When Marjorie returned to school that afternoon, her eyes widened in
startled surprise as they became riveted on a square white envelope on
her desk addressed to herself. For an instant her heart sank. Then she
laughed softly, under her breath, as she recalled that although the
script was unmistakably that of the Observer, she now had no need to
dread it. The Observer had been laid to rest on a certain snowy
afternoon of last winter. This note was from Lucy Warner, her friend.
Opening it, a quick light of pleasure dawned in her face as she read:
"Dear Marjorie:
"How can I ever thank you enough for what you have done for me? Miss
Archer sent for me to come to her office this morning and, of course,
you know why. I was so surprised and delighted. To be her secretary is
a great honor, I think. Then, too, the salary, which is ten dollars a
week, will help mother and me so much. I have almost enough credits
now to graduate, for I have always carried six studies and taken the
special reading courses, too. Now I am going to take only two studies
each term. That will give me almost all my time free for secretarial
work. I am going to rent a typewriting machine and study stenography
by myself, so I shall soon be ready to do Miss Archer's work in
creditable fashion.
"Although I've never said a word to anyone about it, I have always
wished for the position I now have. One reason, of course, is the
salary; the other the experience. When school closes I can take an
office position in Sanford, and by working hard save a little money
toward some day going to college. It will take a long time, but I am
determined to do it. If I can earn enough money to pay my tuition
fees, then perhaps I can obtain secretarial work in whatever college I
decide to go to. I only wish I had a chance to try for a scholarship.
Doesn't it seem strange that Sanford High School doesn't offer at
least one? Perhaps if it did, I could not win it, so there is no use
in sighing over it.
"I hope you won't be bored over this long letter. I know it has
nothing in it but my own affairs, but, somehow, since that winter day
when you forgave me for having been the hateful Observer I feel very
near to you, and I wish you to know my ambitions for the future. You
are so splendid and honorable that I know I can freely trust you with
my confidence. Mother and I would be very pleased to have you come
home from school with me some evening soon and take supper with us.
"Gratefully, your friend,
"Lucy Warner."
Marjorie experienced a delightful glow of satisfaction as she finished
the letter. How glad she was that Lucy and she now understood each other
so fully, and what a clever girl Lucy was. Marjorie was lost in
admiration of the quiet little senior's brilliancy as a student. She
wished she could help make Lucy's dream of going to college come true as
soon as her high school days were over. She knew that Lucy was too proud
and sensitive to accept from anyone the money to continue her education.
Yet Marjorie determined then that if ever she could become the means of
helping to realize the other girl's ambition, she would be happy.
A tender little smile lingered on her lips as she returned the letter to
its envelope and tucked it inside her blouse. Very reluctantly she
reached for her Cicero and was soon lost in preparing for her next
hour's recitation. Marjorie had not been able to arrange her senior
program so as to have the coveted last hour in the afternoon for study.
In the morning Advanced English and French Prose and Poetry took up the
first two periods, leaving her the last one free. After luncheon the
first afternoon period was now devoted to study. During the next she
recited in Cicero and the third and last period was given over to a
recitation in Greek and Roman History. As she had already gained the
required amount of credits in mathematics, she was satisfied to forego
trigonometry. She was not fond of mathematics and had decided not to
burden her senior year with the further study of them. Once in college
she knew she would have her fill of trigonometry.
"I've something to report, Captain," was her gay sally as, school over
for the day, she tripped into the living room. "I've the dearest letter
from Lucy Warner. I'm going to sit right down and read it to you. I
found it waiting for me on my desk when I went back to school this
afternoon. For just a minute it made me feel queerly. You can understand
why. But it was very different from--well, you know." Marjorie unpinned
her pretty white hemp hat and hastily depositing it on the library
table, plumped down on the floor at her mother's knee. Dignified senior
though she had now become, she had not outgrown her love for that lowly
but most confidential resting place.
"That is pleasant news." Mrs. Dean glanced affectionately down at her
daughter, who was busily engaged in exploring the folds of her silk
blouse for the letter.
"Why!" A frightened look overspread Marjorie's lately radiant face.
"Why, it's _gone_! Oh, Captain, I've lost it!"
"Perhaps it has slipped to the back of your blouse, dear." Mrs. Dean
became the acme of maternal solicitude. "Unfasten your blouse and look
carefully."
Ready to cry, Marjorie sprang to her feet and obeyed the instruction,
but the missing letter was not forthcoming. "How could I have lost it,"
she mourned despairingly. "I always tuck my letters inside my blouse.
But I've never lost one before to-day."
"I don't like to pile up misery, Lieutenant, but that seems to me a
rather careless practice," commented her mother. "I am truly sorry for
you. Perhaps you left it in school instead of putting it inside your
blouse."
Marjorie shook a dejected head. "No; I didn't. I wish now that I had. I
know I put it inside my blouse. I was anxious to bring it home and show
it to you. I would feel worried about losing any letter that had been
written me, but this is a great deal worse. It was a very confidential
letter. In it Lucy spoke of--of--last winter and of her plans for the
future. Suppose someone were to find it who didn't like her very well?
The person who found it might gossip about it. That would be dreadful.
Of course, anyone who finds it can see by the address that it is my
letter. I think most of the girls would be honorable enough to give it
back. A few of them perhaps wouldn't. None of the four juniors who were
on the sophomore basket-ball team last year like me very well. And
there's Mignon, too. I wouldn't say so to anyone but you, Captain, but
I'm not quite sure what she might do."
"No, my dear, I am afraid you can never trust Mignon La Salle very far."
Mrs. Dean grew grave. "I made up my mind to that the day your girl
friends were here at that little party you gave while you were sick. If
ever a girl's eyes spelled treachery, Mignon's showed it that afternoon.
Several times I have intended mentioning it to you. You know, however,
that I do not like to interfere in your school affairs. Then, too, since
her father so depends on your help and that of your girl chums, it seems
hardly right in me to wish that you might be entirely free from her
companionship. Yet, at heart, I am not particularly in favor of your
association with her. Sooner or later you will find yourself in the
thick of some disagreeable affair for which she is responsible."
"I am always a little bit afraid of that, too," was Marjorie's
dispirited answer. "I try not to think so, though. But it's like trying
to walk across a slippery log without falling off. Mignon is
so--so--different from the rest of us. You know I told you of the things
she said about that nice girl who works for Miss Archer and her sister.
Well, the girl came to school to-day. Her name is Veronica Browning and
she's a senior."
Marjorie went on to tell her captain of the locker-room incident, and
the walk home from luncheon, ending with: "She is awfully dear and
sweet. We are friends already. I may invite her to come and see us,
mayn't I, Captain?"
"By all means," came the prompt response. "I am very glad, Lieutenant,
that you have no false pride. It is contemptible. You may invite your
new friend here as soon as you like. No doubt when I see Miss Archer she
will tell me more of her protégé of her own accord. Judging from what
you say of her, she seems to be a rather mysterious young person."
"She acts a little as Connie used to act before I knew her well,"
declared Marjorie. "She has the same fashion of starting to say
something and then stopping short. I think it is only because she is
quite poor. But she doesn't seem to mind it as Connie did. She just
smiles about it."
"A young philosopher," commented Mrs. Dean, her eyes twinkling. "I shall
look forward to knowing her."
"Oh, you will surely like Veronica," Marjorie confidently predicted. The
next instant her face fell. "Oh, dear," she sighed, as fresh
recollection of her loss smote her, "what shall I do about that letter?
I'll simply have to tell Lucy that I lost it. She's so peculiar, too. I
am afraid she won't like it."
"Don't put off telling her," counseled Mrs. Dean. "It is right that you
should. Perhaps when you go to school to-morrow morning, you may find
that some one of your friends has picked it up. I sincerely hope so, for
your sake, Lieutenant."
"Thank you, Captain." Marjorie brightened a trifle. "I am going to hope
as hard as ever I can that I'll have it back by to-morrow."
Marjorie's earnest wish that the lost letter might be returned to her
the next morning met with unfulfillment. Anxious inquiry among her close
friends revealed no clue to the whereabouts of the missing letter. Nor,
during the long day which anxiety made longer, did any of her
schoolmates seek her with the joyful news, "Here is a letter I found,
Marjorie, which is addressed to you."
At the close of the afternoon session, which had lagged interminably,
Marjorie turned slow steps toward Miss Archer's big living-room office
where Lucy Warner now claimed the secretary's desk.
"Why, Marjorie, I was just thinking of you!" Lucy's bluish-green eyes
lighted with pleasure as Marjorie approached her desk. "I was hoping
you'd run up soon to see me. I am so glad my hope came true." Her hand
went out to Marjorie in cordial greeting.
"I am ever so glad to have a chance to talk to you," returned Marjorie
earnestly as she took Lucy's hand. "I received your letter. It was
splendid. I loved every line of it. I--but I am afraid you won't feel so
glad that I came when I tell you what I've done." A quick flush dyed
Marjorie's cheeks.
"I guess it is nothing very dreadful." Lucy smiled her utmost faith in
her pretty visitor.
"Lucy, I--well--I hate to tell you, but I've _lost_ that letter you wrote
me." Marjorie looked the picture of anxiety as she made the disagreeable
confession.
"You've _lost_ it!" gasped Lucy, her heavy dark brows meeting in the old
ominous frown.
"Yes. I tucked it inside my blouse," went on Marjorie bravely, "and when
I reached home it was gone."
Lucy's green eyes fastened themselves on Marjorie in an angry stare. For
a moment her great liking for the gentle girl was swallowed up in wrath
at her carelessness. Intensely methodical, Lucy found such carelessness
hard to excuse. Remembering tardily how much she owed Marjorie, she made
a valiant effort to suppress her anger. "It's too bad," she muttered.
"I--you see--I gave you my confidence. I wouldn't care to have anyone else
know all that I wrote you."
"Don't I know that?" Marjorie asked almost piteously. "I can't begin to
tell you how dreadfully I feel about it. I know you think it careless in
me to have tucked it inside my blouse. It _was_ careless. I've waited
all day, thinking someone who might have found it would return it. My
name on the envelope ought to insure a prompt return if I dropped it in
or near the school building. But if I lost it in the street and a
stranger found it, then I'm afraid I wouldn't stand much chance of
getting it again." Marjorie made a little gesture of hopelessness. "You
must know how humiliated I feel over it. But that won't bring the letter
back," she concluded with deep dejection.
During this long apology Lucy's probing eyes had been riveted
unblinkingly on Marjorie, as though in an effort to plumb the precise
degree of the latter's regret for the accident. "Don't worry about it
any more," she said rather brusquely. "It may not amount to anything
after all. If you dropped it in the street, the wind may have blown it
away; then no one would ever see it. If you dropped it in the school
building, it may be returned to you, or perhaps to me. My full name was
signed at the end of it. It has taught me a lesson, though."
Within herself Lucy knew that this last speech bordered on the unkind.
Yet she could not resist making it. Although she was earnestly
endeavoring to live up to the new line of conduct which she had laid
down for herself on the day when she had confessed her fault to
Marjorie, much of her former antagonistic attitude toward life still
remained. Having, for years, cultivated a spirit of envy and bitterness,
she was still more ready to blame than condone. A kind of fierce,
new-born gratitude and loyalty toward Marjorie transcended momentarily
her personal displeasure. It was not quite powerful enough, however, to
check that one caustic remark. She had not yet learned the true secret
of gratitude.
"I can't blame you for feeling that I am not a safe confidant," Marjorie
made honest reply. "Still it hurts me to hear it. I must go now, Lucy.
The girls are waiting for me outside. We are all going down to Sargent's
for ice cream. I'd love to have you come, too, if you are through with
your work and would care to join us."
"Thank you, but I shall be busy here for the next half hour," Lucy
returned, a tinge of stiffness in the reply. She wondered how Marjorie
could thus so easily dismiss the annoying matter of the lost letter.
Perhaps, after all, she was not half so sorry as she pretended to be.
"Please don't think that I am trying to make light of my misdeed,"
Marjorie said eagerly. Lucy's curt refusal of the invitation bore a hint
of offended pride. "I shall have that letter on my mind all the time
until we learn what has become of it, or are sure that it hasn't fallen
into unfriendly hands."
At the words "unfriendly hands" Lucy's heavy brows again met. She
mentally saw herself held up as an object for ridicule by some unknown
person whom the letter might apprise of her secret ambitions. "That's
just the trouble," she flashed forth sharply. "Hardly any of the girls
at Sanford High understand me in the least. I am sure some of them would
be only too glad for an opportunity to make fun of me. It wouldn't be
very pleasant for me if some morning I should walk into school and find
that about half the girls here knew all about my personal business. You
know, as well as I, how fast news travels among a lot of girls."
"I understand--all--that--perfectly." There was a faint catch in Marjorie's
clear utterance. "I can only say again that I am very, very sorry for my
carelessness."
"That won't bring back my letter," was the testy retort. "But never
mind. Let's not say anything more about it." With a little shrug her
green eyes sought the pile of papers on her desk.
Marjorie immediately took it as a sign that Lucy did not wish to talk
further to her. Not angry, but distinctly hurt, she did not try to
prolong the conversation but merely said: "Good-bye, Lucy. If I hear
anything about the letter I will let you know at once." Then she quietly
left the office, trying not to blame Lucy for being so austere regarding
the lost letter. Yet Marjorie was too human not to feel that having once
freely forgiven Lucy of a far greater fault, she had expected to receive
a certain amount of clemency in return, which the peculiar,
self-contained senior had not offered.