away from home.” Her companion looked at her keenly. “Expectant schoolgirl” was written from the top of Elizabeth’s fair hair to the soles of her shoes. Her linen traveling dress was conspicuously new, as were her gloves and shoes.

“You are going to school, then?”

“Yes; to Exeter Hall.” Elizabeth wondered in her own mind how she knew.

“You’ll like it there. That is, unless you are the exception among girls. I was a student there over thirty years ago. I liked it, I’m sure. And every girl student I’ve ever met, and I meet them by the score, has no voice except to sing its praises.”

“Do you know many of the students there now?”

“I met most of those who were there last year. Some I knew quite well. Of course, the Senior class will not return, and there will be many new students. Those I hope to meet.”

“I’ve never had any girl companions,” said Elizabeth. “I expect to like all the girls.”

Again the smile. She shook her head decidedly in negation at Elizabeth’s remark.

“No; you will not like them all,” she replied. “Exeter Hall is like a little world. We have some fine girls there, but we have, too, some that are petty and selfish. Exeter Hall has sent forth some of the noblest women I have ever known, and it has also sent forth some that simply cumber the earth with their presence.”

“I would think they’d be able to keep that last class out.”

“Perhaps it could be done. But the Hall is for the girls—not the girls for the Hall. Some flighty, irresponsible girls, under the influence of the school, develop into strong characters, and leave there to do good work. But there are always a few who fritter their time, and leave the same as they enter. But even these must be given the opportunity for development, if they are capable of it. You know that is true even in public schools.”

“I know nothing about it,” was the reply. “I never went to school a day in my life.”

“How then, child, do you expect to enter Exeter? The requirements are considerable, and the examinations rigid.”

“I’ve been admitted. Miss Hale and my father taught me. Miss Hale said I was ready for the Middle Class, and they admitted me on her statement.”

“And well they might. They would take Julia Hale’s word for anything. Who that knew her wouldn’t?”

“You know her, then?”

“I was a student at Exeter. That means I know Julia Hale by report, at least. But I was more fortunate than the most of girls. I really met her and knew her well. Your father helped Miss Hale prepare you for school? Who is your father? I do not know your name.”

“Hobart! My father is superintendent of the mines at Bitumen.”

“I’ve heard of him, but I have never met him. He’s doing good work there.”

“Yes,” was the reply. “He hopes by Christmas to have every chamber supported by new props, and an exhaust engine which will pump out the gas and make explosions impossible.”

“I was not thinking of the mines when I said he did good work,” said her companion, and after a pause, “I think it is time we were getting into our car. I would not like the train to pull out without us. Look at the babies! Both asleep. Perhaps I can move them without wakening them.” But already Elizabeth had taken up the baby in her arms and was at the step of the car. As she waited for a trainman to help her on, she caught bits of the conversation between two men who stood on the rear platform of the smoker. They had been discussing the “coal-fields”, and were looking up at the mountain which they had just descended.

“There’s plenty there to supply the country for the next ten years. I wasn’t thinking of the supply when I spoke, but of the possibility of not being able to get it out. You remember how the hard-coal region was tied up for eight months or more.”

“There’s little danger here. The miners are satisfied—”

“Yes—satisfied until an agitator comes their way. If I was the Kettle Creek Mining Company, I’d keep that man out of my community. He’s bound to stir up bad blood.”

“But he’s left the mining business. He’ll not trouble himself.”

“Not unless he sees more money in it. Matters have not been going his way lately. Someone has been dogging his steps, and his business is falling off. You know there’s really little money in that business if a man keeps within the law.”

“Well, I pity that man Hobart if your friend begins his work. Hobart’s a fine fellow, but is not accustomed to deal with men in the underbrush.”

“Hobart will take care of himself. He’s had his eye on—”

At this moment the porter came to her assistance and Elizabeth heard no more. She wondered at their talk, but she was not uneasy. She had unbounded faith in her father, and felt that he would be able to protect and take care of himself under all circumstances. Entering the car, she deposited her sleeping burden on the seat. The others followed with the boy and the wraps.

Landis and Min had finished their lunch. There were several sandwiches, a chicken breast, half a bottle of olives, and cake untouched. This Landis gathered together in a heap in her napkin. She arose and leaned toward the window. As she did so, the lady with whom Elizabeth had been talking touched her on the arm. But it was too late. The contents of the napkin had at that moment gone out the window.

“I beg pardon,” she said, “I was about to ask you not to throw that good lunch away. There’s a woman, a foreigner, with her children in the rear of the coach, who has had nothing to eat.”

“I do not know that it is my place to provide it for her,” cried Landis, with a haughty toss of her head.

“I am sorry that you see the matter in that light,” was the rejoinder. “There are so many little mouths to be fed that I dislike to see good food wasted. Extravagance can be so extreme as to become a sin.”

“I do not know that it is anyone’s affair what I do with my lunch,” was the response.

The woman smiled, not at all affronted by the lack of courtesy shown her.

“I make many things my affairs,” she said sweetly. “I think it my duty when I see a girl as young as you doing what is not right to remind her, in a spirit of love and tenderness, of her error. I am sorry if my suggestion can not be received in the spirit in which it was given.” Then she went back to her place.

From the conversation of the two girls, Elizabeth caught such expressions as “that class of people,” “counting each penny,” “bound down by poverty,” and similar phrases.

The train had started on its way. A half-mile passed before it again slowed up. “This is Gleasonton,” said the lady, arising and coming to Mrs. Koons to assist her with the children. With a farewell nod and smile to Elizabeth, they quitted the car. From the window she saw them try to make their way through the crowd of loafers which had gathered about the platform. Suddenly a young colored boy in snuff-colored suit and high hat appeared. He immediately took charge of the children, and with them in his arms pushed his way to where a carriage stood at the curb, the women following close at his heels.

As the train pulled out, Elizabeth saw them bowling down the country road in a wide-open barouche, with coachman and footman in livery.

It was not long until the trainman called “Exeter!” Elizabeth gathered up her wraps and magazines. She knew that she might expect a carriage from the Hall at the station to meet the students.

Landis and Min had also gathered together their belongings. As the train drew into the station, they were first on the platform.

“There’s Jimmy Jordan!” they cried together, as a young colored boy with an expansive grin came up to take their luggage.

“Jimmy, how’s the Hall?”

Jimmy responded with a grin just a little more expansive than the previous one.

Elizabeth stood close at their side. “Are you from Exeter Hall?” she asked the boy. Having received an answer which she supposed an affirmative, she handed him her checks and the baggage which she carried in her arms. The girls whom the boy had addressed as Miss Kean and Miss Stoner led the way. Elizabeth followed at their heels, and in a few moments the three were being driven rapidly to Exeter Hall.

CHAPTER III.

THE DINNER EPISODE.

A drive of several miles through a beautiful country brought them to their destination. Elizabeth was surprised, for neither her father nor mother had prepared her for the beauty of the place; a long stretch of campus, with great forest trees, beyond which were the tennis-courts and athletic fields; then the Hall itself. The original building was a large wooden mansion with wide porches and spacious rooms with low ceilings. But for years this had served as a home for the president of Exeter, the school itself having been removed to the newer buildings of gray stone.

The carriage passed through shaded drives which led to the front entrance. Arm in arm, groups of girls in white gowns were moving about or sat in little groups beneath the trees.

During the drive Elizabeth’s companions had chattered continuously. Elizabeth had paid little attention to them. Her eyes were on the new country about her.

“It must be nearly dinner-time,” exclaimed Landis, as the carriage turned in at the entrance to the campus. “The girls are all out. I hope we’ll be in time to go down with them. But we’ll have to go in and do the ‘polite’ with Miss Morgan.”

“Nora O’Day is back,” exclaimed Miss Kean. “Isn’t that she out there on the campus with Mary Wilson?”

“It can’t be. Mary Wilson and she were never friends.” As she spoke, Landis leaned eagerly from the window to get a view of the campus. “It can’t be Miss O’Day,” she repeated. “She and Mary are not the same style at all.”

“I think Miss O’Day’s swell looking. Don’t you?”

“She has plenty of money and knows how to dress,” was the rejoinder.

They had reached the entrance door. Jimmy Jordan, who appeared to be general utility boy, dismounted to open the door for them. Then he led the way into the great hall and on to the office, throwing open the doors before him with energetic officiousness, giving one the impression that he was the most important personage at Exeter Hall.

On entering the office, a woman advanced to shake hands with Miss Stoner and Miss Kean. With a few words of greeting, she dismissed them each with a bunch of jangling keys, and the information that they were to occupy the same rooms as the previous year. Then she turned to Elizabeth. “This is Miss Hobart?” she said, shaking her hand cordially, and drawing her forward to a chair. “Your father wrote me that you would arrive to-day. Jordan,” to the boy who stood grinning at her side, “Miss Wilson is somewhere on the campus. Ask her to step to the office, please. Miss Wilson will be your roommate. She will take charge of you. If you will excuse me, I’ll return to work which claims me.” She turned to her desk and was soon absorbed in correspondence.

Elizabeth was thus given an opportunity to study her. She was a tall woman, so tall and slender that these qualities first impressed those who saw her. Yet later, when one stood beside her, you discovered to your surprise that she was merely the average woman in height. It had been her carriage, her manner of holding her head, which gave the impression of unusual height. One might have thought her critical and stern had it not been that the expression of her eyes, which were gray and unusually large, was gentle and shy. Her well-shaped head was crowned with coils of brown hair touched with gray drawn loosely back from a broad, low forehead. She was a woman who could not pass unobserved in a crowd, yet she was not beautiful. It was that her presence was felt, rather than she herself observed. She had said little to the new student; yet the direct effect of her presence caused Elizabeth to be glad she had come to Exeter.

“Oh, here is Miss Wilson!” Dr. Morgan arose. “Miss Wilson, Miss Hobart will be your roommate. I shall put her in your care.”

The girl extended her hand. She was not nearly so tall as Elizabeth. Her yellow hair without ribbon or comb hung about her ears. She shook her head and flung back her locks like a spirited young horse tossing its mane. Her eyes were brown and dancing and her face was brimming over with fun. Her voice was high pitched and so cheery that her hearers were compelled to believe that she was at that minute having the best time of her life.

“I have been expecting you,” she cried. “I was hoping you would come to-day so that we could get to housekeeping to-morrow, for lessons begin the next day.”

She led the way into the hall. Here she stopped to clap her hands in order to call Jimmy’s attention. “Here, Jimmy, take this lady’s checks and bring her trunks up to No. 10. If they are there before we get back from dinner, Jimmy, there’ll be a piece of cake for you.”

Jimmy grinned and rolled his eyes, then swung himself down the hall in search of the baggage.

Miss Wilson never ceased her chatter as they entered the side hallway and mounted the stairs.

“The students must not use the main stairway, except during commencement week, under penalty of death,” she explained. “That’s reserved for the Fac and other Lord-Highs. Here’s our room—quite close to the stairway. A nuisance, you’ll find it. Every girl on her way up or down will drop in to see us. It won’t be because we’re popular, but one can’t help wanting to rest after climbing stairs, and our chairs are particularly easy.” Her voice, as she talked, had a ring of laughter in it which made Elizabeth feel, for the moment, that having your friends love you for your chairs alone was the greatest fun in the world.

She led the way into their apartment. There was a big sitting-room with wide windows overlooking the campus; an open grate with log and gas fixtures, ready for the cooler days of autumn, filled the space between the two windows. From this room a door led to a bedroom devoid of all furnishing except the simple essentials of a sleeping-place.

Miss Wilson drew forward a chair. “Sit here a moment to rest. Let me put your wraps away. I’ll make a guest of you to-day. It isn’t long until dinner-time. We are expected to change our dresses. But Miss Morgan will excuse you to-day as you have just arrived. I think you will like the girls here.”

She chatted on while Elizabeth rested and prepared for dinner. She looked with admiration upon Elizabeth’s linen frock and long braid of smooth hair. “I like the way you braid your mane,” she laughed, giving a toss of her own. “It’s the style of hair I’ve always coveted. A siege of fever a year ago is responsible for my new crop, short and curly. I look forward to the time when I, too, can appear with dignity and a coil of hair about my head.”

“Do you think you could be dignified then?” asked Elizabeth shyly. She was standing in the middle of the bedroom with towel in hand. At her words Miss Wilson tossed her head.

“I’m afraid you will prove like the other girls here. They can not be brought to realize how much such trifles have to do with one’s manner. Short curls bobbing over one’s shoulders and dignity can never go together. But let me put my hair up high and get on a trained skirt and you will see what you will see. People are bound to live up to their clothes. That is why, on general principles, I disapprove of bathing and gym suits. They give the wearer such a sense of freedom.” She laughed again. Elizabeth knew not whether she were serious or joking. She was so effervescing with good humor that her companion had no opportunity for a moment’s dullness or homesickness.

“There’s the ten-minute bell,” she exclaimed, as they returned to the study. “That is our last warning, and gives no one an excuse to be late. You will find Exeter rigid in many ways, Miss Hobart. Miss Morgan is what I call a crank on development of character. She keeps track of the thousand little things that a girl is supposed not to do. In her lectures to us, which she gives twice a semester, she declares that these seeming trifles are neither sins nor crimes in themselves, but getting into the habit of yielding to trifles is detrimental to the development of strong character. Therefore,” at this Miss Wilson drew herself up as tall as possible, and assuming Miss Morgan’s best manner continued, “trifles must be made subservient to us. We must conquer ourselves even in these.” Here Miss Wilson laughed merrily. “Being late; not having your necktie straight; letting your shoes run down at the heel; missing lectures—these, all these, and hundreds more, are trifles.”

There was a hurried knock at the door. Without waiting for an invitation to enter, a young lady came in. Elizabeth’s fear of out-dressing the other girls vanished at the sight of her. The newcomer was a girl of slender physique and delicate, regular features. Her skin was almost olive in hue; her eyes were dark, with brows so heavy and black as to be noticeable. They were too close together and her lips and nostrils too thin to permit her being beautiful. Her dress was handsome and showy. It was of white silk, elaborated with heavy insertions, and transparent yoke and sleeve-caps made it suitable for an evening gown. Her hands were covered with rings scintillating at every gesture. Each movement of her body suggested silk linings and petticoats. Her manner of speaking had a touch of affectation.

“Ah, Miss Wilson, I’m awfully sorry to intrude, but will you be kind enough to hook my waist? I can’t reach the last two hooks on the shoulder. This style of fastening dresses in the back is such a nuisance.”

“Surely,” replied Miss Wilson. Elizabeth was surprised at the change which came to her roommate’s voice. There was neither vivacity nor good humor in it. It was expressive of mere icy courtesy.

“You must bend your knees a little, or I’ll be compelled to get on a chair. You’re so much taller than I.”

The girl complied. Miss Wilson put the refractory hooks to their proper use, then stood quiet. Her guest made some trifling remark as though to continue the conversation; but received no encouragement. Her dark cheeks flushed. “Thank you,” she began hurriedly, “I’m sorry to bother you so.”

“It was no bother,” in the same cold, conventional voice. “I can assist you any time. I understand how difficult it is to get into your clothes when you have no roommate to pull you together.” Then with a smile she turned to Elizabeth. “Come, Miss Hobart, we must not be late for dinner the first evening at Exeter.” So saying, she held open the door, allowing Elizabeth to precede her from the room. Miss Wilson gave no explanation to Elizabeth of her manner toward the girl; neither did she offer an excuse for not introducing her. As they passed the open door, Elizabeth caught a view of this girl’s study. It was more than comfortable. There was a luxury of soft cushions and rich hangings. There were chairs and tables of carved wood.

From all the rooms the students came forth two by two, their tongues flying as they made their way toward the dining-hall. There were frequent stops to greet one another, and a babel of voices expressing pleasure at this reunion. There were handshakes for those who were newcomers, and embraces for old friends. Every one knew every one else or was going through the first process of meeting them.

The olive-skinned girl in the handsome gown came from her room and passed the others. Each girl was careful to nod and bid her good-evening, but none greeted her effusively or even so much as shook hands with her.

Miss Wilson was not lax in courtesy now. Drawing her arm through Elizabeth’s, she came up to the group of girls at the head of the main stairway. “I wish you girls to meet Miss Hobart,” she cried, “so that you may condole with her. She is to room with me this semester.”

“Why this semester?” rejoined a tall girl in the group as she came forward extending her hand. “Why not the year?”

“She may not survive,” said Miss Wilson. “If she’s able to stand me one semester, then she’ll be compelled to stay the year out.”

“I am Anna Cresswell,” continued the tall girl to Elizabeth. “Mary Wilson’s introductions leave much to be desired. She rarely sees fit to mention the names of the people she introduces.”

Miss Stoner and Miss Kean came up at this juncture. They had changed their traveling dresses, and were wearing light challis. They were introduced to Elizabeth, but neither made mention that they had seen each other in the car or had come up in the carriage together. Landis was most demonstrative in greeting Miss Wilson, chiding her for not writing during vacation, and declaring that they must make up for lost time by spending a great many leisure hours together now. Miss Wilson laughed merrily. She had been busy all summer, she said, and had written only to her own people. Elizabeth noticed that she expressed no desire to mortgage her future leisure hours by any promises.

“You busy?” exclaimed Landis. “Now, what were you doing—reading novels, dressing and driving about?”

“I should scarcely be content with such a summer, Landis. No; I played nurse-girl to Mrs. Gleason’s large family. I was busy, too. The place was no sinecure, I assure you.”

“Mrs. Gleason—from Gleasonton?” exclaimed Min. “Why, I thought she had no children.”

“She hasn’t—but she adopts them annually. During July and August we had a dozen babies at their home. We went for them in the morning and took them back at night, and I gave each one of them a bath every day.” This last was said triumphantly.

“I’ve heard she was rather—eccentric!” said Landis.

“Don’t you know her?” asked Elizabeth.

“No; I do not—not personally,” was the response, “but we have mutual friends.”

Miss Wilson would have quitted Miss Stoner and Miss Kean here, but was prevented by Landis telling her experience that day in the train, how a woman, a total stranger, had taken her to task for throwing away her lunch.

“She was a common-looking person,” she added. “One could see she belonged to the middle class, and I suppose had been compelled to practice economy, so that my throwing a sandwich away seemed recklessly extravagant.”

“Did you think she was common-looking?” asked Elizabeth. “Her skin was as fine as a baby’s, and her eyes were beautiful. Didn’t you see how expressive they were?”

“No, I didn’t. All I could see was her gingham shirtwaist suit with its prudish white linen cuffs and collar, and her rough straw hat.”

Miss Wilson put her arm through her roommate’s to hurry her.

“Excuse us, girls, if we walk faster; I wish Miss Hobart to meet Nancy. She’s the girl ahead with Anna Cresswell.”

Elizabeth was borne along toward the dining-hall, at the door of which Miss Cresswell and her companion stopped.

“Nancy, I wish you and Miss Hobart to meet,” said Miss Wilson, “and I intend that you shall be good friends. Nancy and I were brought up together, and she’s used to me. When you want anyone to sympathize with you because of me, go to Nancy.”

“Her name is Miss Eckdahl,” added Miss Cresswell with a smile.

“But she should have known. Everyone should know Nancy without being told. What is the good of being famous otherwise? If your name goes not abroad, what is the good of being a champion in mathematics or anything else? When I say ‘Nancy,’ the intelligent person should know that I mean—”

“Nancy Hanks,” added the girl herself. “I might be mistaken for the famous trotter.”

So chatting, they entered the dining-hall. Tables set for six each filled the room.

“Miss Cresswell, will you take charge of Elizabeth—I’m going to call you Elizabeth; you don’t look nearly old enough to be Miss Hobart.”

“Yes; come with me, Miss Hobart. Nancy, I presume you and I part here. I shall be surprised if Miss Morgan permits you and Mary to be together much longer.”

She led the way to a table by the window where she seated herself at its head, placing Elizabeth at her right.

“Miss Morgan never allows roommates to sit together at meals,” she explained, “or two girls who have been reared together as Mary and Nancy have. She wishes us to know all the students, and tries to prevent our forming little cliques, as we’re bound to do when we room and eat and study with the same people.”

“But what if you should not like the other people?” asked Elizabeth. “It must be rather unpleasant to sit at meals with someone whom you do not like.”

“That is one of the lessons Miss Morgan is giving us the opportunity of learning. We may discover on close acquaintance that one is more likable than we first supposed; and if that is impossible, then we learn to keep our dislikes to ourselves.”

The dining-hall was rapidly filling. Landis Stoner and Min Kean came in among the last, the former taking her place at Miss Cresswell’s table, sitting beside Elizabeth.

“Why, Anna Cresswell,” she exclaimed, leaning forward, “did Miss Morgan put you at the head of the table?”

“How else should I be here? You surely did not think I came unasked.”

“Oh, no, I spoke without thinking. Of course, you would not come unless she asked you to do so. I was surprised, that was all.”

“Why surprised? You know I am a Senior, and it is customary to give them the head.”

“Oh, yes, of course. But there are Seniors who haven’t been given the head. That is what made me speak.”

Miss Cresswell turned the conversation to other subjects. Elizabeth was the only new student at the table. She felt that some reason other than the one given had caused Miss Stoner to speak as she had. It was not until some days later that she learned that Landis was a Senior. She learned, too, that the girl was ambitious to be first, even in so slight a thing as sitting at the head of a table and playing hostess to five girls, generally of under classes.

“Are you on the second floor again this year, Landis?” asked a little pink-and-white, china-doll girl from the foot of the table.

“Yes, Mame. Min and I have the same rooms as before. The third time is the charm. I presume something good will happen this year.”

“Perhaps Min will get through the preliminaries,” was the rejoinder. “She won’t pull through from any effort she makes herself. If her friends wish to see her graduate, they will be compelled to resort to something. Get her to pick four-leafed clovers and wear them in the toe of her shoe, possibly. That has been known to work where all else fails.”

Landis looked serious at the jest. Her manner grew quite self-assertive as she replied, as though expressing herself quite settled the question. Yet throughout there was an assumed self-deprecatory air, as though she would not have her hearers think she was either maligning her friend or lauding herself too highly in the comparison suggested in her speech.

“Don’t blame Min too much. Some work which would be possible for you or me, is impossible for her. I did not realize until we roomed together what a difference there can be in—in—minds. I could not have believed that any one would consider a theorem or a page of French difficult. But,” with an arch glance, “these past two years have taught me a great deal. I am more sympathetic, and oh so much more thankful that I am—”

“Not as ‘these publicans and sinners,’” finished the girl at the foot. As she spoke, her glance swept over the table to include among “these” all who sat there.

Even Elizabeth, though a stranger, could not suppress a smile.

“Who has No. 12—that big room, the one Miss Watson used to have?” continued Miss Welch, ignoring Landis’ show of vexation at her words. Landis made no attempt to answer, although the question was addressed to her. After a moment’s silence, a little German girl, Elizabeth’s vis-a-vis, replied, “If I have not heard it unright, Fraulein—that is, Miss O’Day in it she will room.”

She blushed prettily as she spoke, half in shyness and half in embarrassment that her German idioms would intrude themselves when she was trying to speak English. She looked up at Miss Cresswell, as though she sought encouragement from her.

“Why, Miss Hirsch, what have you been doing all summer? Spending all your vacation talking English? You have improved wonderfully. Now Fraulein Kronenberg will complain that you are losing your pure German accent.”

“Oh, think you so? It is glad I am. A single German word the whole long summer have I not said. But about the room which on the second floor is; to me it was said Miss O’Day will—will—occupy? it.”

“Who is to room with her?” asked Miss Welch.

“I believe she is to room alone,” said Miss Cresswell.

“Why doesn’t Maud Harris go back with her? They seemed to get along well last fall, and Maud is well enough to enter again!” said Miss Welch.

“Miss Harris with anything could—what you call it?—get along,” said Miss Hirsch.

“My words seem to suggest that Miss O’Day is difficult to get along with. I did not mean that. So far as I know, she has a very even temper, and is more than generous with all her possessions. She isn’t selfish.”

“I can plainly see why Maud has another roommate. Of course you all do. It does seem a little hard.” Here Landis’ manner grew important. Her head was raised, and her lips curled. “But those of us who have a high sense of honor would not care to room with Miss O’Day. I hope I am not narrow-minded, but I feel that all my finer instincts rebel at the thought of——”

“Miss Stoner, if you please, we will drop the subject. Nothing can be gained by carrying it further.” This came from Miss Cresswell. She spoke quietly but her manner and voice was that of one who expected to have her suggestions followed.

Landis tilted her head a little higher, but her face flushed. She was about to tell Miss Cresswell that she would discuss any subject when and where she chose when she remembered suddenly that Miss Cresswell was the head of the table and the one to whom she must pay a certain amount of respect.

The dinner had been brought in. Miss Cresswell served the plates with Maggie, the colored serving-maid, standing at her side. All conversation of a personal nature stopped while the servants were in the room. When the dinner was over, and dessert on the table, the chatter began. As they were about to quit the room, a bell rang. Quiet fell upon them. Dr. Morgan arose from her place at the head table.

She made a few general announcements. Then in her clear, decisive voice continued: “The students will not forget that they are expected to dress for dinner. If you are too indisposed to change your school attire for something fresher, you are too indisposed to come to the dining-hall. But you will bear in mind that this does not mean either dinner or reception gowns. Elaborate and extravagant dressing is not suited to girls in school. Miss O’Day has infringed upon this rule. Consequently she may pass immediately to her apartments, change her gown, and spend the evening in her room, without conversing with anyone. You may be excused, Miss O’Day.”

From a table at a distant part of the room, Miss O’Day arose. As she moved through the room with her head high and eyes straight before her, her shoulders and arms gleamed through their transparent covering, and the rustle of her silken petticoats was audible.

As she disappeared, Dr. Morgan gave the signal for dismissal. The hum of conversation among the students began again, as in little groups they passed to the parlors or to the campus.

CHAPTER IV.

THE RECEPTION.

“What have you brought to fix up our quarters?” asked Miss Wilson, the day following Elizabeth’s arrival at Exeter. Her trunk and box were in the middle of the study, while she and Miss Wilson stood and looked on as Jimmy Jordan unfastened straps and drew out nails.

“I do not know,” was the reply. “Mother slipped in a whole box of extras. I wondered why she was doing it. She said I would see later. There were cups and spoons, and doilies.”

“Sensible mother,” rejoined Miss Wilson. “She realizes the necessity of frequent spreads in the strenuous life we lead. No doubt we’ll find among your traps a glass or so of jelly, and some preserves. Mothers who have been at school themselves appreciate the situation.”

Elizabeth laughed. She was beginning to understand her roommate’s style of conversation.

Miss Wilson was not one to shirk. Work had no terrors for her. She was never idle, but when she was tired with study she found rest in some other form of occupation. Now, while Elizabeth was unpacking, she assisted her in every way, putting in order bureau drawers, and arranging books.

Elizabeth had depended more or less upon her mother. How much that “more” was greater than that “less” she did not realize until she was alone. Miss Wilson proved her right hand now.

The greater part of the day was spent in arranging their possessions. The pictures which Elizabeth had brought from home were hung; the bright cushions placed at a proper angle on the couch, over which had been placed a covering of gay tapestry. A table had been drawn up near the fireplace.

This was a new experience for Elizabeth so she let Miss Wilson take the lead. She watched her arrange the tea-table. The dainty cups and plates, souvenir spoons, sugar bowl and creamer found their proper places. It was a small edition of their dining-table at home. The chafing-dish and swinging kettle with its alcohol lamp were too much for Elizabeth to bear without comment. She must and did ask their purpose.

“I’ll show you in one minute,” said Mary. She took a box of cocoa and a bottle of alcohol from a small cabinet. “I must borrow some cream from Anna Cresswell. I saw her get some this morning. But first I must put this water on to boil.” She did so, then hurried from the room, soon returning with the cream.

After stirring the cream, cocoa and sugar in the cup, she poured on the boiling water. With a few additional manipulations of the spoon, she held out the cup to Elizabeth. “Here, girlie, drink to the prosperity of Exeter Hall in general, and these quarters in particular. May you get along with your roommate better than people generally do, and may all the scraps between you and her be made up before the retiring-bell rings.”

Elizabeth raised her cup to the toast, then drank. “Why, that is fine—and made with such a little fire! I would not have believed it possible.”

“You think that is good?” was the reply. “You will open your eyes when you see what can be done with the chafing-dish,—creamed oysters, fudge, soups of all kinds, Welsh rarebits. I hope, Elizabeth, that you spoke to your mother about boxes. At Exeter, boxes are acceptable at all times.”

“Boxes?” in surprise. “No; I never mentioned the word to her. I didn’t understand that they would be required. The catalog made no mention of them. I know because I looked particularly about the number of napkins and towels required. What do you put in them?”

“I don’t know. It is what you take out of them that makes them valuable. Personally, I prefer roast chicken and cake.”

“Oh!” cried Elizabeth. “How dull I am! But you know that I was never before at any school, and I never knew any girls my own age.”

“They’ll teach you a lot,” was the response.

“You and father agree in that. He says that the students will teach me more than the faculty. But that is one of the things I cannot understand.”

“You will sometime. I wouldn’t bother my head much about it now. What do you think about this Gibson head? It doesn’t fit in here with the other pictures.”

“Let me try it on this side of the room,” Elizabeth replied, placing the picture at a better angle.

So the day progressed in doing a score of little odds and ends of work which have the effect of making boarding-school quarters suggestive of home.

Several weeks later Elizabeth had one lesson in what the girls could teach her, something which was not found between the covers of books. At home, there had always been her mother to pick up after her. She might drop hat, gloves and coat anywhere about the house, and when she needed them, find them in their proper places, dusted, mended and ready for use.

During the first week at Exeter, Mary Wilson unconsciously dropped into her mother’s place in this particular, perhaps because she was a year older than Elizabeth, and had learned this lesson in her own time. Certain it was, when they dressed for dinner, she looked about the bedroom and put in order each article which was out of place, or called Elizabeth’s shortcomings to notice with, “Your dress will muss lying on that chair,” or “Is that your slipper in the study, or did I leave mine there?”

During the month of October, the girls at Exeter gave their first reception. Guests came from all the little towns about, and the Hall was filled with flowers, lights and bright music.

Elizabeth and Mary had hurried from the dinner-table to get into their party gowns. Miss Wilson, as a Senior, was one of the reception-committee. Elizabeth was but half-way through with her dressing when Mary had finished.

“There, Elizabeth, I’m done. Look me over and see if my waist is together all right.”

Elizabeth was standing before the mirror, pins between her lips, trying to reduce a refractory bow to submission. She turned to look at her roommate. “Sweet—your dress is beautiful.”

“Thank you,” was the response with a characteristic toss of her head. “With those pins in your mouth you talk like a dialect story. I’m off now. Dr. Morgan wishes the committee to meet in her parlor. I suppose she wants to get our mouths into the ‘papa, potatoes, prunes and prisms’ shape before we meet the guests. I’m sorry I can’t go down with you, Elizabeth. A first reception is so trying. Nancy won’t go down until late. Suppose I ask her to wait for you?”

“That may put her to trouble. I thought of asking Miss O’Day to go with me. She’s just across the hall, and has no one special to go with her since she rooms alone.”

Miss Wilson hesitated a moment, standing in the middle of the doorway. She looked quite serious at the mention of Miss O’Day.

“Miss O’Day might—not like to be bothered. Besides, you do not know her very well. I’ll send Nancy.”

With that she disappeared.

As the gaslight in the bedroom was not satisfactory Elizabeth went into the sitting-room or study, as the students were accustomed to call it, to finish her dressing. Nancy came to the door just as Elizabeth put on the last touches.

“We’ll be late,” she exclaimed. “I think it’s fun to go early and meet all the strangers. Judge Wilson and his friends will be here if the train was on time at Ridgway.”

Elizabeth caught up her fan and handkerchief and started forth. Her attention was claimed by the curious fan Nancy carried.

“It is odd, isn’t it?” exclaimed Nancy, unfurling it. “It is hand-carved. You know the Swedes are famous for that kind of work. This is quite old. My grandfather made it for my grandmother when they were sweethearts over in Sweden.”

Elizabeth looked her surprise at this statement. Her companion noticed her expression.

“You knew, of course, that I was of Swedish birth!”

“No, I did not. I knew that you made your home with Miss Wilson’s family. I took it for granted that you must be a relative.”

“Not the least bit,” was the response, given without a show of embarrassment. “I’m merely a dependent. My father was a Swedish minister, and worked among our people near the Wilson home. When he died, we were left with nothing to live on. Mother did sewing for the Swedish people. I was very strong and quite as able to work as she. So I went to live at the Wilson home where I helped with the little children and also went to school. I grew to love them, and they seemed to really care for me. When I finished the high school, Mrs. Wilson sent me here. I’m to be a teacher after I graduate at Exeter. I always count the Wilson home mine. Each summer I go back there and help with the children while Mrs. Wilson takes a vacation.”

She did not add that she had shown such an aptitude for study, and had proved so efficient and trustworthy that Mrs. Wilson had decided to give her the best advantages to fit her for a profession.

As they passed the open door of the room occupied by Landis Stoner and Min Kean, the voices of the girls came to them. They had evidently taken it for granted that the other students had gone to the parlors and that there wasn’t anyone to hear the conversation.

“Well, for my part, Min,” Landis was saying, “I do not think you look at all well in that blue silk. You look so sallow. You are so much sweeter in your white organdy with your pink sash.”

“But, Landis, I’ve worn it so often.”

“But not here. It will be new to the girls, and it looks perfectly fresh.”

“You said you liked the blue silk when I was buying it.”

“I did and I do yet, but it isn’t suited to you. Now for me, it would be all right, but—”

“I wish you’d come down, Landis. I always have a better time when you are there.”

“How can I? I haven’t a dress for a reception. You simply cannot get a dress made at home fit to wear, and my staying up in the country all summer with you made my going to the city impossible.”

That was all that reached the girls in the hall, and this was forced upon them. Nancy could not forbear a smile. Elizabeth with the guilelessness of an unexperienced child exclaimed, “Why, Landis seems to have so many beautiful clothes. Her father must be very wealthy. Her rings and pins are simply lovely. Isn’t that a diamond she wears?”

“Yes; but it’s Min’s. Landis has been wearing it for the last two years. Min is an only child. She has no mother and her father, who is a millionaire oil-man, allows her to spend what she pleases.”

“Is Landis’ father an oil-man?”

“No, he isn’t,” was the reply.

Elizabeth was learning how much could be said by silence. During her short acquaintance with Landis, the girl had suggested many of the possibilities of her future—a cruise on a private yacht, a year’s study and travel in Europe. She had not said that money was no consideration with her, yet Elizabeth had gained such an impression from her words.

“I am sorry Landis will miss the reception,” she said.

Nancy smiled. “She will not miss it. She enjoys the social side of school life too much to miss anything of this kind. She will be down after awhile.”

“But you heard what she said—that she had nothing fit to wear.”

“But she will have—or has now. She will appear in a gown that puts all other dresses in the shade. Here we are. How fine the reception committee look. Poor Mary Wilson! this is hard for her. She’s doing her best not to toss back her hair and laugh.”

As she spoke, they entered the parlors. Jimmy Jordan, arrayed in full dress, announced their arrival to Dr. Morgan.

The girls maintained a dignified and elegant composure until they reached the end of the line where Miss Wilson stood. Nancy’s appearance distracted her attention from her social duties.

“You’ve got too much powder on your nose, Nancy,” and with a flutter of her handkerchief, she made Nancy presentable. Then she remembered where she was. Her face flushed. She looked about her. Her words had carried across the room. The smiles of the committee about her were almost audible.

Elizabeth in company with Nancy moved through the room. “Here is someone I wish you to meet,” said Nancy, “that is, if you are really interested in people of strong, though peculiar character. She is a Miss Rice. She owns a little farm not far from where my father preached. She works the whole place herself.”

They came up to Miss Rice, a woman far past middle age. Her features showed exposure to the sun. Her red-bronze hair was turning into a grizzled, faded gray.

“I’m glad to meet Miss Hobart,” she said. “You are from Bitumen, I hear. I have planned to go there as soon as I get my potatoes in, and those odd chores done for the winter. I heard your father had a peculiar plant—something unusual hereabout.”

Elizabeth repeated the story of his having found an odd seed in an importation of tea and having planted it. Miss Rice’s conversation was interesting. Her voice was full and melodious, but even Elizabeth who was used to the eccentricities of Miss Hale’s attire could not repress a smile.

Miss Rice talked of the wheat blight and the damaging effects of potato-bugs, then with equal interest quoted Browning, and debated the question whether there was a present-day literature worthy of the name.

“She’s a quaint character,” Miss Cresswell said later to Elizabeth. “She might have been independently rich, but she has no idea of the value of money, and she is the sort who always finds someone who needs it more than she. It’s been years since she’s had a respectable winter coat because she pledged herself to provide for several old ladies in the Home for the Friendless. She has a whole host of doless relatives, whom she props up whenever they need it, and,” as though an afterthought, “they always need it.”

“Do you know if Landis is coming down?” asked Miss Rice a few moments later, turning to Elizabeth. “I really came purposely to see her. We’ve been a little uncertain about her finishing the year, but last week I sold four hundred bushels of potatoes. That means she can stay. She’ll be pleased, but no more than I’ll be.” Then in a confidential tone, “When I was a girl, I didn’t have the advantages that I’m trying to give Landis. We were poor, and father and mother were getting on in years, and I couldn’t leave them. What I learned I dug out of books and other people’s minds. Julia Hale—you know her—got me interested in botany, and someone else came along with a book or so. I was ambitious to go to Exeter, and then be a missionary. That seemed to be such a beautiful life of self-sacrifice; but it seems it wasn’t to be. There never was a day when someone right there at home didn’t need me, so that after a while I didn’t ever have time to think of going. But there was Landis. I mean to prepare her well and send her in my place. When the potatoes turned out better than I’d been counting on, I just sat down and laughed. Then I got ready and came down here to tell Landis. There she is now.” She arose, a trace of pleasurable excitement showing in her manner and lighting up her weather-beaten face, and moved to where Landis, radiant and self-confident, stood with Min and others of her satellites.

Elizabeth’s eyes followed. She gave a little start of surprise at the sight. Min was wearing an organdy plainly showing signs of service, while Landis was arrayed in a handsome gown of soft blue silk. Elizabeth knew not the reason for it, but as she looked at the girls she had a sensation of being out-of-sorts, and at variance with the world. She might have given up to her feelings had not her roommate joined her. Mary’s eyes were a little brighter than usual. She was fairly bubbling over with excitement.

“I’ve been looking almost everywhere for you, Elizabeth,” she cried, tucking her hand within Elizabeth’s arm, and leading her into a small room adjoining. “I want you to meet the best father and mother this country ever produced.”

“I’ve met them,” responded Elizabeth. “They are in Bitumen at this minute.”

Mary laughed and gave her arm a squeeze. “You’re getting on, Elizabeth. A month ago you couldn’t have made such a remark. You were too literally literal. But as to the best parents; I have them shut up in this room.”

“Not my parents,” decidedly.

“I should say not. My own. Why should I be wanting anyone’s else?”

They entered the room where a little group of the older guests had gathered. Leading Elizabeth to her father and mother, “This is Elizabeth,” Mary said. Both father and mother held out their hands to her. Elizabeth felt that they were not strangers. They knew of her father. She was very glad to note the tone in which all people spoke of him. Nothing was said of his being a brilliant man, although he had been that, but all spoke of him as a good man and doing good work.

“The liquor people are getting it strong up your way, Judge,” said a little old man in the group. “What is going to happen to our friend Bill?”

“It has happened,” responded Mr. Wilson. “We finished him Friday morning—a year and six months in the workhouse.”

Elizabeth looked about her in surprise. Miss Cresswell was near her. “Is Mary Wilson’s father that famous Judge Wilson?” she asked.

“Yes, didn’t you know it?”

Elizabeth shook her head slowly. “How should I know?” she said, sinking back into her chair as though overcome by the news. “No one told me,” she continued, “and Mary herself never mentioned it.”

“Why should she?” was the response. “She is so used to his honors that she thinks nothing at all about them.”

“Isn’t it strange,” said Elizabeth, having slowly awakened to the condition of affairs in the little world about her, “that it seems to be the people who have the least and do the least that make the most fuss?”

“One thing Exeter has taught you?” said Miss Cresswell with a smile. “The little tugs must make a noise or they may be run down, but the big liners are confident of their own power and so is everyone.”

But Elizabeth had not heard this last remark. She was leaning eagerly forward listening to the conversation among the others. Judge Wilson was explaining to those who were interested what Big Bill Kyler had done to justify a year and a half in jail.

“You see,” the Judge said, “all the land at Italee and Gleasonton belong to Mrs. Gleason. She won’t sell, and leases and rents only under certain conditions. All renters are her husband’s workmen. I suppose there’s seven or eight hundred in the tannery and brickyard. She won’t permit a licensed hotel on her land. Big Bill drives across the country, loads his wagon with contraband goods and retails them from his house. This is all on the quiet. I reckon he’s carried this on for six months. But some time in August, Mrs. Gleason had his wagon stopped with the result,” with a wave of his hand, “Bill is living at the expense of the State.”

“A pretty smart woman, Mrs. Gleason.” This remark came from the little old man in the corner.

“Very, but she would never have discovered this if someone had not given her a pointer; for Big Bill outwardly was an advocate of temperance.”

“I am out of patience with the way in which justice errs,” cried Mrs. Wilson, in the same spirited, sprightly way her daughter might have done. “We all know that Big Bill is not accountable. He has always been the tool of anyone who would make use of him. I doubt if he made any money by this work. There was a shrewder man back of him who planned this and took the money. And that man is the one who should be punished.”

“Undoubtedly,” responded the Judge. “But that man is shrewd enough to keep himself out of the toils. He has a wholesale license to sell at Westport. He does not obligate himself to question his buyers. He may ask Big Bill a trifle more than anyone else, but that is no infringement of the law. I think there was no doubt in anyone’s mind who was the instigator of this ‘speak-easy’ business at Italee; but he was shrewd enough to keep within the letter of the law. We could not touch him, and he knew it.”

“The whole business is nefarious! It is the curse of our country.”

Judge Wilson smiled back at his wife. She was always so decided in her opinions, so fearless in expressing them.

“To be sure, to be sure,” he responded calmly. “Most of us acknowledge that, but we have power only to interpret and judge. The people make the laws.”

“I think this talk is a trifle too heavy for a boarding-school reception,” exclaimed a young matron. “I shall return to the reception hall and listen to the chatter of schoolgirls. I haven’t outgrown my taste for it.” She laughed and passed into the adjoining room.

Her remark lead to the general breaking up of the little group. “We had better go back to the younger set,” was the sentiment of the elders.

“You must slip up now and see how nice our rooms look,” cried Mary Wilson, clinging to her father and mother. “Elizabeth brought so many pretty things from home, our rooms look quite fine.”

“Yes; do come,” said Elizabeth. “We’ll make you a cup of cocoa—or Mary will. I haven’t reached such a high state of perfection that I make it for company.”

“Well, just, for one moment then,” said Mrs. Wilson. “We must not stay long enough to be missed. Mrs. Williams, will you and your husband come with us? We are going up to see the girls’ rooms. They tell me that they are very fine.”

Mrs. Williams gladly accepted. She was a little old Quaker lady, in Quaker garb, neat as the proverbial pin, and with the appearance of having just stepped from some old painting.

“It has been so many years since I have seen a schoolgirl’s room,” she said, “that I should love to see Mary’s. In my day ours were plain—painted floors and wooden beds. It was not allowable to have aught else; but we were taught to be orderly—too much so, I thought.”

“Dr. Morgan is particular about that. Mrs. Schuyler is preceptress, but she works under Dr. Morgan’s orders,” said Mrs. Wilson.

“That is well. Book knowledge means little if a woman is untidy and careless,” was the response.

Elizabeth and Mary, far in the rear, acting as body-guard to the Judge, did not hear these remarks on neatness. To Mary it would have mattered little, for her conscience was clear so far as keeping her possessions in order was concerned.

“Oh, father, wait just one second,” she cried. “There is Miss Watson from Muncy. I must speak with her, and ask her to go with us. She was at a German University all last year.” She hurried away, and soon returned with a distinguished-looking young woman whom she introduced as Miss Watson. “She is going up with us,” explained Miss Wilson, “to have a cup of cocoa. Oh, yes,” as Miss Watson was about to demur, “we have eight cups now. Do you remember the time two years ago when I invited the girls in and forgot that I hadn’t dishes enough? Yes; I have the same rooms but they’re much nicer. We have so many new things that I’m sure you will not recognize them. Miss Hobart is my roommate. We have gotten along famously so far—haven’t had the smallest kind of a difficulty. I’m sure we’ll so continue, for I always think the first month is the hardest. We had to learn to adjust ourselves to each other. But there is no danger of a quarrel now. We have passed our rocks.”

“Knock on wood, Mary,” called back her father on hearing the remark, “that will exorcise the evil spirit of assurance. Knock on wood, I say, or you and Elizabeth will quarrel before the week is out.”

Mary tossed her head and laughed. She thoroughly appreciated her father’s witticisms.

“I shall not knock on wood—and we will not quarrel,” she replied. “That is our room, mother. Yes; right there.”

Mrs. Williams and Mrs. Wilson passed into the bedroom. The others of the party followed. Elizabeth and Mary at the end of the line had stepped aside to give precedence to the elders.

They heard Judge Wilson laugh. “It has been nothing less than a cyclone,” he said, then laughed again.

“Why, this is not at all like Mary!” began Mrs. Wilson. Mary noticed the tone of apology in her voice.

She and Elizabeth stepped inside. Elizabeth’s face grew crimson. In the middle of the floor lay her school shoes which, in her haste to dress, she had kicked off and left. Her coat and hat were on one chair. Stretched out on the end of the couch was her gym suit, glaringly conspicuous with its crimson braid. Every toilet article that she had used was in evidence, and in a place never designed for its occupancy.

Miss Wilson arose to the occasion. With a characteristic toss of the head, she crossed the room and drew forward a chair. “Sit, all of you, and I’ll put the kettle to boil for cocoa. Father, tell your story about the boy illustrating ‘The Old Oaken Bucket.’” She lighted the alcohol lamp while she was talking. She made no apology for the disorder of the room. One might suppose from her manner that all was as the most fastidious might desire.

Elizabeth sat quietly in the background, hoping that no one would speak to her. Her face was burning. There was a dimness about her eyes suggestive of tears.

Missing her, Mrs. Wilson turned, about. “Where is Elizabeth?” she asked. “Did she not come with us?”

“Yes; I came,” said a voice choking with tears. “I’m here—and oh, I am so ashamed. Not one of those articles scattered about are Mary’s. They’re all mine.” At this she could no longer restrain herself, but began to cry.

Both Mrs. Williams and Mrs. Wilson would have consoled her with well chosen words of sympathy. The men laughed and declared that they were so accustomed to dropping their shoes in the middle of the floor that they had not recognized the signs of disorder; that they supposed that the floor was the legitimate place for shoes. But treating the matter lightly did not rid Elizabeth of her shame and embarrassment. She was unable to control herself. Slipping into the bedroom, she threw herself face downward on the pillow and sobbed herself to sleep.

When she awakened, she found that the guests and Miss Wilson had departed. She prepared for bed and was standing in her night clothes when Mary came back into the room, a tearful little maiden. But Miss Wilson was unmoved.

“I’m so sorry and—ashamed,” began Elizabeth.

“You should be,” was the unfeeling response.

“It shall never happen so again,” contritely.

“I’m sure it will not, for after this I’ll see to it that the room is in order after you get through dressing.”

“Oh, Mary, don’t be so hard. Won’t you forgive me? I’m sure I’m ashamed enough.”

“It is no use talking further about it,” was the grim response. “The thing’s done and cannot be undone by any amount of talking. You mortified me before my best friends, and I can not forget it soon. When I can, I’ll tell you. But please don’t mention the subject to me again.”

That was all, but it was enough. Elizabeth crept into bed and turned her face to the wall. She had no desire to cry now. Anger and grief were holding equal places with her.

She was too young and healthy and sleepy to stay awake long. She had been sleeping uneasily when she awoke from a horrible nightmare. She had dreamed that a most formidable array of shoes and stockings, hats and coats in the form of grinning spectres were hovering about her ready to seize her. When she was wide awake, she remembered the cause of her dream. She remembered, too, that she had not put the sitting-room in order.

Crawling softly from bed, she crept into the study. It seemed as though each chair, in a conspiracy to make her efforts difficult, stood in her path. She turned on the gas and gathered together her possessions. Then she crept back to her nest again, hoping that the spectres of her negligence would not haunt her.

CHAPTER V.

A BOX FROM HOME.

For some days the relations between Elizabeth and her roommate were strained. No further words concerning the order of the room passed between them, but each time they dressed, whether for breakfast or dinner, Miss Wilson made a point of looking about both rooms to see that each article was as it should be. The very calmness of her manner was exasperating. Elizabeth was hurt more by it than by words. She paid no attention to Mary’s vain efforts, for they had grown to be vain, as Elizabeth was keeping the tightest kind of a rein on herself.

Each article of dress was hung in its proper place as it left her hand. Each pencil went back to the pencil-holder even when she intended using it in a few minutes. She did not grant herself a second’s grace. Her efforts were untiring during the first and second week. Many times she went back from the door of the class-room to be sure that every article in her room was where it should be.

Gradually she formed the habit of being orderly. It was but a few weeks until she discovered that she put her clothes away without thinking about it. She discovered, too, that she was actually saving time in not having to hunt for anything.

Mrs. Schuyler, the preceptress, generally looked in upon the rooms while the girls were at class. She was a dainty little widow, with a manner which she supposed to be pleasant and ingratiating but which the girls termed monotonously servile. Her expression was so exceedingly pleasant that the students named her Mrs. Smiles.

One Saturday morning as she made her daily rounds, she found both Elizabeth and Mary in their rooms.

“Miss Hobart, I must speak with you,” she said, sweeping in, the long train of her black house gown trailing after her. “I wish to commend you on the improvement you have made in keeping your apartments in order. It has been weeks since I have found an article out of place on your dresser; and your closet has been in excellent order.”

“You are very kind to tell me so,” was the response. “But I take little credit to myself for the improvement. I’ve had such an example and mentor always before me that I could scarce be anything else but improved.”

Miss Wilson stood by but gave no indication of hearing the remark until Mrs. Smiles, smiling and bowing, dragged her train from the room. Then she turned to Elizabeth.

“I scarcely expect you’ll forgive me for the way I spoke that evening. But I was provoked and—and—humiliated. Miss Watson has always been my ideal and I did wish her to see me at my best.”

“I think she did. You were all that could be expected of a girl. The Sphinx itself, could not have been more outwardly calm. I fancy Miss Watson went away in admiration of your self-control. If I remember, I was the only one who appeared to disadvantage.”

There was a trace of bitterness in the girl’s voice, for in spite of her effort to forget, the hurt of that evening still rankled within her.

“Now, Elizabeth, please do not speak in that tone. I was sorry for my words that evening the moment I spoke. But I am hasty. I try my best to keep quiet when I’m angry; but now and then I express myself before I realize it. You can’t expect perfection in anyone. A quick temper is my besetting sin. I try to overcome it; but until I do my friends must bear with me. No one is perfection.”

“Indeed,” was the reply, “I’m rather surprised that you hold such an opinion. From the way you spoke that evening, I could not have judged you to be so liberal.”

Miss Wilson knew her words were wasted. With a quick, impulsive movement she crossed the room to where Elizabeth stood, and throwing her arms about her, cried out, “You must not talk like that, Elizabeth. You are not naturally sarcastic. Let me be the disagreeable one—if one there must be.”

She drew Elizabeth’s head down, kissing her warmly. It was impossible to be vexed long with such a whole-souled, impulsive girl as Miss Wilson. Elizabeth smiled and relented. From that time matters between the two moved smoothly as at first; but Elizabeth did not relax her vigilance. She realized how others might be inconvenienced and mortified by her carelessness. From an economical point of view, too, it was better to reform; for she had lost much time, and been tardy at class frequently on account of having to hunt for some needed article.

This week proved to be one of the most eventful of Elizabeth’s school year. She did not plan to go home for Thanksgiving. The Saturday previous she received a box from her mother. It was filled with all the good things a mother’s heart could devise and a cook’s skillful hands make ready. Miss Wilson carried the news of the arrival of the box to Elizabeth.

“The expressman’s on his way up with an immense box,” she cried, tossing back her hair, and talking as excitedly as though Exeter Hall were governed by a Board of Starvation.

Elizabeth hurried to the door. The expressman was already there, with about as much as he could carry.

Mary, as usual, arose to the occasion. She assisted to unpack. She expressed the proper amount of enthusiasm and admiration at each edible as it was brought forth. When the contents had been properly disposed of on every available window-sill, study-table and on the floor close to the wall where they would not be in the way of passing feet, she arose from her knees before the empty box. “You’ll have the spread to-night, I suppose. Some of the girls will be away to-morrow.”

Elizabeth had been long enough at Exeter to learn the meaning of that magic word “spread.” There are receptions, socials and spreads, but the greatest of these are spreads. A spread means slipping through dimly lighted corridors long after the retiring-bell has sounded its last warning; it means bated breaths, whispers and suppressed giggles. Its regalia is dressing-gowns or kimonos with bedroom slippers. It means mysterious knocks at the hostess’ door; a hurried skirmish within; and when it is found that one of the enlightened is rapping for admission, there is a general exodus from closets, from behind window draperies and from beneath study-tables.

Spreads have never been prohibited. Indeed, it is generally understood that the faculty would gladly grant permission for them, if the time and place were opportune. But never in the history of school-life has permission been asked. With permission granted, a spread would not be a spread. It would be a mere lunch—an opportunity to partake of delicacies.

Elizabeth’s eyes grew big at Mary’s suggestion. “We’ll have it to-night,” she exclaimed, “after the lights are out. Do you think we could have it here? Mrs. Smiles is at the end of the hall. We’ll have to be so careful.”

“So much the more fun. A spread is supposed to be risky, else it would not be a spread. Whom will you invite?”

Elizabeth began to name them on her fingers. “Anna Cresswell, Landis, Min, Mame Welch, and Miss O’Day.” Her acquaintance with the last-named student had not progressed far enough to permit calling her by her first name. As far as Miss O’Day was concerned, the Exeter girls knew not friendship. Elizabeth could see that the girl herself made no advances. From her attitude, it was impossible to judge whether she was proud or shy. Scarcely the latter, for she carried herself with a self-poise which was suggestive of confidence. Elizabeth had not learned the cause of the estrangement between her and the other students. No one had ventured an explanation to her and she would not ask. Now at the mention of her name, Miss Wilson grew dignified—a sure sign that she was half angry.

“I wouldn’t ask her,” she said.

“Why not?”

“Oh, simply because I wouldn’t. None of the girls ever invite her, or haven’t for the last year.”

“Oh, well, no doubt I do a great many things which none of the other girls do, so I might as well do this. I don’t object to being a little odd.”

“Well, if you do—if you take Nora O’Day up and make a friend of her, the other girls will surely cut you.”

“Cut me?” exclaimed Elizabeth, for the first time in her life fairly indignant. Her pride was aroused. “Cut me? Well, let that be as they choose. They’ll not have the opportunity, for I can let them as severely alone as they do Nora O’Day. If I cannot invite whom I please to my spread without asking the advice of a dozen other girls, then I’ll not have it at all. I don’t know and don’t wish to know why you girls snub Miss O’Day. As far as I can see, she acts quite as well as some others at Exeter.”

“We don’t snub her, at least I have never done so. I treat her with conventional courtesy.”

“Conventional courtesy! Deliver me from it, then. Why, the thermometer falls below zero whenever she comes where you girls are together. I know no evil of her. She has always treated me nicely, and I shall treat her so. When I discover that she is not fit to associate with, then I’ll let her alone.”

“But, Elizabeth, if you only knew!”

“But I don’t know and I don’t want to know.” Mary hesitated. She was not tempted to tell Elizabeth the whole story of the year before. She was never tempted to tell news or bruit from one student to another what was no concern of hers. She hesitated because she was uncertain whether it paid to carry the discussion further. After a moment’s thought, she decided that much talking would not be effective.

“Very well, Elizabeth, do as you please. Ask anyone you choose. Of course the spread is yours. But if you ask Nora O’Day, you may expect to find me occupied at that time. Landis will not mind if I go over to her rooms. I’m off now to geometry! Of course, I’ll help you get ready and all that.”

With this parting shot, she quitted the room. Elizabeth had a vacant period following, a time generally devoted to looking over her work. To-day she employed it in reviewing her conversation with Mary Wilson. She was gradually awakening to the knowledge that a certain independence of thought and action was necessary if one would not become a mere tool used by each and all of her friends. At Bitumen, her parents and Miss Hale had influenced her. But there had been such a sweet unselfishness in all they did, such an evidence that they were working for her good, that Elizabeth had allowed their will to become her own. As she considered the matter now, she could remember no instance when she had been conscious of feeling that any other course of action save that which they suggested would have been pleasing to her. She was fond of her roommate. Mary had helped her over many a little difficulty in regard to classes and gym work. She was one of those whole-souled girls who was more than ready and willing to divide both her good times and her possessions.

Elizabeth had not become so interested in Miss O’Day that her presence at the spread would cause her any great pleasure. Had Mary Wilson not shown such a spirit of authority, such a desire to have her own will in this, Elizabeth would have dropped the matter without a thought. But now she felt that she would ask Miss O’Day. If she did so, she would be an independent person; if she did not, she would be doing merely as her roommate wished, in a blind way, without knowing the reason for her action.

While she was pondering the matter, there came back to her the words her father had spoken when he had planned to send her to school. “The girls will teach you more than any of the faculty.” There was one thing they would teach her, she decided instantly, and that was to form her own opinions of people, and to follow out her own course of action. She would ask Miss O’Day to her spread. Mary Wilson could come or stay away just as she chose. Mary should decide that matter for herself.

When once Elizabeth made a decision, there was no dilly-dallying, no going back and wondering if she had done the right thing. Taking up her pencil, she began to jot down the names of those to be invited. Nora O’Day’s name headed the list with Azzie Hogan’s tagged on at the last. The majority of the girls were at class. Her only opportunity for seeing them was immediately before dinner or during study-hour in the evening, providing Mrs. Smiles did not keep too close a watch.

She wondered what Mary Wilson would think of asking Azzie Hogan. Azzie did not take advantage of the social privileges of Exeter. Azzie was a genius—a boarding student who put in all her time with music—who sat for hours producing the most marvelous tones from instruments where other girls drew discords—who would sit all day at the piano, and not find the time long; and who spent her leisure in dawdling over sofas, or playing practical jokes on every one about her. She was a long-limbed, fair-haired girl, with a touch of wit from some remote ancestor who must have had O’ tacked to his name, and a great inaptitude toward books. She could play. Exeter had never before boasted such skill as hers. Her fame had spread over the state. But other lessons were impossible.

The subject of the guests was not brought up again between the roommates. Mary had a successful interview with the matron, and returned to her rooms with cream for cocoa, and a few forks and spoons, borrowing cups and plates from the girls in the hall. Elizabeth had a class late in the afternoon. When she came back she found the work she planned already done. She started off immediately to issue her invitations.

The rooms occupied by Min and Landis were nearest her own. She stopped there first. She found the girls busy, Landis at the study-table, putting the last touches to a composition for the following day’s rhetoric. Min was sitting on a low chair by the window, sewing braid on the bottom of a dress-skirt. Unconsciously, Elizabeth gave the article in Min’s hand a second glance, and recognized it as the skirt Landis generally wore to class.

Landis, whose eye was quick to note all that occurred in her presence, caught the second glance. “Isn’t Min good?” she asked. “She is putting a new braid on my everyday skirt. I caught my heel in it yesterday and ripped the binding almost off. If there is one piece of work which I detest above another, it is putting on braids.”

“How about Min?” asked Elizabeth. “Does she enjoy it?”

“She doesn’t dislike it,” was the response. “She likes to be busy, and is quite as content to be at that as at some of the greater things of life. Min does that for me, and I’m left free to do a line of work which would not claim her.” As she spoke, she arose and moved from the table. Before doing so, she was careful to lay a book across the top of the page on which she had been writing. She might have placed it there to keep the papers from being scattered over the room, but it looked more as though she placed it in a position to hide the title. She sank down in a low chair beside Elizabeth and watched Min work. Her speech impressed her hearer that she was doing work of so high an order that common spirits like her own could not comprehend. Elizabeth had heard Landis make such reference before, but after having talked with Miss Rice, she concluded that Landis, when speaking in her own peculiar way, had in mind the life of a missionary which was to be hers on leaving school. Elizabeth had a great reverence for religion. So while Landis made these speeches, she listened with becoming attention.

But Min, to whom all things were material, and the nearest point the only one seen, blurted out in her slow, uncomprehending way, “Yes, I’d much rather sew on a binding than to do the work Landis does. What one of us likes to do, the other one don’t. So we fit fairly well as roommates. This noon when she was complaining about the mending she must do, I told her I’d do it all if she’d get my thesis ready for to-morrow. We have a discussion on the Literature of the Elizabethan Period. As though I could write a thousand words on that! So we traded off.”

A flush had come to Landis’ cheek while her roommate talked. She stopped her as quickly as was consistent with tact. When once Min started it was impossible to tell when she would stop.

“Tell Elizabeth about the trip your father is planning,” said Landis, breaking into Min’s discourse.

But Elizabeth arose, declaring that she had no time to stay longer; she had merely stopped in to ask them both to come to her room for a spread that evening, any time after the lights were out.

“A box from home!” exclaimed Min. “Isn’t that lovely? That is what it means to have a mother! Our housekeeper is as kind as can be and would be only too glad to send me a box if she thought of it. But that is the difference, a mother would think. If father was there, I’d go home to-morrow. But he won’t be, so I would rather stay here than be in that big house alone with servants. Landis has an invitation to go out into the country for dinner. I’m sure I’d go if I were she. Miss Rice has asked her to come but she won’t go.”

“I do not think it would be kind to leave Min alone,” she said, as though that were her sole motive in staying.

“Miss Rice!” exclaimed Elizabeth. “I know her. I met her the evening of the reception.”

“Quite a character, isn’t she?” responded Landis, as she might have spoken of one with whom she had but a passing acquaintance, instead of one on whom she was depending for all she had. “I often think she would make an admirable character for a novel. If my talent ran in that direction, I would certainly put Betty Rice in a book.”

“Isn’t she related to you?” asked Elizabeth in that innocent way which springs from the heart of one who has no guile and does not suspect others.

Landis drew down her eyebrows and pondered as though she were figuring out just what the relation was. The impression her manner gave to one who was merely a casual observer was that she deliberated and thought before speaking in order that her statements might not deviate by a hairbreadth from justice and truth.

“I was just trying to think if she really were related at all or if we call her so from mere courtesy. If she be related to us, it is so distant that I cannot explain it. I fancy we call her so without any blood ties at all. You know how it is with a family like ours—in fact all English families of the upper class. We’ve lived in one place for generations, and always have played the Lady Bountiful to the poorer folk until they grow to believe they have a claim upon us. Betty Rice is not the only one of these hangers-on. But I’m not complaining. She’s a good soul and always does her best. I really have a fondness for her. You can be sure that so long as I have a home Betty shall have one too.”

Min Kean had never talked with Miss Rice or Miss Rice’s friends. She forthwith expressed her admiration of Landis’ noble generosity of spirit and purse.

Elizabeth’s lack of experience in meeting with people made her slow to comprehend and compare. Although she remembered Miss Rice’s statements made the evening of the reception, and now heard those made by Landis, she did not reach a conclusion in regard to them. It was not until weeks later that her mind sifted these conflicting ideas, placing and ticketing each in its proper relation.

“But about the spread! You’ll come?”

“It’s useless to ask such a question! Of course we’ll come. We have never been known to miss a spread.”

The other girls accepted with the same readiness. It was not until Azzie was reached that any uncertainty arose.

Azzie was at the piano when Elizabeth found her. “It depends,” she replied. “If Smiles will allow me to do overtime this evening, I won’t be able to come. I’ll be too tired. If she’s cranky and locks up the music room, I’ll come.”

“Then I hope she’ll be cranky. We want you,” was the response.

“I don’t. Professor Van Buren gave me the sweetest thing to-day—a little German composition. I want to work on it. It isn’t hard, but the runs need practice.” She turned back to her music.

Elizabeth went on to find Miss O’Day. Their acquaintance had not gone beyond that of class-room meetings and hall chats. She had never visited the girl’s rooms. She was surprised at their beauty and elegance. All the Exeter girls had comfortable apartments, but this surpassed anything else at the Hall. The draperies between the doors were of imported India material; her tea-table showed many pieces of Royal Worcester; her extra chairs were of fine cabinet woods. The occupant of the room was seated in a low chair by the fire. She was already dressed for dinner. Since the evening Dr. Morgan had sent her to her room because she had appeared in a low-necked gown, her dressing had been less elaborate, yet by no means could it be called simple.

Her hands were covered with rings. Her hair was piled high in quite the fashion of a grown-up woman. It was more noticeable, perhaps, because the younger students at Exeter wore their hair in girlish fashion.

She arose to greet Elizabeth, shaking her by the hand and leading her to a chair. She was pleased that Elizabeth had called, yet her manner had a certain icy courtesy about it which made her guest ill at ease.

“This is the first time you have come to see me,” she said. “But I am glad you have come at last. Sit here. This low chair is the most comfortable.”

“I haven’t time,” said Elizabeth. Nevertheless she took the proffered chair. “Your rooms are beautiful, Miss O’Day,” she said. “As you say, this is the first time I have been in them, but I had caught glimpses from the hall of your pretty draperies and chairs. Your tea-table is a dream.”

“Why haven’t you come in before and seen it close at hand?” she asked.

Elizabeth knew no polite way of evading the question. She was not skilled in the little methods of saying much and meaning little.

“You never came to see me,” she replied, “and I fancied you did not care to have me come, though you have always been very pleasant when I have met you in the hall. But I supposed if you wanted to know me better, you would have come to see me.”

A peculiar expression passed over the hearer’s face. She gave Elizabeth a quick, questioning glance, as though she doubted the good faith of this statement. But the glance satisfied her that her visitor was not acting a part. She leaned forward as though to warm her hands at the grate. In reality, she was taking time to consider well her words before she spoke.

“I really wished to call on you,” she said, “but hesitated lest I intrude. Your roommate, Miss Wilson, would not be at all pleased to have me. That is why I did not call.”

“But the rooms are half mine! She would have nothing at all to do with my callers. Surely that was a queer sort of reason to keep away.”

“That was the first reason. Then there was another. How should I know that you would receive me? One girl influences another so. I knew Miss Wilson did not wish me to come. How was I to know that she had not filled your mind so with school gossip that you, too, would be glad to have me keep at a distance?”

The girl’s manner of speaking was peculiar. It was difficult to understand whether she were hiding her arrogant pride by an assumption of humility or whether she truly felt that her calls would not be looked upon with favor. Her manner was not easy at any time. It was marked by a self-consciousness that gave her companions the impression that the little courtesies from well-bred people were something new to her.

Elizabeth flared up at her words. “Do you think I’m a handful of putty,” she asked, “to be moulded any way my companions choose? I form my own opinions. So long as you treat me fairly, I would do the same by you. But really, you do Mary an injustice. She never told me anything against you. Of course, I knew there was some feeling that was not altogether friendly between you. But I learned that from your manner as much as I did from hers.”

Miss O’Day made no response. Elizabeth waited a few moments for her to answer. Being disappointed in this, she turned the conversation to the object of her errand.

“Mother sent me a box. The girls will be in for a spread this evening and I want you to come. It will be at the usual hour—any time after lights are out and you can get rid of Smiles.”

Elizabeth arose, moving toward the door. “I’ll have less than ten minutes to dress for dinner. Do you think I can do it in that time? I haven’t been late since I came to Exeter, so I shall not hurry now. One late mark will keep me in harmony with the rest of the girls.” Her hand was upon the knob.

“Wait, Miss Hobart!” Miss O’Day had arisen. There was a sound of rustling petticoats as she moved. She twisted her hands nervously as though dreading to speak. “I should like nothing better than coming. I haven’t been to a ‘blow-out’ this fall. But I hardly think I can come now.” She hesitated. She spoke slowly as though she could not put her thoughts into the proper words. “I really wish to come, Miss Hobart. It is kind of you to ask me. I don’t want to take advantage of your goodness, so I must tell you why the girls here do not care to know me. I did something wrong last year—something they look upon as dreadful. They all belong to the Christian Association. As an Association they are pledged to discountenance just what I did. I’m not a member. So since last spring I’ve been cut out of every social affair except those the school gives.”

“Well, I call that mean,” cried Elizabeth. “Why don’t you—”

“No, they were right in one way. I tell you so much because I cannot accept your invitation if you do not know. If you wish me to tell you all about it, I will, although I have spoken of the matter to no one. I couldn’t.”

“No, I don’t want to hear. I wish you to come to-night. I’d rather find matters out for myself. You’ll come?”

“Does Miss Wilson know you intend asking me?”

“Yes, of course. I made out the list this morning.” She did not add that Miss Wilson had expressed herself rather strongly on the subject.

“Well, then I shall come.”

“I must go, or I shall be too late to get any dinner at all. This is roast beef night, too; and that’s the night I always pay the cook a compliment by eating two portions—my own and Anna Cresswell’s. She doesn’t like roast beef, and I don’t like rice pudding. So we trade. Good-bye. I’ll see you then to-night.”

“The mail has come,” was Miss Wilson’s greeting, as Elizabeth entered her room. “I have a letter from Mrs. Gleason. She writes to invite me to spend a Sabbath with her at my earliest convenience. I am to bring you along. I did not know you knew her. I’ve mentioned her so often and you never said that you were friends.”

“I don’t know her.” Elizabeth was struggling into a white shirtwaist as she talked. “I never saw her. There must be some mistake about her asking me.”

“No; there’s the letter. Read it when you have leisure. I thought from the way she wrote that she knew you well. Odd, isn’t it? But we’ll go. It is the best place to visit.”

“But we cannot go for several weeks. I’m to lead Sabbath evening.”

“And I can’t go until Anna Cresswell can be here. She has been going away on Saturday. They need a soprano. And she and I appear to be the only availables.” Mary shook back her hair, as she adjusted the last pin in her cuff. “There’s the last bell, Elizabeth, and you’re not half ready. Well, I’ll hurry on, and if you are locked out, I’ll get Maggie to bring your dinner up here. She’ll do anything if you give her a small tip.”

CHAPTER VI.

HOW “SMILES” WAS SCALPED.

Azzie Hogan was the last to appear at the spread. The first course had been diverted to its proper use, and the ice which marked the manner of both Mary Wilson and Landis Stoner because of the presence of Miss O’Day had thawed enough to permit a feeling of ease among the girls, when Azzie arrived.

There was a motley array of every color of kimono that the mind of girl could conceive. Their wearers were being comfortable on chairs and stools so far as they held out. The girls in excess of the number had curled themselves up, Turkish fashion, on cushions on the floor.

“Smiles must have allowed Azzie to practice,” said Mary Wilson, with a leg of chicken held aloft.

“Mary looks like Liberty enlightening the world,” said Elizabeth. “The drumstick answers very well for a torch.”

“Liberty frightening the world,” said Mame Welch. “Whatever made her do it—get a red kimono with her hair that shade?”

“Nearest thing I could get to match,” said Mary, laughing. “I got it at a bargain. I didn’t need it. I have more lounging robes than I can possibly wear; but this piece was reduced from twenty-five cents to fifteen. I saved one-twenty by buying it. We—”

As she was speaking her voice ascended the scale until it might have been audible half-way down the hall. She was called to a halt by a most decided rap upon the door. An awesome silence fell upon the room. Instantly every girl except the rightful owners of the room disappeared. No word had been spoken. Only the moving of the couch draperies, the gentle swaying of the portieres, or the closing of the wardrobe door gave hint as to the places of disappearance. Again came the knock. Mary Wilson with suspicious haste opened the door. “He-he,” giggled Azzie, entering. “You thought it was Mrs. Smiles. Come, girls. Come out. Mrs. Schuyler will not appear this night, or to-morrow either, if I am not mistaken.”

At her invitation the girls came forth. Azzie was too tall, too long to seat herself with any grace of body. She had the effect of sprawling. That she did now. Her purple kimono, resplendent with green roses and bands, caused her to look like a great rag-doll with most of the sawdust missing. The others of the party arranged themselves on cushions and chairs about her, ready to fall, tooth and nail, upon the remains of the roast chicken. Azzie would not eat, but kept her hand hidden in the folds of her gown.

“You needn’t be talking in stage whispers,” she began, with a fine touch of Irish in her voice. “Smiles won’t hear you—or at least she won’t be coming here. Yell, if you choose, or dance a clog. You’re as safe as though Smiles was in Halifax.”

“Don’t be too sure. I never like to run a risk,” said Landis. “I should not like to be called into the office to-morrow.”

“I have found it this way with Mrs. Schuyler,” explained Mary Wilson. “The moment you are sure she isn’t about, that is the moment you can be sure she is ready to pounce on you.”

“But she won’t be here now. I’ll yell and see.” She yelled—a yell that must have have reached to the end of the dormitory and pierced any number of closed doors. The girls suppressed their half-frightened giggles, and waited. Azzie was right. Mrs. Schuyler did not appear.

“Why doesn’t she come?” asked Min Kean in a whisper. “She surely heard that.”

“Because I’ve taken her scalp,” said Azzie. So speaking, she drew forth her hand, dangling two sets of false fronts.

“Oh, you didn’t dare!”

“How could you!”

“You’ll be sent home, Azzie.”

“How did you ever get them?” asked Elizabeth. To her, such an act was more than merely hazardous. It was recklessness itself.

“Oh, I got them,” said Azzie coolly. “I had a bit of neuralgia. A wisdom tooth has been bothering me for a long time, and I stopped in after the retiring-bell rang to ask Mrs. Schuyler for a drop of medicine to put in it. She was ready for bed. Say, girls, did you ever see her when she wasn’t rigged out? She looked like a fright. She hasn’t much hair left, but what she has was done up in curling kids. And these,” dangling the false fronts before their eyes, “these lay reposing on the top of the dresser. I brought them along to show you girls how fine they are—two grades, one for every day and one for dress-up days.”

“Don’t shake them so close over my cocoa, please,” cried Landis, removing her cup beyond the reach of Azzie’s scalps.

“I felt safe about coming so long as I had these,” continued Azzie. “Don’t be afraid, Landis. A few hairs more or less won’t hurt your supper.”

“How will you get them back?” asked Elizabeth, who was fearful for Azzie’s welfare.

“I hadn’t got that far in my thinking,” was the droll response. “I knew nothing could induce her to visit us without these,” with another Indian flourish of the scalps in the air. “We are safe to-night. To-morrow Smiles will have a headache, and will not be able to come down to breakfast, and perhaps not during the entire day. Drop in to-morrow to ask her something and see if you do not find her with her head tied up.”

It was impossible not to laugh at Azzie. There was such a droll dryness to her humor, a peculiar touch to her way of saying things which made her most ordinary expressions masquerade as wit. At times she lacked tact which caused her companions no little embarrassment. This trait was made evident by her turning to Miss O’Day with the remark:

“And, Nora, are you here? I’m as surprised to see you as I am to be here myself.” Then turning to Elizabeth, she added as an explanation, “The ‘Exclusives’ had no time for Miss O’Day last spring, and I was always too much wrapped up in my music to be good company. So we were not invited to the spreads in the hall. I’m glad, Elizabeth, you broke over and invited us.”

Miss O’Day’s face grew crimson. Elizabeth, too embarrassed to respond, remained silent. Miss Wilson arose to the occasion, changing the subject with the question, “When is Miss Kronenberg going back?”

“Not until Monday,” replied Landis, who was rarely embarrassed. These two, with the assistance of Mame Welch and Carrie Hirsch, diverted the attention from Miss O’Day.

“I do not German lessons take. Fraulein is not my instructor.”

“Well, she is mine,” responded Mary Wilson with a sigh. “As in a dream I hear her say, ‘Fraulein Wilson, you have it unright.’ I’ve taken lessons from her for three years, and that is the only remark she has ever made to me.”

“She will be giving examinations soon,” said Mame. “The Seniors and Middlers finish her work fully a week before the midwinter holiday. It gives us time to cram on something else. It won’t be long now.”

“Last year, indeed for several years, she has asked the class to write in German a description of a walk in the woods, or our Christmas at home, or what our college life has done for us. It is always the same. She lets you choose one of the three, but you must write a certain amount before she will accept it.”

“Landis and I are ready for it,” began Min Kean placidly. “We have ours written ready for her. I took a ‘Walk in the Woods,’ for my subject. I did want to take ‘What Exeter has Done for Me,’ but Landis persuaded me out of it. Of course, she was right about it. No one expects me to write on subjects as deep as Landis. We have ours all finished and ready.”

“Nonsense, Min,” cried her roommate. “One would think to hear you talk that we were expecting to pony through. You know such an idea is the one furthest from our minds. You leave such false impressions.” Then turning to the girls, she explained, “I knew Fraulein Kronenberg was in the habit of asking for such work in the examinations, so I told Min there would be no harm in our practicing at this work. It would be quite the same thing as though we were reviewing our lessons. Of course, we had no intention of handing them in.” Landis always appeared several inches taller when she sought to justify herself.

“The day we are free of German, that day will Miss Brosius put us to extra work in elocution and oratory. If I read the stars right, I discovered a play in the corner of her eye when I saw her last. She has already begun to estimate each one of us, to see who will best serve her purpose. Anna Cresswell is already doomed. She is always dragged in for the beautiful, calm creature who doeth and thinketh no evil. I wonder why she is always selected when I——”

“I suppose they know you’d overdo it,” suggested Azzie, lazily. “Thank goodness, there are some things I escape by not being quick to learn my part. They never tried me but once.”

“But you always play. I’d rather any day get up and strut over the stage, shrieking ‘Is that a dagger that I see before me?’ than sit down and keep my fingers on the right keys,” said Mame Welch.

“It is certainly wonderful how Azzie can play,” said Min. “Every one seems to enjoy it; but, do you know, just for myself, I like popular airs best? Beethoven and Mozart may be fine, but I like the kind that the newsboys whistle and all the hurdy-gurdies play.”

“Wouldn’t Mozart turn in his grave if he heard her?” asked Mame. “Speak to her, Azzie. Reason with her. You are the only one who has artistic sense enough to be shocked. Tell her to keep quiet, like the others of us do, and pretend to revel in delight at Wagner.”

“Will the Middlers be in it, too?” asked Elizabeth. Her heart failed at the thought.

“Yes,” said Mary, seeing that Elizabeth was really concerned at the prospect of appearing in public. “Yes, they give the Middlers several parts. You see, their idea is to get the Middlers used to public speaking so that they will appear well when they are Seniors. All the experiences or lessons Middlers ever get are given them in order to fit them to be Seniors.”

The lunch had been progressing during the chatter. A few drumsticks and several slices of cake remained to show what had been. Elizabeth and Mary, with true housewifely instinct, put away the remnants of the feast after their guests had finished.

“How economical you are becoming!” said Mame Welch. “If I become hungry to-morrow, I will visit while you are not here. If you miss anything, I think you may give Landis the credit of taking it.”

Landis shrugged her shoulders. “To see how careful they are, one would think they never had much to eat before and don’t expect much again. Now, I’d throw the whole lot of it into the scrap-basket and let Jimmy Jordan carry it off with the refuse. You bring to my mind that woman we met the day we came back to Exeter. She was horrified because I didn’t take what was left of our lunch and run about offering it to some people who did not have any with them. She went outside and shared hers with such a common-looking woman and two dirty, crying babies.”

“And me, too,” said Elizabeth, not a whit abashed that she had been one of the party which Landis saw fit to criticise.

“Oh, yes,” was the reply, “But I suppose you were forced into it.”

“I wasn’t forced into it,” Elizabeth replied. “Indeed, I was glad to go. It was like a little picnic out there under the tree—”

“With two crying babies?”

“They did not cry after we went out. And the woman whom you laugh at was very agreeable. The wait did not seem at all long. It was rather like a pleasant party.”

“Well, tastes differ,” was the reply. “I am glad you enjoyed it. I’m sure I should not. Come, Min, don’t you think we had better pick our steps back?”

“Walk as you please. The great Hokee Bokee Chief of the Night Hawks has taken the scalp of the pale-faced scout,” shouted Mary Wilson, jumping to her feet and, seizing the false fronts, she waved them madly in the air while she executed a war-dance.

“Give them back to Azzie,” said Mame. “Sometime early to-morrow morning you will find that the pale-faced scout is close on Azzie’s trail.”

Azzie took the trophies in her hand, examining them critically. “To-morrow I intend to go in and call upon her. I know she’ll have a towel bound around her head.”

The girls were about to depart when Mame Welch exclaimed, “There, I almost forgot! Anna Cresswell has been invited down to Gleasonton to visit at the Senator’s. Mrs. Gleason is arranging quite a party of Exeter girls as soon as they can have a free Saturday.”

“Elizabeth and I were invited to-day,” said Mary. “We were to let Mrs. Gleason know what Saturday we would have free.”

“They have fine times there—so they tell me,” Azzie said. “I’ve never been invited to see for myself.”

“I do not know Mrs. Gleason personally,” remarked Landis, “but we have the same set of friends. No doubt if I should tell her that I’m Robert Stoner’s daughter, she’d out-do herself to be kind to me.”

“Why,” said Elizabeth guilelessly, “was she such a friend of your father’s?”

Landis shrugged her shoulders. “My father was a man of some prominence,” was the response. “But how is it that she invited you? Did you not tell me that you did not know her?”

“I don’t. I have never so much as seen her.”

“She’s very philanthropic—always trying to help people who need it. I suppose she knew you were a new student, and perhaps hadn’t a wide acquaintance here, so she invited you that you might not find life too dull.”

“Perhaps,” was the reply, with a smile of amusement. Elizabeth was learning a great deal, not less important that it lay outside of classes and books.

The other girls had departed. Only Landis and Miss O’Day remained. Then the former with a whispered “good-night” went tip-toeing down the hall. Miss O’Day lingered.

Much to Elizabeth’s surprise she bent her head to kiss her. “It was very kind of you, Elizabeth, to ask me to come this evening. But the other girls did not like it. Come to see me. You and I will grow chummy over my tea-table. But you do not need to ask me again when you entertain. I will not feel hurt. If you persist in being good to me, they will drop you and you will find it very lonely.”

“They may do as they see fit,” she responded with determination. “I will entertain whom I wish. If they do not choose to come, then they have the alternative. Good-night! Don’t worry about me, Miss O’Day. I’m learning to take care of myself.” Then she put up her lips to be kissed again.

The following morning the preceptress did not appear at breakfast, as Azzie had predicted. The dinner hour, according to the custom for all holidays, had been postponed until two o’clock. Devotional exercises were held in the chapel at ten o’clock. Mrs. Schuyler’s place on the rostrum was vacant.

“She’s been in her room all morning,” giggled Min to Landis on their way to their rooms.

“I hope Azzie will see the error of her ways before dinner time,” Mary Wilson said. “I should not like to miss a Thanksgiving dinner.”

As though Mary’s words had power to call her, Azzie at that moment came down the corridor, swinging herself lazily along.

“This is the sixth time I’ve started for Mrs. Schuyler’s room,” she began at the sight of the girls. “But the moment I reach the door, my heart drops down into my shoes, and it’s so heavy, I can’t move my feet an inch.”

“Taking scalps is not all the fun it’s supposed to be, is it?” asked Mame Welch.

“The taking is all right. The taking back is what hurts my feelings.” Azzie sighed deeply as she began to unwrap the paper about the false fronts. “I don’t know whether I’ll have the courage to lay them inside her door or not. I’d put it off until to-morrow if it wasn’t for the Thanksgiving dinner. Well, there’s luck in odd numbers.”

“To me there would be something too subtle, too sly, in slipping them in at the door.” The remark was from Landis.

As usual, Mary Wilson was the one quick to reply. “Then Azzie will not do it if there be but a suspicion of subtleness about it. Do you not know her well enough, Landis, to know when she is jesting and when she is not?”

“Oh, well, let us hope she was jesting then,” was the reply.

The seventh venture had carried a charm for Azzie. Her heart did not go thumping to her heels again. She knocked at Mrs. Schuyler’s door and then entered without waiting for permission.

“Good-morning, Mrs. Schuyler,” she cried gayly. “I was sorry not to see you down to breakfast, though to be honest I did not expect you. Did you miss anything last evening after I was in? It was too good a chance—there they were lying right under my eyes. I’ll leave them here,” laying the budget on a table near her, “so you can come down to dinner.”

Her manner was not that of one who merited or expected a rebuke. There was such a big-hearted friendliness in her voice that Mrs. Schuyler’s heart responded. She smiled in spite of the feeling of vengeance she had been cherishing against her tormentor. Before she could regain her austerity of manner, Azzie had departed and was half way down the dormitory hall, on her way to the music-room for an hour’s practice before dinner.

Thanksgiving was not a day of unalloyed happiness to Elizabeth. The afternoon’s mail brought her letters and papers from Bitumen. Her father wrote the home news with the same gaiety which marked his conversation. He mentioned, as though it were a subject to be lightly treated, that there was some talk of the miners “going out.” He thought their grievance might be adjusted without resorting to extreme measures—a week or so would tell. Then he took up the little matters of the house.

The letter was remarkably cheerful. Yet Elizabeth was disturbed in spirit. She had never lived through a strike; but she had heard the miners’ wives tell of the dreadful happenings. So far she thought only of the suffering of the miners’ families, with no money, starving and freezing in their little shanties. She had never heard how the lives of the operators and men in the position of her father hung in the balance at such times.

After reading the letter again, she mechanically took up the newspaper. The black headlines heralding the coming strike were before her. She read column after column hurriedly. The newspaper attached greater importance to the rumors than her father. They recounted the horrors of strikes past, and presaged them for strikes to come. No definite reasons had been given for the miners going out. The article hinted that only the grossest imposition of the operators had led them to consider a strike. The names of two men appeared frequently—Dennis O’Day and Ratowsky—who were opposed to each other. Strange to say, neither was a miner. Ratowsky could influence the men because he was foreign-born, a Pole, as the majority of them were. On the other hand, Dennis O’Day was a native American, a class of which the foreign element is suspicious. Yet at his instigation the miners had arisen.

The article caused Elizabeth some uneasiness. She looked forward to the following day’s paper, hoping it might contain a brighter outlook. But on the next day when she went to the reading room, she failed to find the papers. For many successive days the same thing occurred. Then at length, she gave up looking for them. It was not until a month later that she learned that they had disappeared at Dr. Morgan’s suggestion, and the girls were aiding her in keeping the worrisome news from Elizabeth.

The letters from home came at their usual times, but neither her father nor mother mentioned the trouble at the mines. Elizabeth, believing that no news was good news, took it for granted that the difficulty had been amicably settled.

A week later, in company with Mary Wilson, she set forth to visit Mrs. Gleason. From Exeter to Gleasonton is only an hour’s ride. At the station, they found a sleigh with a coachman and footman waiting to convey them to Senator Gleason’s home.

“It is the prettiest place in summer,” said Mary, as they went flying over the snow-packed roads. “Everything is so beautiful that you can really believe it is fairyland.”

On their way, they passed several stately country residences, closed for the winter. Then came acres and acres of bark-sheds filled with bark for the tanneries; then the tanneries themselves. Then, at a distance, upon the brow of the hill were seen the stone walls of Senator Gleason’s home.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” whispered Elizabeth, as though should she speak aloud the spell would be broken, and the place, like Aladdin’s palace, vanish in the air.

“Wait until you see it in summer, with all the vines and beautiful trees,” was the response.

They turned into the driveway, and in a few minutes were brought to the front entrance. At the sound of the bells, the door opened and Senator Gleason appeared, smiling and affable, to welcome them, and following him was his wife.

Elizabeth gave a start of surprise. Although more richly dressed than when she had seen her before, Elizabeth recognized in her the plain little woman with whom she had eaten lunch on her journey to Exeter.

CHAPTER VII.

DEFYING THE POWERS.

Both Fraulein Kronenberg and Dr. Kitchell announced tests for the week before the Christmas holidays. The Seniors and Middlers arose early and stayed up late to study. The hour for physical exercise was cut as short as Miss Brosins would permit. There was little time for anything that was purely social. There was no lingering in the hall after meals for chats. Carrie Hirsch was the only one who had leisure after Miss Kronenberg’s announcement. She laughed as the girls hurried back to their rooms. “German is not so hard,” she explained. “What one thinks one must say—so simple are the words. Not at all can I understand why they all look so like a frown because Fraulein Kronenberg gives them but one little story to write in the German.”

“Suppose Miss Berard should give you a simple little story to write in English,” returned Mary Wilson. “Wouldn’t you look like a frown, too?”

Miss Hirsch shrugged her shoulders. “It is true you speak; but English is so different.”

Elizabeth felt the excitement attendant upon an examination. Had she paused long enough to analyse her feelings, she would have discovered that she had no fear of failing. She had read German with Miss Hale since she was old enough to read. The Middlers’ work in German had been to her like an old tale, oft repeated. But the attitude of the other students and the novelty of an examination made her nervous. She was hurrying back to her room one morning when Anna Cresswell stopped her.

“You have the next period vacant?” she asked.

“Yes, but Wednesday is the German exams and I have been putting in this hour cramming for them.”

“Then I’ll do you a good turn by taking you away from them. Come, let us take a turn up and down the campus. We’ll walk fast enough to keep warm. There is something about which I wish to talk to you.”

Half-reluctantly, Elizabeth went with her.

“I feel as though I had been neglecting my work in regard to you,” began Miss Cresswell, as they crossed the campus. She tucked Elizabeth’s arm under her own. Elizabeth felt that something confidential was forthcoming. She was yet unused to the friendship of girls and any act on their part out of the ordinary made her feel shy and awkward.

“But you were with Mary Wilson, so I knew you were in good hands, although I should have come to you at once. But we had so many new girls this semester that I could not get around sooner. I’m president of the Young Woman’s Christian Association at Exeter, you know?”

“Yes; or at least, I suppose so. I have always attended with Mary. You preside, so I took it for granted that you are president.”

“It was the public meetings you attended. We have some private conferences where no one is present but active members. We do this that we may talk over the needs of some special student, and act accordingly. Of course, we can not publicly diagnose such cases.”

“Yes?” said Elizabeth, feeling that Miss Cresswell had paused to give her an opportunity to reply.

“Part of our work is to interview each new student; to ask them to join us in active Christian work. We need you in the Association and I believe you will find, after you join us, that you have been needing us.”

“Perhaps so. There can be no doubt of the latter, but as to helping you, I am afraid I couldn’t do that. Not that I am not willing, but I do not believe I am capable of it.”

“We’ll risk that,” with a smile. “I’m confident that you can do much. The mere coming out and announcing yourself as a member of a band of Christian workers will have a good influence.”

“Perhaps it will. To be frank with you, Miss Cresswell, I’ve never thought about such a thing. At home I studied a great deal, helped mother some, and rode about the country hunting flowers with Miss Hale. I never gave a thought to the matters that you talk of.”

“Then you are not a Christian?” The question was asked in surprise.

The girl looked with a puzzled expression into the serious face of her companion. Then she spoke slowly, as though the idea was for the first time presented to her.

“I do not know. I—never—really thought anything at all about it. You see it was just this way at home, Miss Cresswell. My father and mother with Miss Hale were all the friends I had. We could not go to church; the miners are foreigners, and when a priest was sent to them for services, he spoke Polish, or Slav, or Russian, so there was little use of our going. Miss Hale had a Mission Sabbath School for the younger people. I asked once to help her. She refused for some reason. She did not tell me why. At home, we read our Bible and have family prayers. Mother taught me a great deal, and I committed a great deal to memory; but as to my being a Christian, I never really thought of it before.”

“Then let us think about it now,” was the response. She drew Elizabeth’s arm closer within her own. Slowly they retraced their steps from the dormitory door to the end of the campus walk, Miss Cresswell talking earnestly all the while. She spoke well on her subject; she believed what she said; and she was honest and simple-minded in her efforts to present these truths to Elizabeth’s mind.

The hour passed quickly. With a start of surprise, they heard the bells for the dismissal of classes.

“Is it possible? I did not think the time was half gone. We must hurry. You will think on this matter, Elizabeth?”

“Yes; I will think of it. I can’t promise more. It seems so serious. I do not wish to undertake anything without being sure of what I really think and am.”

They parted at the door, Miss Cresswell hurrying off to Dr. Kitchell’s class-room, while Elizabeth, with tardy step and disturbed mind, went to recite to Miss Brosius.

The same evening Elizabeth accompanied her roommate to a special meeting of the Young Woman’s Christian Association. It had become a custom of the school to hold such meetings before the tests began, but Elizabeth, not knowing this, was wholly ignorant of the object of the meeting.

Miss Cresswell as president went through the preliminaries of calling the Association to order. She was tactful and discreet. Landis, to whom public speaking was a coveted opportunity, immediately arose and moved forward to the front of the room where she could face her audience. She carried her head and shoulders unusually erect. Her clear, decisive manner of speaking indicated that she believed the mere stating of her opinion on the subject would forever settle it in the minds of her hearers.

“I regret,” she began, “to make such a statement before the new students at Exeter lest they form a bad opinion of us in general. But at Exeter Hall, as in other schools, all pupils do not have the same ideals and views of what is right and wrong. It often happens, and has happened here within our knowledge, that a student who would scorn to take any property which was not hers, has taken another’s ability, has actually copied work and handed it in as her own. This has happened and may happen again. So we,” the speaker so placed her emphasis that “we” became the dominant spirit of the school, “determined to do as we did last year,—call together the members of the Association to take means to prevent a growth of the spirit of deception.”

Landis walked back to her place. Her manner had been forcible and had impressed many.

The president asked for expressions of opinions from the members. The remarks were not slow in coming. Immediately a half-dozen girls were upon their feet demanding recognition.

Mame Welch in her droll, half-humorous way was the first to speak.

“I do not see why we should trouble ourselves because from one to a half-dozen girls among several hundred see fit to copy and carry ‘ponies’ into class. If they are satisfied, let them do it.”

“But, oh,” cried Carrie Hirsch, not waiting for permission to speak. “It is not fair. It may be so, one girl must hard work; another girl, work not hard. Yet one mark, oh, so high,” she raised her hands to express how high the grades of the delinquent might be, “because into exams she carry papers, or from her friend’s paper she learn all she wishes to write.”

The other members could not suppress a smile as Carrie talked. She was so entirely in earnest, so carried away by her own enthusiasm, and so badly mixed in her English.

It was Landis who again responded. “That is not the spirit in which we have undertaken this correction. To the real student it matters little who may have higher marks than herself. She studies for the love of study and the hope of improvement. Neither should we say that it is nothing to us whether a half-dozen others are dishonest or not. It is something to us—or it should be. We have banded ourselves together as a set of Christian workers, and it should be something to us whether a half-dozen among us are not doing the honorable thing.” There was a war-like tone in Landis’ words. Whatever weakness there was in the girl’s character, she possessed an overwhelming desire to have people believe that she stood on the side of right. She was ambitious to be thought an earnest Christian girl. She would have left no stone unturned to have been a leader among the girls. She was willing to cajole, to cater in order to win friendship. Yet in spite of all her efforts, she influenced only a few. Among those few were none of the stronger girls of Exeter. Min, to be sure, followed close at her heels, and one or two others; but they were not of the brighter lights from either an ethical or intellectual point of view.

“It is our duty to go to them—to talk to them,” she continued.

“And have a hornet’s nest buzzing about your ears,” exclaimed Mary Wilson, disregarding all the rules of Parliamentary law which Dr. Kitchell tried to teach them. She was on her feet, moving to the front, talking as she went. “I really haven’t the self-assertion to walk up to strange students and tell them the error of their ways. To me, that course of action savors too much of conceit of our own virtues. The best we can do is to be perfectly honorable about the examinations. Our mental attitude toward dishonorable proceedings ought to have its influence without our going about making ourselves odious by preaching.”

Someone else took up the discussion. It grew warmer and warmer. Landis maintained the position she took in regard to personal work. In the excitement, several talked at once, forgetting that there was a chairman to whom a certain courtesy was due. Miss Cresswell used the gavel until its sound drowned out the voices. For a time peace reigned again.

During the discussion, Elizabeth leaned forward. This was intensely interesting to her. Her lips were parted, and a flush caused by excitement came to her cheeks. She looked with admiration upon those girls who could talk in public. In her eyes they were gifted creatures more richly blessed than the ordinary mortal like herself. Hitherto she had been fond of spunky little Mary Wilson. Now she admired and looked up to her as one must look up to a person of talents.

Miss O’Day, dressed in a striking gown of imported material, sat by the side of Elizabeth. She must have heard the discussion, yet she made no show of interest, but seemed like one whose thoughts were far off.

Suddenly a sprightly little girl sprang up and made herself heard: “I think we had a fairly good plan last year—the plan we copy from the old Greeks—the plan of ostracising. Girls have copied and cheated in examinations ever since examinations were known, and I suppose they will do so as long as examinations are held. There are always a few whose bump of moral responsibility isn’t developed. I agree with one of the previous speakers this far—let those half-dozen who desire to cheat, cheat. Let it be nothing to us. But I would add this much more—let them be also nothing to us. Let us ostracise them entirely, cut them off from all invitations.”

At her words, the discussion grew warmer again. It was as though she had let loose a swarm of bees. Parliamentary law went to the winds. For a moment, every common courtesy seemed to be forgotten. Her suggestion met with some favor. To the surprise of Elizabeth, Mary Wilson was its strongest advocate. Landis now also favored such a course, and consequently Min Kean. In her heart, Elizabeth disapproved, but she was not able to speak as the others had done. She could only sit silent. Popular opinion was in favor of the ostracism. Then another question was brought up. Landis, again, was the one to set the ball rolling.

“But how are we to find out who does the cheating?” she asked. “If I should see some member of my class make use of a “pony,” am I expected to cut her dead, while all the others are friendly with her as usual? I do not see how she would be much affected by that, for she may care very little whether I ignore her or not.”

At this Landis sat down but she bent forward and spoke to Min Kean. After a little encouragement, Min arose. She was not quick to grasp ideas even at her best. Now, as she stood upon her feet, she lost what little confidence she possessed, stumbling over her words, looking helplessly toward Landis for encouragement.

“We think—that is, I think—that wouldn’t count much—I mean just having one person ostracise you. I think it should be told—I mean if we found anyone cheating, it should be told. Then we would get together and tell that person why we are going to act toward them like we are going to act. That’s only fair. That’s the way they treat criminals in court.”

Then she retired to let Landis take her place. “The speaker has said in part what I had in mind. I do not wish my hearers to believe I would countenance news-carrying or tattling. That, of course, is beneath any right-minded person. But we must—I say we must,” Landis raised her finger impressively, and repeated the words as though she intended at that moment to root out the evil with tooth and nail, “We must get rid of this deceptive tendency. It will have an evil effect on Exeter. Perhaps, in time, destroy the school altogether.”

“Umph! Exeter has stood a hundred years and will stand a hundred more in spite of anything Landis may do,” said Miss O’Day, in a low tone to Elizabeth. This was the first she had spoken since they had entered the meeting.

Landis continued, “For that reason, I think it would be wise if one sees another cheating, to lay her name before the members and let them act accordingly.”

Elizabeth could never tell how it happened. Months after, in thinking the matter over, she could not justify herself in the thought that she had acted from honorable motives or for any good purpose. She had acted upon the impulse of the moment. This last speech was opposed to all Elizabeth’s natural instincts. Her finer feelings were hurt, and like a child she must cry out.

“The idea is preposterous,” she exclaimed, getting upon her feet and walking to the front of the room. Indignation had turned to crimson the pink which enthusiasm had brought to her cheek. “No good ever comes of using a wrong to make another wrong right. Like every one else, I think there should be no dishonor in examinations. But to my mind, tale-bearing is equally dishonorable. Consider the idea of our pledging ourselves to run and tell every one else when we find that someone has done wrong. I refuse to do such a thing even though I know it would stamp out every bit of cheating in our examinations.”

At this came a burst of applause, so that for the time Elizabeth was forced to discontinue. She saw Mary Wilson’s eyes beaming upon her. Not another face could she distinguish. When the applause ceased, she began again. It was evident she was thinking of nothing else but the injustice and littleness of the act they had been contemplating. She felt deeply, and talked as she felt. For a moment she was an orator worthy the name.

“For this ostracising, I have as little sympathy. A student does wrong, and you would cut her off immediately from all who are trying to do right. If your purpose is to assist those weaker than yourself, you will never succeed by such a method. If every one was to be ignored for every bit of deceit they practice, I fancy most of us would be going around by ourselves, rather lonely.” A smile passed over the faces of her hearers—a smile of amusement and surprise, for hitherto Elizabeth had been a quiet, shy girl, almost timid in company; and now upon the instant she had taken the lead. She had come forth alone when all the odds were against her, boldly declaring her opinion, and fearless to defend the course she believed to be right.

“If we are going to begin this reformation, let us begin aright—at the root of the evil, and carry it through all its branches. Let us begin with the students who leave us under false impressions—telling us romances of their adventures, their powerful friends, their finances.” To do Elizabeth justice, the girl with traits like these she mentioned had no definite form in her mind. She was only supposing a case. Yet, unconsciously, her mind had received during these months of school an idea of such a person. She could not embody these qualities with a human form. Yet more than one of her hearers recognized these as characteristics of one who had been foremost in the denunciations of dishonest examinations. “Let us begin with the girls who turn out their lights and go to bed long enough to deceive Mrs. Schuyler, and then get up again to prowl—and to the girl who gets a book from the town library and allows a dozen to read it before it is returned, when she has pledged herself to withdraw the books for her use alone.

“We, as a set of Christian girls”—the expression was new to Elizabeth, but it does not take one long to become a Christian—“would ostracise any who did not come up to our standard of ethics! I say here so that you may all know where I stand”—her cheeks grew scarlet, and in the energy of her emotions she emphasized strongly—“I will not declare the name of anyone who ‘ponies’ in class, nor will I cut them from my list of acquaintances. I shall let them know I despise such deception, but I shall treat them exactly as I have always treated them.”

With that she went back to her place. To her surprise Miss O’Day was not there, having slipped away at the beginning of Elizabeth’s talk.

The girls applauded heartily. Someone else arose to speak. Elizabeth’s enthusiasm having died suddenly away, she felt very limp and weak. She was surprised at her own boldness.

“I’m going back to our room,” she whispered to Mary Wilson. “I feel all gone.”

“Yes, I can sympathize with you. I felt just so the first time I got up there. But you’ll get over it and enjoy a scrap. I’ll go with you. A cup of cocoa will set you up all right.”

Together they quitted the hall. As they crossed the campus, Mary continued: “I was afraid you were going to get personal, and hurt someone with your words; but you stopped just in time. One does not mind if the whole set gets a slap in the face; but one does not like to be the only one. It is just this way about the girls you meet at Exeter. We are like a little town. There will be a few whom you will like well enough to be genuine friends with; then there’s a whole long line who will be pleasant acquaintances; and some whom you will care nothing at all about, although they will be good people in their way. Some here have opinions of their own, and some are mere copies. A girl must learn to think for herself, and express her opinion without getting angry or giving personal hits. The moment that is done, Miss Cresswell will request the guilty one to leave the room.”

“Will they do it?”

“Do it? Haven’t you learned that people generally do as Anna Cresswell suggests? She’s a very poor girl—too poor to come to Exeter. But her influence over the younger set was so marked that they say Dr. Morgan makes it worth her while to stay.”

“What does she do? She seems very quiet.”

“She is—and isn’t. She’s quiet when it’s necessary to be. As to what she does, if you keep your eyes open, you’ll find her visiting the homesick girls, introducing the shy ones, tutoring the backward ones.”

“It is a wonder she did not call upon me earlier in the term then. I might be classified under all three heads.”

Mary tossed back her hair, and laughed. “But you had me, and when one has me to look after her she does not need even Anna Cresswell.”

“Especially when it comes to keeping rooms in order,” added Elizabeth.

“You haven’t forgiven me for that yet.”

“Yes; I have—long ago.”

“Well, you don’t need disciplining now. You are growing so particular that I’m almost ashamed of my own carelessness.”

Elizabeth replied earnestly. “Well, with me, I must be decided one way or the other. I think I am naturally careless. So I dare not give up to myself even a little bit.”

They entered their rooms as she was speaking.

“Just one cup of cocoa, and then we must get down to work. I’m afraid of Dr. Kitchell’s mathematics.”

“I’m afraid of everything. I never took an examination of any kind.”

“Dr. Kitchell is very fair; but he scares you to death weeks before. He is always holding exams up before you like a death’s head at the feast.”

The decided stand taken by Elizabeth caused no little discussion. The meeting adjourned without any definite action being taken. The only point gained by the discussion was opening the eyes of a few to the fact that their point of view might not be the only one. Many felt as Elizabeth. The matter was dropped for the time.

The examinations began early in the morning, running through several class periods. Elizabeth, provided with a motley array of examination paraphernalia, entered Dr. Kitchell’s class-room. The greater part of the class was already present, as were Dr. Kitchell and Miss Brosius. Dr. Kitchell was in the front of the room. Upon Elizabeth’s entrance, with a gesture of his hand, he waved her toward a seat in the middle row. It was not her accustomed place of sitting. She looked about her. There seemed to have been a general scattering. Each member of the class sat alone, isolated so far as the size of the room permitted. The reason for this Elizabeth did not understand, but attributed it to the eccentricities of an examination of which she had heard much. The examination questions, printed upon little slips, were handed to each student. Previously each young lady had been cautioned about providing herself with all necessary articles. Elizabeth had conscientiously heeded the caution. The top of her desk had the appearance of a department of a small stationery store.

She began her work. Dr. Kitchell walked up and down the room, never once turning his eyes from them. Miss Brosius rubbed her eye-glasses, and seating herself at the end of the room, kept her gaze fixed upon the back of the students’ heads. Such scrutiny was not calculated to make one feel at ease. For one hour no sound save the moving of pencils was heard. Then Miss Brosius spoke. “I have a class the next period, Dr. Kitchell,” she said. “I can stay no longer.”

“Miss Worden will be here in one moment to relieve you,” was the reply. “She has a physical geography class in Room C. It will not detain her long.”

Even as he spoke, Miss Worden, out of breath with her hurry, entered and took Miss Brosius’ place, while that instructor hurried off to her class-room.

Elizabeth paused in her demonstration. Here was a problem new to her. Why could not Miss Brosius leave until Miss Worden came in, and why did Dr. Kitchell stride up and down, up and down, never for an instant removing his keen eyes from the class before him?

In the daily intercourse with her parents, she had asked questions freely. She did now as she would have done with them. As Dr. Kitchell passed her desk, she spoke to him:

“I could not help hearing what Miss Brosius said to you about leaving the room, and wondered what she meant.”

“It is impossible for me to see all the students. Unfortunately, I do not have eyes in the back of my head.”

Elizabeth met his glance with a look of surprise.

Dr. Kitchell then spoke more plainly. “I am quite determined there shall be no cheating in my classes. My students will pass on their own merits—or not at all.”

“And Miss Brosius then—” she paused, not feeling confident enough of the situation to put her feelings into words.

“Miss Brosius is here to assist me, and to see there is no copying, no cheating done in the class.”

Now Dr. Kitchell was an excellent man, an able instructor, but he had a blunt way of expressing himself. Elizabeth’s face flushed and then grew pale. For one instant her lips quivered and her eyes filled. But she quickly controlled herself, and began putting together her papers. Arising, she was about to quit the room.

“Have you finished, Miss Hobart?”

“No, I have not.” Elizabeth spoke quietly. One could have no suspicion of the fire that lay smoldering beneath.

“Finish and hand me the papers before you leave the room. That has always been the rule at Exeter.”

“I do not intend to finish, or to hand in my papers.” Although she spoke quietly, her voice was heard over the class-room. Each student paused with uplifted pencil in her hand. For the most part, Dr. Kitchell was feared. Few would have dared oppose him.

“And why not, may I ask?”

“Because I will not stay and take an examination where we are treated as though we were criminals. Having a watch set upon us is an insult to every honest student in the class. Until I have proved myself to be either a liar or a thief, I insist upon being treated with respect. That is why I will not stay to take an examination under police supervision.”

Dr. Kitchell was a big man. Elizabeth looked so childish and little as she stood before him that he could not suppress a smile. He rather admired the spunky little lady who dared to express her opinion so freely. Yet discipline must be maintained. “You will report to Dr. Morgan,” he replied.

“I certainly shall,” was the rejoinder, as she quitted the room.

In this whirl of indignation and hurt pride, she entered her room and found Mary there.

“I was coming for you, Elizabeth,” she said. “Here’s a telegram for you.” She held out the yellow envelope. “I hope there is nothing serious the matter.”

Elizabeth tore it open before Mary finished speaking, and read it quickly.

“It’s from father,” she said. “I do not understand it.” She handed the paper to Mary. “You know I was to start for home Saturday morning.”

Mary read it aloud:

“Do not start home. Letter follows. Every one well. Business reason for waiting.”

“Nothing to worry about in that. My father has often sent me just such word. Perhaps business calls him away. You see he says every one is well.”

“And he would not say that unless it were absolutely true,” said Elizabeth with conviction.

“You’ll have the letter by to-morrow’s mail. It’s something pleasant, depend upon it.”

“I hope so.” She sank down despondently into a chair and rested her head upon the study-table. “I wish something pleasant would happen. This is ‘blue’ week for me. Yesterday I became excited and almost said too much, and to-day I rush madly in and mix up affairs in the math. exams. I told Dr. Kitchell what I thought of his method of conducting them.”

Mary’s eyes grew bright. They fairly danced in surprise at Elizabeth’s action.

“Why, even I would not have dared do that,” she said. “I have dared everything at Exeter but Dr. Kitchell. I would as soon think of going to Dr. Morgan and telling her that I do not approve of her method of conducting Exeter.”

“That is about what I will do next,” said Elizabeth dolefully. “When one begins anything like this, there is no telling where she will end. Oh, dear, I’ll be glad to get home where people know me, and don’t act as though they expect me to lie or steal.”

“No one thinks that here, Elizabeth. You’ve run up against a snag. We all have our blue days when we wish we were somewhere else, and when we have a poor opinion of every one, ourselves included.”

“You never do.”

“Yes, often, but I found it didn’t pay to give up to them. Come, tell me all the trouble, and when it’s all told you may find there’s very little of it.”

“I wish I could think so. I’ll tell you, Mary, and then I’ll go and see Dr. Morgan. I’m to report immediately to her.”

She proceeded with her tale of woe. And although her listener was sympathetic, she laughed heartily during the recital.

CHAPTER VIII.

MIDNIGHT CONFIDENCES.

On going to the office, Elizabeth found that Dr. Morgan had been called unexpectedly to the city, and would not return for several days. She was disappointed, as she much preferred having the thing over and done with than hanging fire for several days. The girls crowded about her, expressing both admiration and criticism and offering advice until Elizabeth did not know whether she was a culprit or a heroine. The maddening part of it was that she must wait three days to find out. Her own opinion in regard to being “policed” into honesty had not changed. She felt confident of the support of her father in the position she had taken. She knew how, from the bottom of his heart, he abhorred any questioning of one’s honor. The more she listened to the talk of the other girls, the more indignant she was at the insult.

She was not one to give expression to her feeling in words only. After her remarks to Dr. Kitchell, the other girls did most of the talking while she listened, turning the matter over in her mind. She had her father’s way of straightening matters out. “If a thing is wrong, make it right—if you can,” she had often heard him say to Joe Ratowsky. Her four months at Exeter had taught her there were people of words and people of action. It was of the last-named class she selected her helpers. Landis was not to be considered. It is doubtful if she could have given a reason for the feeling that she would be of no assistance in a reform movement. It was merely intuition and could not be put into words. Min, too, who was but the shadow of Landis, was to be barred. There was enough to begin with—Anna Cresswell, Nancy Eckdahl, Mary Wilson, Mame Welch, Nora O’Day, strange to say, and herself.

At the dinner table, Elizabeth passed the word around asking the girls to come to her room immediately at the ringing of the study bell. Some of the students were already packing to leave for the holidays; and after the midwinter examinations, no strict observance was paid to study hours.

Miss Brosius heard the invitation and smiled. She was learning to know Miss Hobart. After the experience of the morning, she felt these summonses might be followed by a declaration of war. Her position in regard to overseeing examinations was more distasteful to her than it could possibly be to any of the students. But from time immemorial such had been the custom of most schools. There must have been a reason for it. No doubt, it had been forced upon the instructors by the attitude of the students themselves. New conditions may have arisen, but the old law still held.

“There’s something brewing,” Miss Brosius said to Miss Watson as they quitted the dining-hall. “If I read the stars aright, Exeter Hall will be reformed before Dr. Morgan returns from the city.”

“She comes to-morrow.”

“Maybe. Reforms have started in less than twenty-four hours. The fuel has been ready for several years, waiting for someone to apply the match.”

“Who is doing that now?”

“Elizabeth Hobart, if I am not mistaken. Did you not notice the flash of her eyes and the message she was passing about to have the girls meet in her room?”

“Yes; but I thought it was nothing more than a taffy pull.”

“It is a deep-laid plot to reform us all. I must give her credit in the selection of her colleagues. She has picked those who will carry her plans through if they once see fit to accept them. Oh, no, don’t be alarmed,” as she noticed Miss Watson’s expression, “there may come some good from it; no evil at least, I’m sure. It may be a good thing to have them talk the matter over.” Then she related the events of the morning.

The girls did not know the reason for their being called together. Nora O’Day, to Elizabeth’s surprise, made no objections, Elizabeth having explained fully that it was not a social but a purely business meeting. Nora came in after the others had gathered. With a nod to them collectively, she took her place before the grate.

Elizabeth stated the reason of the gathering. She related the scene of the morning.

“You know I never was in an examination before,” she said. “You have no idea how it impressed me. To think of having two and three teachers in the room to watch us! Why, it seemed to me it was the most insulting thing possible.”

“That is because it is new to you. It really was not meant that way,” Miss Cresswell explained. “But you must bear this in mind—school life is just like outside life. There are some students who are dishonest. There’s no getting around that fact. And because of those few, we must all be put under surveillance.”

Elizabeth was not to be convinced. “I do not see why. I felt this morning in class just as I would if I had gone into Dr. Morgan’s room and she had immediately locked up her jewelry and her purse. Surely, the teachers themselves must have learned by this time who can be trusted and who can not! Suppose among the fifty girls in our room this morning, there were one or two who cheated. I think it would have been far better to allow them to go their way than have treated us all like criminals. What great difference would it make anyhow? They would be the only losers; and as to being watched, how is that going to make them any better?”

Mary Wilson shook back her hair. Her eyes were beginning to flash. As Elizabeth discussed the question, her enthusiasm grew.

“It makes them worse—far worse. If there is anything in the world that would make me cheat it is being watched to see that I didn’t. I’d do it then just to prove that I could be sharper than they.”

They talked the matter over thoroughly, each one, with the exception of Nora O’Day, expressing herself freely. She sat silent; but her silence did not spring from lack of interest. She listened keenly to every word, and weighed it fully before she accepted it. Elizabeth wondered at her, for she was not naturally quiet. The others understood, and did not ask for her opinion.

Elizabeth had gained one point. The girls did not treat Miss O’Day with that studied formality which is more galling than open neglect as they had on former occasions. Mary, in particular, was quite agreeable, and Nora herself more at ease.

Elizabeth had a plan for this reformation. She was not attempting the impossible. Her idea was practical. Even Miss Cresswell declared it to be wise.

“Will you be secretary, Miss Cresswell, and jot down our plan?” asked Elizabeth.

She moved to the study-table, taking up a pencil and tablet ready for work. “What have you decided to do about talking with the girls?” she asked. “Will you call them all together and present this plan to them?”

“No; my idea was to interview each one by herself. It seems so much more personal than talking to them all together. I think they will take it so; I’m sure I should.”

“Perhaps so. But it will mean a great deal of work.”

“We will not object to the work,” said Mary Wilson, “if we only succeed in carrying out Elizabeth’s idea.”

The details were further discussed. Then they began to apportion a certain section of the Hall for each girl to visit.

“We need not visit them all. Each new recruit will be put to work to get other signers.”

Anna Cresswell continued her writing. At last she spoke. “We will have this run off on the typewriter. Listen. Is this just what you intend, Elizabeth?” She read:

“We, the undersigned students of Exeter Hall, not being contented with the present method of conducting examinations, believing that it casts reflections upon the honor of each student, do hereby suggest a means of reformation. We pledge ourselves individually to receive no assistance at such times. Furthermore, we will quietly but firmly discountenance among the students any methods not strictly honorable.

“We respectfully request Dr. Morgan to have examinations conducted hereafter without the presence of instructors, we pledging ourselves that under our supervision they will reflect credit both upon Exeter and the students.”

“You have done it beautifully. My father could not have done it better,” said Elizabeth. “Now we must get the names of the best girls at Exeter.”

“Don’t have a name of one who does not mean to keep her pledge,” advised Miss Cresswell. “Fifty people in earnest are worth more than an hundred, half of whom veer with the wind.”

“But as Anna Cresswell said before,” began Mary Wilson excitedly, “there will be some who will cheat. What will we do?”

“Most of the girls will agree to this, and the majority can be depended upon to do as they pledge themselves. If you keep your eyes open in the class-room, you can soon discover who has no sense of honor. These may be taken quietly aside and spoken to. If they transgress a second time, we will make the affair public.” This advice came from Miss Cresswell.

At the close of her speech, Mame Welch arose. “If we don’t scatter soon, the lights will be out, and I do not care to wander down the staircase in the dark. I did it once, and I had a bump on my head for a week. One’s head is not the best ‘lighting’ place. Come, Carrie Hirsch, you go my way. If the lights go out, we will fall together.” Slipping her arm through Carrie’s, and bidding the others good-night, she quitted the room.

Miss Cresswell and Nancy followed, with cheery words to encourage Mary and Elizabeth for to-morrow’s work. Nora O’Day remained. She was quite a striking figure as she stood leaning with her elbow against the mantel, looking down into the grate. As always, she was richly dressed. Her loose robe of crimson silk, her dark hair hanging in a single braid, and her olive-tinted skin presented a glowing picture.

“I waited until the others left,” she said, “to speak to you alone, Elizabeth. I have been wishing to for several days, but you were so busy, I didn’t feel that I could take you from your work.”

“You can talk together here. I am going into the bedroom,” said Mary, making ready to disappear.

“No; I do not wish to disturb you. I intended asking Elizabeth to walk to the end of the hall with me. I love to sit on the window-seat at the landing. The campus is beautiful in the moonlight. No one is disturbed by the talking there. I think Mrs. Schuyler will not mind late hours to-night, since we go home to-morrow. Will you come, Elizabeth?”

“Yes; wait one minute until I get a wrap. That window-seat is full of drafts, I know. I have sat there before.”

Taking down a golf cape, she wrapped it about her. “Come,” she added, drawing Miss O’Day’s arm through her own. “We will be night-hawks until Mrs. Schuyler finds us. Don’t lock the door, Mary. I’ll slip in later.”

A delightfully broad window-seat filled with cushions was at the turn of the stairway, where one had a view of the campus, now snow covered, beautiful in the glimmer of the moonlight.

Arranging the cushions here to her satisfaction, Nora began the conversation. “I heard you talk in the meeting yesterday, Elizabeth, and I wish to thank you.”

“Why thank me? I only said what I thought.”

“Some girls might have done considerably less—to my knowledge some of them have. You ran the risk of being unpopular, and yet you were willing to take that risk because you were my friend. That is the kind of friendship that is worth having. You do not know how pleased, how glad I was! Why, I had not been so happy for months.”

“Take the risk! Because I was your friend! Well, I must be awfully dense, but really, Nora, I haven’t the faintest idea what you are trying to say.”

“You say that to escape my thanks—my gratitude. That is just your way. I might have expected as much. You do a generous, noble deed and then slip away from the gratitude that follows.”

“Well, it may be my way, and it may not. I do not know what you are talking about. If I have done what you call a generous, noble deed, this is the first I have heard of it. If your mind is still upon the speech I made yesterday, you may be sure there was nothing noble about that. Why, you have no idea how angry I was! It made me so indignant to hear some explain what should be done and how. I didn’t approve of their plans at all, so the only thing left for me to do was to say what I thought about it. It is news to me that being indignant and expressing yourself rather—well, rather forcibly, is noble and generous. Though,” dryly, “I’m rather glad it is so, for it will be easy for me to be noble in that fashion.”

Miss O’Day turned to look closely at her.

“Really, Elizabeth, upon your honor now, did you really not have me in mind when you made that speech yesterday?”

“I did not, ’pon honor,” she laughed softly. Then she gave Miss O’Day’s hand a very loving squeeze to mitigate the hurt her next words might contain. “It may be rather galling to your pride, but I did not even think of you after we entered the meeting, although I suppose you must have been sitting by me. I was all eyes and ears for what was going on up front. I suppose you might add all mouth, too, for that matter.”

“Then you did not know what happened here last spring? Did none of the girls tell you?”

“I do not know what particular happenings you have in mind. But no one told me of anything that was unusual.”

“Well, then I shall tell you. It was not until last evening that I felt that I could talk the matter over with any one; but after you spoke as you did, I knew that you could understand. I have borne it so long without letting any one know, that it is a relief to think I can tell just how I feel, and how awful these months at Exeter have been. I might have gone somewhere else this fall and not returned at all; but when I thought it over, it seemed to me that it would be cowardly to slip away like that. Last summer I wrote to Dr. Morgan that I intended returning. Then I made up my mind that I would stay here until I made every one at Exeter, from Dr. Morgan down to the dining-hall girls, respect me.” She paused, then added slowly, “But I don’t seem to have made much headway yet.”

There was a sadness in the girl’s voice which embarrassed Elizabeth. She knew that Nora O’Day was sad—had known that for a long time. She would have been glad to express sympathy, say some word which would show confidence in her companion, but she was so new to anything of this sort that she could do nothing but sit silent and look at her. Then she suddenly blurted out:

“I do not know what you are talking about! Tell me, Nora. I fancy it is not really so bad as you think.”

“I do not see how it could be worse! Perhaps, when I tell you, you will feel as the others. If you do, don’t stop to explain and give all kinds of reasons for your actions. Just walk off, and I will understand that you do not care to be friends with me. I’ll not be surprised. Indeed, I rather expect you to do just that thing—yet, after all, you have always been different.”

“Well, wait until I walk off. I may not. Dollars to doughnuts, the ‘awful’ thing you have done is partly imaginary. The girls are all right, and I love some of them; but even that doesn’t make me think them infallible. But you sit there and hint about a dreadful deed you have done. One would think you were little less than a female Captain Kidd. There are cold chills running up and down my spine now, so begin quick and tell me everything.”

“Last spring, I went into the geometry examination and took my book with me. I copied three theorems, letter for letter, right out of the book. A half-dozen girls saw me—Mary Wilson, Nancy, Carrie Hirsch, Mame Welch, Landis and Min. That same evening the girls met and decided to cut me. We had all been friends.”

“I didn’t think Mary or Nancy would have done that—meet and talk over such a matter in public.”

“They didn’t. Neither would Carrie or Mame. I know none of the four were at the meeting. I think each one of them thought the matter over and decided for herself. They speak to me at the table and any school meetings. But that is a small part of Exeter life. They never enter my room or invite me into theirs.”

“Who called the meeting of the girls?” Elizabeth asked.

“Min Kean. I am positive of that, because the notices were signed by her. That is required before any meeting can be held. Then Dr. Morgan knows where to place the responsibility.”

Elizabeth gave a gesture of disapproval. She was about to speak, but checked herself, deciding that criticism was not going to help the matter. Nora noticed her hesitancy, and attributed it to a different motive.

“What were you going to say? Do not hesitate. I deserve criticism. I am not afraid to hear it.”

“It was not a criticism of you. I was thinking that Min Kean must have been a different person last term. I could not, although I stretched my imagination to its limit, think of her as taking the lead in any matter. What part did Landis take?”

“I do not know. No one ventured to tell me and I would not ask. Before we left Exeter in the spring, she came into my room and stayed almost all of the evening. She told me that she thought the girls acted impulsively, and that she had done what she could to have them wait and consider; but she was only one among many. She was acting-president at that meeting.”

“Where was Anna Cresswell?”

“She was here, but would not attend. Someone told me that she refused to be present.”

“Did Landis ever come again to see you?”

“Very often this semester. I have all the essays and papers my mother wrote when she was a student at Arlington Seminary. People who remember her say she was gifted in that line. Of course, I do not know, for she died when I was a baby. Somehow I never had the heart to read them, although I have saved every one. Landis says they are quite good, and Landis, you know, has some ability in that line herself.”

Elizabeth smiled. She was beginning to understand. New ideas burst upon her suddenly. Unconscious of the meaning which might be given to her words, she said, “I’m just beginning to learn that it is not wise to take any one’s opinion in regard to any one else. You must trust and be deceived, and trust again, and just go on learning people for yourself. Did Anna Cresswell never come to see you? I should think she would since she refused to attend the meeting.”

“She came twice to ask me to go somewhere with her, once for a drive, and once to walk, but each time I refused. I felt so badly that I had no courage to go out among the girls. It was only a few weeks before we were to go home. I made up my mind to bear it until school was out and then not come back. But I changed my mind, as I told you. She did not ask me again. But I did not expect that for she is very busy with extra work. I suppose she thinks it has all passed away. She doesn’t run about to spreads and high teas, so she may not have discovered that I am not among those present.”

Elizabeth was silent. She was thinking, not of her companion’s misdeed, but of the part which Landis had probably played throughout the affair. Nora waited for her to speak, but receiving no answer put another question.

“Are you, too, so disgusted with me that you can’t bear to speak of it?”

“No,” slowly, “I am not disgusted. But you certainly cannot expect me to grow enthusiastic or praise you for cheating. I don’t like dishonesty in any form; but I do not know that it is my place to pass judgment on you. I may criticise that in you; someone else will find something to criticise in me. One thing I am quite sure of. You are sorry as sorry can be that you did it; and you will never be guilty of cheating again, even if you know that you will fail and be compelled to go to school here forever.”

“You may be sure of that. One experience ended such methods for me.” There was nothing conciliatory in her tone.

“I will be honest with you, Nora. I am disappointed in you, but I’m glad you told me. You may be quite sure this will make no difference in our friendship.”

Much to Elizabeth’s surprise, Nora, instead of replying, began to sob, and it was some minutes before she could speak.

“I appreciate this, Elizabeth. I know I did wrong, and I have spent six months in being sorry. Yet I do not believe I should be censured so much as some of you if you had done the same thing. That is rather an odd thing to say, I know. But when I tell you all, you will understand just what I mean. My mother died when I was a few weeks old. She belonged to an excellent family, an only child. Somehow,” the girl hesitated. It was difficult to explain without seeming critical of one parent. “Somehow, my father never cared much for what mother cared for most. He could not see anything wrong in cards, and wine-parties, and things like that. When mother died grandmother Loraine took me. But she did not live long. Then I went back home and lived with a housekeeper and the servants. Sometimes they were honest and sometimes not. Mrs. Gager took charge of me. She was a very clean old German woman and not afraid of work, but was not refined. She couldn’t even read. I am not complaining, for she was as good to me as she knew how to be. Nothing that I wanted was too much trouble. She was really my slave, and made every one around the house step when I spoke.

“I was a little tyrant. Father spent a great deal of time from home, for he was a very busy man. But he spoiled me, too. I had but to stamp my foot and he would let me do what I wished. He really could not deny me anything, and he doesn’t yet. You see, I am the only person in the world he has left, and he thinks I am simply wonderful.” She laughed lightly. “I am always amused when I hear him talk to anyone of me. It is nice, though, to have someone think of you in that way. He is wholly sincere. He really believes I’m the brightest and most attractive girl at Exeter.

“Mrs. Gager used to drink occasionally. At such times—I must have been eight years old—she told me what excuses to make to father for her and how to keep Maggie, the second maid, from knowing it. Strange as it may seem, this old woman was my ideal. I never hesitated to carry her false messages, and there was a constant succession of small deceptions. When I was able to fool Maggie, I was commended.

“When I grew older, I met a great number of business men—some of whom were my father’s traveling salesmen. And they always made a point of telling how sharp they had been in their transactions. I know now that they were merely dishonest. I do not know whether father approved or not. They told these stories to entertain me and not when they were talking business with him.

“Father was always liberal. I spend as much as I wish. He never questions how, but gives me whatever I ask.

“The conversation I generally heard among the servants—and I spent most of my time with them—was comments on how well or how shabby some one dressed, and how much or how little money people had. Don’t blame my father for neglecting me. He hired the best servants he could, and did what he thought was for my good. I was well clothed and fed; and Mrs. Gager took excellent care of my health. His business kept him away from home. And, anyhow, men are not like women. A woman would have understood at once that I needed something more than clothes and food.”

“I suppose we can’t understand,” said Elizabeth. “I’m sure I don’t. I’ve always had a mother. She would punish me severely if I ever deceived anyone. My father, too, and Miss Hale are the same way. I was brought up to abhor anything that wasn’t honest. But, then,” reflectively, “I’ll not take much credit to myself for that. It was my training—not me. If I’m truthful and all that, it’s because of my parents.”

“If I saw no great harm in copying my examinations, it is because I had been no better taught. It was a surprise to learn that every one looked upon such an act with contempt. I would not do such a thing now. Not because I wish to curry favor with Mary Wilson and her set, but because I feel it is wrong.” She paused awhile and then continued, “I think I am like the Loraines in that. My mother would have died before she would have knowingly done wrong.”

The talk went on in this strain for some time. Then Elizabeth spoke of the telegram she had received and suggested that she might not go home during the holidays.

Nora offered her sympathy. She did not ask Elizabeth where she lived. It was odd that, although they were friends, she never knew until the close of school that Joseph Hobart, the expert mining engineer of Bitumen, was Elizabeth’s father.

It was quite late when Elizabeth slipped back into her bedroom. She undressed in the dark so that she might not waken her roommate, but Mary heard her and spoke:

“You and Nora O’Day must have had a great deal to say. ‘Smiles’ has trotted down here twice inquiring for you.”

“What did you tell her?”

“That I was not your keeper. I think she will interview you privately to-morrow.”

“Mary, there’s something I wish to ask you. At the meeting last spring, who was it that worked up the case against Nora O’Day?”

“Landis. Why?”

“Oh, because. Are you sure? Did she take an active part?”

“Yes; I’m sure. Could you imagine a meeting where Landis didn’t put in her oar? Why do you ask?”

“Because I wanted to know.”

“An excellent reason,” was the sleepy response.

“But, Mary—” But Mary was asleep.

CHAPTER IX.

JOE’S MESSAGE.

After breakfast the following morning, Elizabeth was summoned to the reception-hall where Joe Ratowsky awaited her. He stood twisting his hat about as she entered. The expansive smile which covered his swarthy face was not so much one of goodwill as embarrassment. He stood in the center of the room so that by no possible chance could he touch any article of furniture. Joe was no coward. He had performed heroic parts when mobs of miners and the militia, during the big strikes, met in conflict. But the thought of sitting down on chairs upholstered in satin of dainty colors made the cold chills run up and down his spine.

It was cruel in Elizabeth to shake his hand so long and so vigorously, even though she was glad to see him. And it was worse than cruel to keep pushing easy chairs before him and insisting upon him sitting down. Elizabeth insisted, and in desperation Joe took a letter from his pocket and thrust it before her.

“Mees-ter Hobart, he write—he write heap—b’gosh.”

“He isn’t sick, Joe, is he?”

“Sick!” Joe grunted his disgust at the thought of anyone being sick. “He well, so well—he get fat, b’gosh, so fat, Meester O’Day, he look like pole he come long Meester Hobart, b’gosh.”

Joe nodded his head vigorously, a habit he had of emphasizing any statement he wished to make particularly strong. Elizabeth could not restrain a smile at the comparison.

“Is mother well, too, Joe?” Joe nodded vigorously while he wiped his brow.

“She well like the tivil, b’gosh. Yes, b’gosh, she so well as that.”

“Well, then, Joe, why is it they do not wish me to go home?”

Joe flung out his hand as though what he was about to say was a mere trifle, not worthy her consideration.

“The miner—not so glad, b’gosh. They no work—no—no work. They say they tear up railroad, b’gosh. Meester Hobart, he say, ‘No tear up road.’ Joe Ratowsky, he say, ‘No tear up road.’ All time keep watch so no tear up road. You not come. Mebbe no road, mebbe all right, b’gosh.”

“A strike, Joe? Do you mean the miners threaten to destroy the road?” He nodded.

“No strike now, b’gosh. Colowski, he say, ‘Strike.’ Then all say, ‘Strike.’ Joe Ratowsky, he give him one between his eyes like this.” He doubled up his fist, showing how peace had been restored. “He no say strike then. He crawl off. He no come round for day and day.”

“Did they go back to work then?” Elizabeth was excited. All her life she had heard of the horrors of a prolonged strike. From childhood she had a dim recollection of someone taking her from her warm bed, and running across fields, seeking safety miles away. As in a dream, she could hear the roar of hoarse voices and see the flickering torches of the mob.

Joe shook his head slowly. “No, b’gosh. They mad like the tivil. They go back some day, so many tollars, every day for work. No more,” shaking his head in negation, “No, no more, b’gosh.”

Elizabeth grew anxious. She seized Mr. Ratowsky’s coat sleeve.

“But, Joe, tell me truly, is my father in danger? They won’t hurt him?”

“B’gosh, no. He safe like anything. They no mad like the tivil at him. Emery they mad at.”

“Is Mr. Emery there?” Again Joe shook his head. “Meester Emery, he go over ocean. He no come back, mebbe so long till summer. When he come back, the miners so mad they treat him like the tivil, b’gosh.”

This Mr. Emery, of whom he spoke, was one of the operators of the soft-coal region; a man who visited the miners once in a dozen years and of whom his workmen knew little.

Joe had evidently been instructed how much to tell Elizabeth in regard to the trouble. Being assured that her father was not in danger, her mind turned toward the letter, her eyes following her thoughts.

“I go back quick. I tell Meester Hobart you look well like everything.” He shook his head vigorously to assure her how fine a message he would carry. “I will, b’gosh,” he repeated.

He made his way to the door, keeping his eyes upon the chairs and tables in his path. He sighed with relief when he had passed them, and saw a line of retreat open before him. He continued to repeat the message he would carry to her father.

“Grow so tall likes nothing. He will be so glad like the tivil. I tells him so. Yes, he will, b’gosh.” These were his parting words as the door closed upon him.

The greater number of the girls in the dormitory hall had packed or were packing their trunks. The hallway was obstructed with baggage of all descriptions, awaiting the coming of Jimmy Jordan and his train of helpers.

Mary Wilson was to leave Exeter immediately after lunch. She had begun her preparations before breakfast. Elizabeth, taking it for granted that their rooms would yet be in confusion, went down to the window-seat where she and Nora had sat the night before, in order to read her letter in quiet. There was nothing unusual in it—nothing to startle her, at least; the home news was told with her father’s usual buoyant spirit. If he were harassed or annoyed, his letter writing did not show it. It was not until all the bright little bits of home life had been related that he mentioned the trouble at the mines—just a little local trouble, nothing general. Both her mother and he thought it best that she should not go up the mountain railroad this time of year. There was nothing at all to alarm her. She was to spend her holidays with any one of the girls whom Dr. Morgan advised. It was difficult on account of the snow to get the mails through. She must not be anxious if her accustomed letter did not arrive on time.

As was her habit with home letters, Elizabeth read and re-read it. She was slipping it back into its envelope when Landis and Min appeared. Both were dressed for traveling. They stopped to enquire of Elizabeth when she expected to leave Exeter, being surprised to see her sitting there in her school dress when the others were either packing or already leaving. She told them the possibility of her remaining at the Hall for the holiday season. At this Landis wrinkled her brow in perplexity, and pondered awhile in deep thought.

“I was trying to see my way clear to ask you to go with me to The Beeches—my home, so called because of the magnificent trees which grow near our residence. But I do not see how I can manage it now. I do wish I had known about this sooner. I might have been able to arrange matters somehow. I do not like the idea of your being here alone. Exeter is dull with the girls gone. It’s really unbearable. But I have arranged to go home with Min until the day before Christmas. We always have a big family party for that day, and our home is filled. I suppose we could tuck you in somewhere—if you do not object to the third floor.”

“Oh, do not think of it, I beg you,” began Elizabeth hurriedly. Somehow Exeter without company seemed better to her than The Beeches with Landis. “I would not for the world cause you any inconvenience. Besides, the matter is in the hands of Dr. Morgan. I must do as she decides.”

“Well, I hope she will see fit to send you off somewhere. Come to think of it, I do believe I could not let you have even a third floor room. Our cook always takes the privilege of asking in some of her relations, and that leaves no space unfilled. I wish it were otherwise.”

“You are kind to think of it. But I could not go in any event. I must go back to my room now. Mary is deep in her packing and will need me. When do you leave?”

“Not until afternoon. But we are going into the city. Shall we see you before we leave?”

“I think not.”

Good-byes were said, and Elizabeth went to her room. She was disappointed at not being able to go home, but had no fear of a possible strike, or any danger to her father. Joe Ratowsky had reassured her, and besides her faith in her own father made her confident. There was no question in her mind about his being popular with the miners. He had been not only their superintendent, but physician, friend and banker.

Having packed her trunk so full that the lid would not close, Mary was jumping up and down on it when Elizabeth entered. She hailed her with an exclamation of delight. “I’m so glad you weigh something! Come, sit on my trunk while I turn the key. I can get the lid down, but it springs open the instant I get off, and I cannot stand up there and turn the key at the same time. I have been bouncing on it for the last half-hour.”

Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright from her strenuous efforts. Elizabeth did as requested. The trunk closed with a snap.

“And now,” asked Mary, “when do you begin to pack? I suppose your Polish friend brought you news from home. I hurried to get my belongings out of the way that you might begin.”

“Not until next June,” was the reply. Then sitting down on the trunk beside Mary, she related the messages which Joe had brought, and the advice which her father’s letter contained.

Mary listened without comment until the story was finished. Then she tossed back her hair, and without a word hurried to the door, flung it open with a great disregard for the amount of noise she was making and began hauling in Elizabeth’s trunk.

“You have just three hours to pack, dress, eat and get down to the station,” she said, unbuckling straps and removing trays as she spoke.

“But—”

“Don’t stop to talk or ask questions, or say you can’t.” Mary stopped long enough to stamp her foot in order to emphasize her words. “You’re going home with me. We’ll talk it over afterward. We haven’t time now. I’ll hear the objections to-morrow. Put on your duds, and I’ll pack, while you get yourself ready.”

“But you—”

“I’m ready except my coat and hat.” She was carrying Elizabeth’s clothes from the wardrobe, and placing them in the trunk. Elizabeth did as she was told without questioning further. She was only too glad to be taken possession of, for the thought of Exeter Hall without the girls had not been pleasant.

The trunk was packed and her dressing about completed when Nora O’Day entered. She was dressed in a handsome traveling suit, the product of a city importer. As usual, she carried her lithe, slender body proudly, as though no one was quite her equal. Elizabeth understood the girl now and knew that her defiant attitude was assumed.

“I’ve come in to say goodbye. I haven’t a minute. The cab is waiting for me.” She shook hands with Mary. Then turned to embrace Elizabeth. There was a great deal of affection in her manner toward this new friend. “We were talking last night of mother’s theses. I put some together for you to take with you to read. I really think you will enjoy them. I know you will be careful of them. I mean to keep them all and some day read them over.” She kissed Elizabeth again, and with a hurried goodbye was gone.

Elizabeth appreciated this remembrance more than a gift of greater money value. Nora cherished these papers the most of all her possessions, and she gave her best when she confided them to Elizabeth. Slipping them into the tray of the trunk, she turned to the mirror to arrange her collar. At last turning to Mary, she said, “There, I’m clothed and in my right mind, and we yet have half an hour. Now we must report to Dr. Morgan.”

“You are evidently clothed,” was the response, “but I’m not sure about the right mind. Don’t you remember that Dr. Morgan does not return until to-night? By that time we will be home. I’ll speak to Miss Brosius as we go down to lunch. She’s the high-monkey-monk here when our Ph. D. is roaming. We have no time to waste. Jordan will see to the trunks and tickets. He always does. Put on your wraps. We’ll eat our lunch with them on. It is no use coming back up-stairs. There are but few of the girls left. We’ll bid them goodbye down-stairs.”

It was not until then that Elizabeth had time to think about going to Mary’s home. Then she stopped and suddenly put the question: “Perhaps your mother will not want me, Mary. She—”

“Come on! Of course, she’ll want you. She is always glad to have company. She would not be pleased if I came home and left you here alone.”

“But it might inconvenience her,” she began again.

“Nothing ever inconveniences my mother. She won’t allow it to. The only trouble we have is that our girls take sudden notions to go off and marry, and sometimes we do not have anyone to do the work. I think Fanny intended being married during the holidays. If she does, you and I will have a position as dishwasher. Can you wash dishes?”

“Yes; I always do at home.”

“Well, we may have to do it. But we will have a good time. When the servants take to themselves wings we all help, and such fun as we do have! A little matter like that never inconveniences mother. Once during court week, our only hotel burned. There was a big case on before father, and he brought all the witnesses and lawyers home. They were there three days. Mother seemed to think it was a joke.” Then with a look at Elizabeth, she added with conviction, “A little bit of a girl like you could not inconvenience her.”

The Wilson home was at Windburne, a two hours’ ride from Exeter with a change of cars at Ridgway.

It was extremely cold when the girls left the Hall, but before they reached Ridgway the mercury had gone several degrees lower.

The road to Windburne from the Ridgway junction is a local affair, narrow gauge, with little rocking cars in which a tall person could scarcely stand upright. Windburne is the county-seat and consequently a place of importance, but Ridgway has little traffic and the roads intersecting there take no pains to make close connections.

It was three o’clock in the afternoon when the girls reached the junction, a bleak little place with a low-roofed station, black and dirty. A hotel stood at the corner—a rough saloon. An engine with a coach usually waited on this narrow gauge track, but this afternoon there was none. Before she entered the waiting-room Miss Wilson looked about, expressing her surprise at the condition of affairs.

“The worst is yet to come,” cried a voice back of them. The girls turned to discover the ticket agent, just about to leave for home.

“The narrow gauge is storm-stayed. You will not be able to go through to-night.”

“Then we’ll turn about and go to Exeter.”

“Not to-night. The last train pulled out just before No. 10 came in. There’s a hotel over there—”

“Yes, we smelled it,” said Elizabeth seriously.

He laughed, and inquired where they were going. Then he suggested a plan. The hotel was not a suitable place in which to spend the night, and they could not return to Exeter; but he would find for them a trustworthy driver who would take them safely to Windburne.

There was no choice. Mary accepted his offer. The girls stayed in the dingy waiting-room until he returned with a sleigh, horses and driver.

“This man will take you there safely,” he said, with a nod toward the driver. “He knows the road and knows, too, how to handle horses to get the most out of them.” He assisted the girls into the sleigh, tucking the robes well about them. A moment later, they were speeding along the country road. The sleighing was fine but the wind had a clear sweep over the bare fields, and it had grown much colder. They began to shiver in spite of their heavy wraps.

“We are over half-way there,” encouraged Mary. “The farmhouse we have just passed is six miles from Ridgway. I know the roads about here. This is beautiful in summer time. Landis Stoner lives in the last farmhouse along this road. After we pass there, we won’t see another for five miles, and when we do it will be Windburne. There, you can catch a glimpse of the place now.”

“Couldn’t we stop and get warm?” asked Elizabeth, her teeth chattering. “My feet are numb!”

“Yes; perhaps it would be better. We’ll get Mrs. Stoner to heat bricks for our feet. She’s very hospitable, and will make us comfortable.” She leaned over to speak to the driver, requesting him to stop at the Stoner place.

Elizabeth was too cold to look about her as they entered the house. She was conscious only that an immense beech was stretching its bare boughs before the doorway, then someone was leading her to an easy chair, removing her wraps and rubbing her hands to make them warm. In a few minutes she was herself. Mrs. Stoner had brought them hot coffee, and was now putting bricks into the fireplace.

Elizabeth looked upon her in surprise. This was not the style of woman she had pictured in her mind as Landis’ mother. She was a faded, slender little body, mild and gentle in manner and voice. One felt that she was refined and had devoted the best of her life to serving others. She was dressed in a plain dark calico, which had seen better days, yet its absolute cleanliness and the band of white at her throat gave her an air of being well-dressed.

The room, evidently the best in the house, was homey and comfortable. There was an open fireplace big enough to accommodate a four-foot log, a bright rag carpet, and some wooden rockers with easy cushions. The windows had white sash curtains. In one were pots of blooming geraniums.

“I have never been at Exeter,” Mrs. Stoner said. “Of course, I have heard of it all my life. As a young girl, I used to dream what a fine thing it would be to go there to school. But it was not to be. Landis, however, is having that privilege, and I am very thankful. Miss Rice—you have met her; every one hereabouts has—thinks that every girl should have a little more than they get in public schools. She’s made it possible for Landis to go.”

Their hostess then brought out some pictures Landis had sent home—kodak views of the girls, their rooms, and the campus.

“You see,” she added with a smile, “although I have never been at Exeter, I know it well. Landis writes of the teachers and her girl friends until I feel I know them thoroughly.”

As the mother continued, her pale face lighting up, Elizabeth saw Landis in a different light. The girl was evidently devoted to her mother, if one could judge from the numerous letters and the many little souvenirs from school displayed.

“It was dull for Landis here,” she continued. “There is no company for miles, and only her father and I at home. She did not want to leave us. But I told her we were used to the quiet and were company for each other. I miss her, of course, but it would have been selfish to have kept her here. She must live her own life and have her own experiences, and I can’t expect her to be satisfied with what satisfies me.”

The hot coffee had made them comfortable; the bricks in the grate were hot, and the time had come to start. Solicitous of their welfare, Mrs. Stoner brought extra wraps, warming them at the open fire, then securely pinning them about the girls. She came to see them off and Elizabeth, with a sudden impulse, kissed her warmly.

When they were safely in the sleigh again and speeding over the frozen roads, she turned to Mary with the explanation: “Do you know, she’s really homesick to see Landis? I couldn’t help kissing her; she’s so gentle and sweet that I could easily love her.”

She turned her head to catch a last glimpse and to wave farewell to the little woman standing in the doorway of the humble home which Landis had called “The Beeches.”

CHAPTER X.

CLOUDS AND GATHERING STORMS.

Dennis O’Day, as he stood at the door of his saloon this autumn afternoon, was an excellent advertisement for the line of goods he carried. He was big and flabby. The skin about his eyes had grown into loose sacks; his eyes were a steel-gray, cruel, keen, crafty, without a particle of humor or affection. He owned the largest breweries in the state, and controlled numerous retail houses where his products were sold.

His dealings were largely with the foreign element. He spoke ready German with its various dialects. His name indicated his nationality. Though an Irishman he lacked the great-heartedness of his countrymen. The humor which made their shanties brimming with life and fun was not for him. He drove the Poles and Slavs who lived about Bitumen like a herd of cattle. The few who voted, voted as Dennis O’Day told them. The labor problem was discussed over his bar. He fixed for them the length of day, and the rate per ton. He was the bell-sheep for all the foreign herd. In return for their allegiance, he bailed them out of jail when necessary. When Gerani in a drunken quarrel, had stabbed the fighting, ugly-tempered little Italian, Marino De Angelo, it was Dennis who established an alibi, and swore all manner of oaths to prove that Gerani, a law-abiding citizen, a credit to the commonwealth, could not possibly have done it. As to the guilty party, O’Day had shaken his head in doubt. He was not quick to remember the faces of these foreigners. There were many about—some new to him. It was impossible to point out the guilty man. He appeared really grieved that the death of De Angelo should go unpunished, and left the court-room with the avowed intent of bringing the murderer to justice. That had been some five years before, and De Angelo’s murderer was yet unpunished. But from that time, Gerani was a slave to O’Day. There was no work about the hotel or town that he would not do at the saloonist’s bidding. He made good wages in the mines and the proprietor of “The Miner’s Rest” received the biggest portion of them.

It was not for love of Landlord O’Day the big Pole served so faithfully, for he muttered and cursed under his breath the instant he was out of range of the cold, steely eyes. O’Day was not in ignorance of this for Coslowski had warned him. The men had been drinking, Gerani among them.

“Keep your eye on the big Polack,” he said to Dennis, yet loud enough for all to hear. “If you don’t want to hand in your checks soon, don’t let him get behind you on a dark night.”

At that Gerani had scowled malignantly. O’Day laughed loud and mirthlessly, while he washed glasses and kept his eye on the scowling Pole.

“He’d do it quick enough. Dead men tell no tales; but confessions do. And I’ve left with Father Brady a nice lot of paper which he’s to read when I’m gone. It will be hot enough around here to make more than one swing for a breeze. I’m safe with Gerani—so long as those papers are safe with Father Brady.” The big Pole moved away from his place at the front. As O’Day ceased speaking, he disappeared into the darkness.

By such methods O’Day had gained his influence over the foreigners. He was lawless. His place was open on the Sabbath and until all hours of the night. Young boys entered sober and came forth drunk. There was no one to call him to account. Then from somewhere came Joe Ratowsky. And from that time, the troubles of Dennis O’Day began.

Yet big Joe was apparently innocent. He could smatter only a little English. No one seemed to know where he came from and he never furnished the information even when asked; he never seemed to hear the question. He was friendly with his countrymen, and stood by them whenever the need arose. He was often called upon to act as interpreter between the bosses and the men, but still he was different from those about him. He was a Pole, heart and soul, and his faith was bound to the homeland whose ultimate independence was his one dream; he had risen a grade higher in the moral scale than those whom his work made his associates. Joe took baths. Joe read a Polish paper; he did not drink except one glass of beer at his dinner. None of them had ever been able to persuade him to go further than that. Whether it were a wedding or a wake, Joe was staunch. This moderation, with the baths, set him, apart.

He did not mine at Bitumen, but worked his little patch of ground, interpreted when there was need for small consideration, and at last opened a little restaurant where lunches after the German style were served. His black coffee certainly excelled O’Day’s beer, while the wienerwurst and “Schnitz-und-Knöpf” put to shame the meals at “The Miner’s Rest.”

Joe’s place consisted of a great room with a bare floor, furnished with wooden chairs and tables. One weekly paper in German was always to be found. The German element at Bitumen could read their own language; and they passed the news on to the others. The innovation of the paper diminished the popularity of O’Day’s place. Joe also introduced music, or what was passed for it. Then O’Day offered to buy him out at a price more than the place was worth. Joe smiled blandly, “Me know Slav—me know Polack talk. Me know no English like you say. Me no understand. Meester Hobart, he tell you vat you says. He tell you quick like the tivil.” But Dennis O’Day had no desire to speak with Mr. Hobart. His efforts with Joe were futile. The big Pole had made up his mind not to understand.

The superintendent was liked well enough by the saloonist, and consequently by the greater portion of the men. Mr. Hobart was opposed to liquor, and had not hesitated to express himself to that effect. But O’Day cared little for that so long, as he said, the man knew his place and did not interfere. And his place, to O’Day’s way of thinking, was to superintend the mines, and let the morals of the men alone. “I’ll take good care of them,” he was apt to add with a crafty look. His intercourse with Mr. Hobart began and ended with a bow of recognition in the street. So far as the liquor business was concerned, O’Day considered the superintendent harmless, and that was as far as he concerned himself with anyone.

Some subtle influence was working against O’Day. From whence it came he was not able to determine. The time had passed, however, when he could break the law with impunity. He felt that keen eyes were upon him. He was cunning enough to know that his safety now lay in his keeping within the limits of the law. He made ostentatious show of closing at the prescribed hours. All the while he kept his eyes and ears open to discover his enemy.

Big Joe Ratowsky was the only probable one. He made frequent visits to “The Miner’s Rest,” but never drank. He knew the ages of all the miners. In this respect Joe’s watchfulness was clear to O’Day’s mind; but there the evidence stopped, and much could be said on the other side. So, still at sea, O’Day kept himself sober and his eyes and ears open to all that was said and done in his place of business. Finally, when his confidence was fully restored, he returned to his old way of doing business, and kept open one Sunday. His place was filled with drunken, riotous Poles and Slavs. In a spirit of recklessness, he sold freely to all. On the following morning a summons was served to appear before the court to answer to the charge of illegal liquor selling. The charge was brought by the Pole, big Joe Ratowsky. Even then O’Day’s perception was dull. It did not come to him that Joe was merely the instrument in the hand of someone who would not act openly.

Raffelo Bruno, the little hunchback shoemaker, opened his eyes to the truth. He was by nature suspicious. He had faith in no man. When the summons came to O’Day, Raffelo quit his bench and made his way to the saloon. His dark, swarthy face, with stubby beard, was twisted and contorted. He gesticulated continuously, sawing the air with his hands. “Ye-s—Joe Ratowsky, he run and tell ze—ze. He ees—one—fool. He ze monkee on ze stick. Mees-ter Ho-bart, he meek hims—jump.”

The suggestion was enough. Joe was the tool of someone, and that someone was Superintendent Hobart; such was the idea the Italian meant to convey. O’Day in forcible terms cursed himself that he had not seen this before. It was evident enough now. Mr. Hobart, as superintendent, dare not antagonize the drink-indulging miners with open warfare against the saloon. Joe was his tool, carrying out his plans. Joe Ratowsky with his smattering of English did not know enough to make himself a formidable enemy. Some keen mind with a knowledge of the liquor law was the power back of the Pole. The coffee-house and reading-room which Joe had opened were mere subterfuges to draw the men away from the saloon. The man could not and did not make enough to keep himself and family in the poor way they lived.

It was clear enough to O’Day now, though he ridiculed Bruno for suggesting that Mr. Hobart interested himself in such matters.

The summons was served in October. O’Day appeared before the November court. They might have brought half a dozen different counts against him, but they did not. The prosecuting attorney, with great confidence in his own judgment, had drawn up the papers specifically charging Dennis O’Day with selling to minors. He had evidence sufficient on that one count to have his license revoked.

The trial passed off quickly. Four boys, not over sixteen, testified that Dennis O’Day himself had sold liquor to them, not once but many times. It was proof positive without Joe Ratowsky giving his testimony.

O’Day himself sat hunched up in the prisoners’ dock, glinting his keen eyes about from witness to juror. When the witnesses had testified against him, his attorney brought forth, in turn, the father of each boy, who declared that he had personally given the saloonist permission to sell liquor to his son. By this the Minor Liquor Law was, in effect, circumvented. That each father was the richer by some of O’Day’s money was generally supposed. But that was not the issue at hand. The case was dismissed. O’Day went back to Bitumen wiser in that he knew whom to fear, and with the privilege of freely selling to the young boys who had testified against him.

Though to all appearances the matter ended here, the fight had just begun.

It would have been impossible for anyone, except O’Day, to tell just how the trouble began. But before a month had passed, there arose a feeling of dissatisfaction among the miners. It could be felt rather than expressed. Where once every Slav and Pole smiled at the mention of the boss’s name, now there was only silence, a silence ominous to those who knew the signs. Joe Ratowsky understood and went at midnight to ask Mr. Hobart to go away somewhere for a time, until the discontent passed. But Mr. Hobart was not one to leave his work because a man of Dennis O’Day’s stamp saw fit to disapprove of him. If there was trouble brewing, there was all the more reason for him to stand at his post. He laughed at Ratowsky’s fears, and encouraged him to think that half the discontent among the men was of his own imagination.

A series of accidents, or what passed as such, began immediately after Dennis O’Day was acquitted.

The cable, which drew the coal cars up the incline, broke, letting them fall back at break-neck speed against the engine-house. Fortunately it occurred at a time when the men were not riding up the incline, so no lives were lost. This accident was the subject of discussion that night at “The Miner’s Rest.” O’Day was over-solicitous about the welfare of the men. He criticised corporations which risked the lives of the workmen for the sake of saving. “Anyone could see the cable was weak in spots,” he said. “It wasn’t a week ago that I walked up the incline—wouldn’t trust myself to such a rotten chain. A new cable costs, of course, and the company used the old one till it fell to pieces. They hain’t risking their lives. What does it matter to them if a few Slavs and Polacks hand in their checks? Huns and Dagos are thick as blackberries in June, and about as valuable.”

At his words the men about the tables scowled. It mattered to them if a few lives were lost, providing their own were among them.

“I wish I had the corporations by the throat,” added O’Day vehemently, all the while watching the effect of his words upon his hearers. He could read these people like an open book, and he was keen enough to know when it was wise to stop talking and when continue. “I’d choke them into taking care of the men’s lives. You’re all just so many cattle to them. A Hun isn’t so much to them as a cow, and they would see you all in perdition rather than lose a good mule.”

The faces about him were scowling and malignant. Each man was ready to believe all evil against that great and incomprehensible body known as a corporation. They had heard the war-cry between capital and labor dinned into their ears since the day they set foot upon American soil. It meant nothing to them that their teachers were always men like O’Day, who, while lining their own pockets with the laborers’ earnings, cry out against the men who are getting more, though lawfully. It never came to their untrained minds that O’Day proved nothing. He said so, that was enough. O’Day listened to the muttered growls of dissatisfaction.

“But, I suppose,” he continued hypocritically, “that we shouldn’t blame the men who have put their money in the mines. They are only wanting a fair interest on their investment. That’s only right. No doubt they send money enough right into Bitumen to have things kept up first-class, better houses for the miners, and cables that don’t break. I’m thinking there hain’t one of those big ones in the city who knows how poor you men live, how little you get, and how you risk your lives every day you work. How should they know? They spend money enough to have things fine.” Then he added, “They hain’t to blame if the men they’ve put in charge hain’t honest.”

That was enough for one night. O’Day, still discreet and tactful, dropped the subject. Not so with the men. They rolled the idea about until it grew into immense proportions. A week passed, and yet they talked. If there had been one among them fitted to lead, there would have been open trouble. There was no one. Bruno had daring and sagacity enough, but he was an Italian—a Dago, in common parlance, and the Slavs and Poles hated the Dagos worse than they hated the smallpox.

Sometime later a small stationary engine blew up; and Colowski was hit on the head by a piece of flying iron. Ellis, the engineer, insisted that he was not careless. He had kept his steam-register down to one hundred and fifty pounds when the limit was three hundred. Superintendent Hobart was about to discharge him when Joe Ratowsky appeared.

“It’s the tivil’s own work, b’gosh, Meester Hobart. Gerani, he comes and he fools with the little boiler-clock. Me come like the tivil, b’gosh, or me could have stopped it quick.” He had picked up the steam-register and was holding it in his hand. It was what he called the boiler-clock. It had been hurled a great distance but yet remained whole.

Mr. Hobart took it from Joe’s hand to examine it. He had given little credence to Ratowsky’s words. He whistled softly to himself as he examined the register. He began to believe the Pole right. Affairs at Bitumen were assuming a serious aspect.

O’Day’s acquittal had taught him one lesson—to be prepared for any emergency. For that reason, he handed the register to Ellis. “Look closely at that,” he said. “There’s evidence enough there to free you from blame. But I wish you and Joe to see this for yourselves and not take my word for it.”

Ellis, too, whistled when he examined the register. Little wonder that he had not been able to put on a full head of steam. A strong but almost invisible steel rod had been driven in the face of the register at such a point that the hand moving under the pressure of steam would stop at the one-hundred-and-fifty-pound mark.

“It couldn’t have been driven there by the explosion?” asked Ellis.

“Impossible. We haven’t a steel brad like that about the place, and never have had. Joe saw Gerani prowling about before you came.”

“And I saw him leave, Mr. Hobart. I went up to Bruno’s shack to have my shoes fixed, and I came down over the hill instead of the usual way by the road. Gerani was just going up as I came down.”

Mr. Hobart made no further comment. But from that time Gerani was watched closely. Joe Ratowsky, while seemingly doing nothing but attend his little lunch-counter, shadowed the man. He knew when Gerani came and went. There was proof enough that he had been interfering with the engine. But it was not he alone whom Mr. Hobart wished to reach. It was the man back of the act who had sent the Pole to do the work.

The superintendent thought at first of dismissing Gerani. But this might bring on more serious complications. His fellow-workmen might object—the Huns and Poles, at least. The Italians were not in the mines but were employed about the dumps, and on the road which wound about the mountain. It was Joe again who thought of a means of subduing Gerani. He had heard enough of O’Day’s covert suggestion that he could tell much that Gerani dreaded. Joe undertook the same stratagem. One stormy night he met Gerani on his way home. Catching him by his sleeve, he detained him long enough to say in his native tongue, “I’ve a word to say to you in secret, brother. O’Day is not the only one that knows about the Dago. The superintendent, he knows, too; but he keeps quiet because you are a good miner when you are not drunk, brother. So a word of warning. Keep friends with Mr. Hobart, and whatever happens, don’t let it come to his ears that Gerani went up at daylight to work at the engine. Just a word of warning, brother, all given in good faith, and for the sake of the land from which we came.”

That was all. Joe Ratowsky strode on through the darkness without giving the other time to respond. In his own tongue, his speech was impressive. He saw now, from the frightened expression of Gerani’s face, that his words had struck home.

The next morning, the big Pole was not at the mines, nor did he come to draw the pay due him. Joe Ratowsky chuckled to himself when several days passed. “Gerani—oh—he all right. We no fear him. Me scare him like the tivil, b’gosh.”

Mr. Hobart rested easy again with Gerani at a distance and afraid of him. But men of O’Day’s stamp can readily find tools to their need.

There was a week or more of quiet, then the engine and one car, which went down the mountain each morning to bring back the mail, was derailed at the second switchback and crashed into a forest of big oaks. The car was empty, and the train, being on the second switch, was moving backward. The rear end of the coach was crushed but the engine and engineer escaped unhurt.

“Gerani,” said Mr. Hobart when he heard the news, but Ratowsky shook his head in negation. “You no see him no more. He be bad man at Bitumen no more, b’gosh.” Then Joe laughed heartily and slapped his broad limbs with his hand. He never lost his first appreciation of the manner in which he had settled Gerani’s interference. There had been a gang of a dozen Italians somewhere along the road, but they had neither seen nor heard anyone.

For several weeks communication between Bitumen and the rest of the world was cut off. It was then that Joe Ratowsky walked to the foot of the hill to telegraph Elizabeth to remain at Exeter. And the day following he called upon her, with a letter, putting the best construction he could upon the road being disabled.

There was a little mule-driver in the mines who bore the euphonious name of Ketchomunoski. He ate much wienerwurst and drank beer freely, and on holidays devoured, at one sitting, a half-dozen loaves of bread, the centers of which had been previously dug out and filled with melted lard. He visited “The Miners’ Rest” and reeled home to his shack at a late hour. All these are mere preliminary details to the statement that his nerves were growing irritable, and his temper uncertain. He beat one mule until it was forced to return disabled to the barn, and a few days later mistreated a second until it was worthless and the boss in a humane spirit had the animal shot.

For such cases a precedent had long been established. The boy deserved to be discharged at once, and discharged he was. Had conditions been normal, discharging a mule-driver would have been of so little moment it would have passed without comment. But O’Day’s quiet work had not been without its effect.

The same evening, a delegation of miners waited upon Mr. Hobart. Ketchomunoski was to be put back or the rest of them would go out. Mr. Hobart listened to their terms. He considered the question before replying. Again he felt certain that another brain had put the plan in operation. After deliberation, he spoke to them plainly. Such a movement on their part was ill-advised. First, the largest orders for the year had already been filled, and enough coal was at the dumps and in cars at the foot of the mountain to fill the orders which came in month by month. So far as The Kettle Creek Mining Company and its patrons were concerned, the mines could shut down until spring; as to the miners, they knew that they had neither money nor food to supply them for a month.

He tried to reason with them; but the Hungarians and Polack miners know no reason. Mr. Hobart’s present method of talking with them, to their way of thinking, betokened not sound common sense and judgment, but fear.

They blustered and threatened and defied. At this, Mr. Hobart arose, declaring that they might take what course they would, he could not return Ketchomunoski to work. The delegation, expressing their anger in strong words, departed. Mr. Hobart immediately sent word to Ratowsky, Ellis and half a dozen other men whom he knew would stand by him. Together they talked over the situation, cleaned their firearms, and then sent Ratowsky, by moonlight, down the mountain to purchase and bring back a supply of ammunition.

By the following evening the strike at Bitumen was on.

CHAPTER XI.