“I wasn’t sure that you wanted me to come to Cambridge,” said Angelina.

“I don’t remember your ever inviting me, but ever since I heard you were

at college I’ve been anxious to see what it was like. I thought that

colleges were just for men?”

“Oh, no, for girls, too, in these days.”

“I think I’d like to go to college myself,” said Angelina, with a

sidelong glance at Julia, “but I don’t suppose that I’ll have the

chance.”

Julia shook her head. “Angelina, you may not go to college, but you know

that we wish you to go on with your studies. I am sorry that there is no

evening school at Shiloh.”

“That’s just it,” responded Angelina, “that’s just what I wanted to talk

about. I don’t feel as if I cared much for Shiloh; it’s terribly quiet

there in the winter after the summer people are gone. I can’t seem to

think that I want to stay there all the time.”

“Your mother must decide that. Are you not needed at home?” asked Julia

weakly, knowing that Mrs. Rosa had very little authority over her

children, and that she was only too ready to refer all difficult

questions to Julia and Miss South.

“Well, my mother _does_ kind of depend on me,” said Angelina. She did

not care to admit that she was of too little consequence in the

household. “But still she _could_ get along without me. The boys help

considerable after school. I don’t think I’m appreciated; I’m not

perfectly happy,” and Angelina drew out her handkerchief, to be ready

for any tears that her self-pity might start.

“I cannot encourage you to leave Shiloh,” said Julia. “You are not

sixteen, and you are not strong enough, I am sure, to go out to work.

You would not find it half as pleasant to work in a strange family as

you find it now at home; and should you get a place in town, you could

not possibly earn enough to pay your board.”

Angelina applied the handkerchief to two or three invisible tears.

“Now, Angelina,” added Julia, “I will do what I can. I will write to

Miss South. She can tell much better than I what is best. You spoke

about going to college. That, at present, is out of the question. But is

there any special thing that you would like to study?”

At first Angelina made no reply. Then she replied rather petulantly, “I

hadn’t thought of studying anything in particular, only I don’t care

much to stay in Shiloh this winter, and that’s the truth.”

By her manner as well as by her words, Julia saw that Angelina was

likely to give her and Miss South more or less trouble. They had assumed

a certain responsibility in regard to the Rosas, and they could not

easily shake it off.

During their two years in Shiloh the Rosas had seemed to be contented.

They had never before been so prosperous. Instead of the two crowded

tenement rooms they had a neat little cottage, which had been put in

perfect order for them. In the course of the two years, to be sure, the

newness and freshness had decidedly worn off, as Julia had observed to

her regret when she called there in December. But their Shiloh home was

infinitely more comfortable than any home they could have had in Boston.

Mrs. Rosa’s health had failed in the city, but she had so improved now

that she was able to earn a fair part of the family income. The rest of

it was made up in various ways. Miss South and Julia paid the rent of

the little house. Nora and Brenda and Edith had charge of a fund made up

of their own savings and contributions from their friends. Since she had

so cleverly recovered the money stolen from Mrs. Rosa by Miguel Silva,

Brenda felt that she could be very liberal to the Rosas.

The fund was Mrs. Rosa’s dependence for food and fuel. Part of her fuel

was gathered by the older children in the woods, and a small vegetable

garden supplied not only summer vegetables, but something towards their

winter needs.

In season Angelina earned her board and a dollar a week at a summer

boarding-house. This she was allowed to handle under Miss South’s

supervision, and she had already started a bank-book. The sum in the

bank, however, was very small, for Angelina had availed herself to the

utmost of Miss South’s permission to use part of her own money for

clothes. Suitable garments were chosen each year by Brenda and her

friends from their own stock of discarded clothes, which, altered,

answered for Angelina. But shoes and hats and some other things Angelina

insisted on buying from her own savings, and in consequence the amount

in the bank showed small increase. Mrs. Rosa herself had once worked at

tailoring, and so she was able to remodel the garments given her for her

boys. In the case of so helpless a family, neither Miss South nor Julia

felt that they were likely to do harm by fairly liberal gifts. They had

removed Mrs. Rosa from the city where she might have had regular relief

from various charitable societies, from her church and from the

Overseers if from no more. They had made her understand that all that

she received from private individuals was conditioned on the care she

showed in bringing up her family,—that it was a kind of reward of merit.

Thus far all the people interested in the Rosas had been gratified by

their progress, and Julia knew that Miss South had some plans for

Angelina which might make the girl more contented. Ever since summer,

however, Miss South had been occupied with the care of her aged

grandmother, Madame Dulaunay, and she had been unable to do more for the

Rosas than write to them and see that they received their money

regularly. That very week she had started for Florida with Madame

Dulaunay, and Julia saw she must make plans for Angelina. She was

beginning to be so busy now preparing for the examinations that she

hardly saw how she could spare much thought or energy for the young

girl. Behind these thoughts was a background of disappointment that

Angelina had so quickly tired of Shiloh.

“You must tell me what you especially wish to do, or to study,” she

said.

“Yes’m,” responded Angelina, too much interested in a box of photographs

on the table to reply with her usual loquacity.

“Then there _is_ something?” Julia questioned.

“Well, nothing in particular. I wouldn’t mind living at the North End

again. It’s livelier than Shiloh.”

“But surely,” said Julia, “you are all much more comfortable at Shiloh

than you could possibly be at the North End.”

“I don’t know,” rejoined Angelina. “I don’t feel so very comfortable at

Shiloh. I ain’t busy enough, and I ain’t idle enough really to enjoy

it.”

Julia understood Angelina, poorly though she had expressed her meaning.

“Does your mother know where you are to-night? Won’t she be worried if

you stay away so late?”

“I told her that I was coming to Cambridge to see you. She’ll know that

you will look out for me.”

“When you next come to Cambridge you must start earlier. It is

altogether too late for you to go home now. I will have a bed made for

you on this divan, and to-morrow you can go back to Shiloh.”

“Oh, thank you,” cried Angelina, her face beaming at the thought of a

night away from Shiloh.

“Now, I’ll tell you, Angelina, what I propose to do. I will see if your

mother will let you come to Cambridge once a week. There is one day when

I am not very busy. I can probably arrange to have you sleep in this

house. I will pay your way over here and give you your meals. In return

I shall expect you to do whatever mending Miss Roberts and I have ready

for you. Besides, I will give you a lesson to study at home, and each

Wednesday I will hear you recite it and show you how to study.”

Angelina both looked and spoke her thanks. “I don’t see how you ever

came to think of anything so beautiful.”

“I am glad that you like it,” responded Julia, “and I hope that you will

do your best to help carry it out.”

Angelina chose history as her subject of study, and as she had had

American History at school, Julia began with a little outline of the

World’s History.

It was a good plan and it worked very well. Shiloh evidently had not

given Angelina enough to do in winter, and it was well for her to have

an interest outside her home. Yet her mother needed her help to a

certain extent, and it would have been a mistake to encourage Angelina

to work entirely outside of the house. The weekly visit kept Julia in

closer touch with the Rosa family than would otherwise have been

possible, and this in itself was a good thing. Then, too, she gained

deeper insight into Angelina’s character than she could have gained in

any other way.

She engaged a small room from Mrs. Colton where Angelina slept when in

Cambridge, and in it she placed a wicker-work table with a large basket

and all the appliances for mending stockings, sewing on buttons, and the

simple repairing of which Angelina was capable.

“I have always heard,” said Ruth, who shared in the advantages of

Angelina’s services, “that lazy people take the most pains; for,

honestly, it would save you time and money to do your own mending, and

let me do mine, rather than have all this bother with Angelina.”

“Oh, it’s a good thing for me, too,” replied Julia. “Our great danger

here in college is in thinking that we have no duties except those

connected with our studies, as if the only thing worth living for were

to get ‘A’ or ‘B’ in some course.”

“I know girls who wouldn’t think ‘B’ worth living for,” retorted Ruth,

“but I agree with you that there is always a danger that we may be too

narrow in our interests. That’s why I am glad that so many girls are

taking an interest in the operetta. In doing it they will be assisting

the fund for the North End reading-room, which is calculated to do an

immense amount of good. You have no idea, Julia, what a success the

operetta will be.”

“I hope so.” Julia spoke absent-mindedly. A plan that Miss South had

suggested for Angelina and girls of her kind was running through her

mind. But she knew that until she should leave college there would be

little chance of carrying it into effect. She would have been glad to

work with some of the organized charities, but she felt that college

must claim the most of her time. Comparatively few of her classmates,

however, were without some bit of philanthropic work. Several taught

Sunday-school classes. Several others gave an evening a week to some

Boys’ or Girls’ Club in Boston or Cambridge. The Emmanuel Society, so

named for John Harvard’s College, had regular meetings before which

appeared various organizations, who made clear their claims to the

support of thoughtful young women. The College Settlements appealed

strongly to the undergraduate, and a chapter to raise money for the work

had been formed at Radcliffe. The Emmanuel Society supported an annual

scholarship, and maintained a library of text-books to be lent to

students who could not afford to buy all the expensive books needed in

their courses.

Julia and Ruth and Clarissa, and even Pamela, contributed something to

the various causes that appealed to Radcliffe girls, for time as well as

money was asked for.

When her aunt remonstrated with Julia for giving too much thought and

time to Angelina, Julia replied that she believed that the time would

not be altogether thrown away.

“Now that I know that Angelina needs help and advice, I should feel it

wrong to give her up.”

“If she appreciates it,” said Mrs. Barlow doubtfully.

“Oh, I’m sure that she will,” responded Julia cheerfully. “Besides, she

really is of some use to me and Ruth.”

Yet there were times when Angelina’s little vagaries were hard to

overcome. She was, for example, very fond of newspaper reading, and the

advertisements seemed to have a special charm for her.

“Oh, Miss Julia,” she said one day, “I do wish that I could have a

bottle of this,” and she pointed to an advertisement of “The Pearl of

Beauty.” “They say,” continued Angelina, “that it will make the

sallowest complexion a delicate pink. Now, Miss Julia, you know that I’m

as sallow as most Portuguese, and I do wish that ‘The Pearl of Beauty’

did not cost so much; it’s a dollar a bottle. But one of the boarders at

Shiloh asked me last summer if I wasn’t a colored person—kind of

light-colored, and that wasn’t pleasant.”

But Julia, unmoved by this, explained that it was unwise to believe

every newspaper advertisement.

“But look at this,” pointing to the lithographed lady who held a placard

in her hands on which were printed words of praise of the beautifier.

“‘Look at me, please. I once was dark as night, but now am fair as a

lily of the valley.’ That shows that she must have improved,” said the

confiding Angelina, reading the closing words: “‘Beauty is a duty.’ Oh!

I wish that I could have a bottle.”

“It would be throwing money away, and I should be very much displeased

with you. Remember,” added Julia, “that advertisements are written

simply to induce people to buy the thing advertised.”

“Don’t they tell the truth?” and Angelina looked utterly surprised. “I

always believe every word I read.”

“You have a great deal to learn, Angelina, and I do hope that you will

remember what I have said about patent medicines.”

One Wednesday, a week or two later, Julia found Angelina standing before

the mirror in the little room with a bottle in her hand.

“What are you doing?” she asked, suspecting the truth, and Angelina,

starting guiltily, dropped the bottle, and a pinkish fluid poured out on

the light carpet. As the bottle lay there, Julia read the words “Pearl

of Beauty” on the outside. Angelina shamefacedly seized a towel and

began to mop up the carpet, murmuring as she did so, “I bought it with

my own money.”

Realizing that she had little authority over Angelina, Julia could only

say, “I am sorry that you have so little regard for my opinion.” Yet

neither then nor at any other time did Angelina apologize for what she

had done. When Julia, consequently, reflected on the matter, she

wondered if, after all, she might not have made a mistake in showing so

much confidence in Angelina.

XVI

WHO WROTE IT?

“It’s bad taste, anyway,” said Annabel Harmon.

“To call it by no worse name,” responded Elizabeth Darcy.

“Almost nothing can be worse than bad taste,” rejoined Annabel.

The two girls, at a table in the conversation room, were looking eagerly

at the page of a newspaper.

“Why, what’s the trouble?” asked Polly, who had been standing near the

window. “Has anybody had the bad taste to commit a murder, or burglary,

or some other crime? I see that you have a yellowish journal there.”

The two, absorbed in their paper, did not reply, and Polly drew near

them until she could read the headlines: “Is a College Education Worth

While for Girls?” “Lowering of the Standard by a University Professor to

meet the Demands of Woman.”

“Dear me!” cried Polly, “this does look interesting.”

“Yes,” responded Annabel, “read further and you will find it more so.

You can take the paper for a few minutes. I’m glad that I happened to

buy one in the Square when I came out from town.”

Polly sat down with the newspaper. Under the large headlines were others

in smaller type that showed that the professor to whom reference was

made was a Harvard professor, and then she began to read. Surely there

was something very familiar in what followed. It purported to be the

transcript of a few pages from the history note-book of a student at

Radcliffe. It was all very familiar. Why, of course! Clarissa’s notes!

No one who had ever gazed upon them could mistake the style. She

remembered having read this very lecture last year when preparing for

her examinations. Clarissa was always generous in lending her

note-books, and Polly had had the use of this for a day or two. But what

had seemed only funny within the covers of a note-book seemed very

impertinent thus exposed to the gaze of every one who cared to buy a

penny paper. Reading further, Polly learned that the article was copied

from an obscure magazine to which the Radcliffe notes had been sent with

a plaintive inquiry whether such lectures could greatly benefit woman.

“Poor Professor Z!” sighed Polly. “He certainly lectures in this style

sometimes. For my own part, I used to enjoy the colloquialisms, and he

used to give us so much besides that it isn’t fair to pillory him.”

“What do you think of Clarissa now?” asked Elizabeth Darcy.

“Clarissa?” repeated Polly. “What has she to do with it?”

Elizabeth shrugged her shoulders. “Most of us have seen Clarissa’s

note-books; if she didn’t write this, who did?”

“I won’t say that this is not Clarissa’s style, I won’t even say that

these are not her notes; but I will say that she didn’t print them.”

“I wish that I had your confidence in Clarissa.” Elizabeth spoke with an

accent of pity. “You must admit that she loves to make fun of people.”

“She is not half as bad as I am,” rejoined Polly, stoutly defending her

friend. “Why, I have even made fun of her,—that was before I knew her so

well. But she bore me no malice. In fact, she never takes revenge, and

there is malice in this article.”

“You admit that these are Clarissa’s notes, and yet you don’t think them

malicious.”

The last speaker was Annabel, who had joined the group.

“Come, Miss Harmon, be fair; it is one thing to write nonsense intended

only for one’s own eyes, and another to put it before the public.

Clarissa, I know, did not have the notes published.” Then Polly turned

away.

Polly was by no means comfortable as she left Fay House, and the better

to disprove the accusation made by Elizabeth, she went to the

stationer’s in the Square to buy a copy of the newspaper. It was the

last one to be had. “It’s been in the greatest demand,” explained the

attendant. “Some kind of a college article, I believe; I haven’t had

time to look at it myself.”

Polly folded the paper and walked down Brattle Street. “I believe I’ll

ask Clarissa point blank.” Polly had a slightly uncomfortable doubt as

she thought of the article, and it happened, as it so often does happen

in such cases, that when she met Clarissa she could not ask the

question. “If she hasn’t heard, it would only disturb her,” was her

excuse. Afterwards she was sorry that she had not at once gone to her.

Within twenty-four hours almost every one at Radcliffe had read the

article. Those who did not own papers borrowed them, and the critics and

partisans of Clarissa ranged themselves strongly on one side or the

other. Some, while blaming Clarissa for letting her notes get into

print, said that it was no more than Professor Z deserved, since the

tone of his lectures had never been sufficiently academic. Others were

glad that he was now absent on his Sabbatical year, for if he were

lecturing in Cambridge they were sure that his wrath would have been

pretty keenly felt. Ruth, of course, took Annabel Harmon’s view of the

affair. Julia, while loath to think that Clarissa had done this in a

spirit of malice, thought that she had allowed herself to be carried

away by the spirit of fun, without realizing that the whole thing was a

deflection from the straight line of honor. She and Pamela discussed the

matter at some length, and very quickly agreed that the relation of a

professor to a small class was a confidential relation, and that only an

instructor who was on very good terms with his class would talk to them

after the fashion of Professor Z. Consequently, to quote his direct

language was like telling family secrets.

Yet with it all nobody dared speak to Clarissa. They quoted what this

professor or that professor’s wife had said; how one had declared that

nothing would induce him to lecture at Radcliffe, how another had termed

this the natural result of trying to benefit women,—they would merely

hold up their benefactors to ridicule,—and still no one dared reprove

Clarissa. The Western girl wrapped herself in a forbidding manner, and

not even Polly dared speak of the article or its effects.

But one day, turning the matter over in her mind, she came to a

decision. “A party will be the very thing,” she said to herself, “and

Clarissa shall give it. Ruth and Julia and Lois Forsaith, oh, yes, and

Pamela, and two or three others,—as many as she can afford chairs

for,—it will be the very thing.”

Clarissa’s room was in a small, neat house in a neat side street. Her

landlady had other boarders, but she took a real interest in them all.

Clarissa’s room looked on a little yard filled with pear trees, and the

children of the neighborhood played constantly under her windows. This

did not disturb her, for her nerves were not near the surface. Sometimes

she called the children to her room and gave them a treat of fruit or

sweet things. Mrs. Freeman’s other boarders thought Clarissa rather

frivolous. One of them was a timid Freshman who studied unremittingly.

Two of the others were graduate students, delving into zoölogy, and

other “mussy sciences” (Clarissa’s phraseology), and the fifth was an

inoffensive Sophomore. The two graduates roomed together. Clarissa had

the best room in the house, but the Freshman had a small room under the

eaves. The Freshman sometimes complained that she had made a mistake,

and that she should have had a room in a lodging-house where she could

have boarded herself with the aid of a chafing-dish and gas stove.

“And starve to death, with nobody nigh to hinder,” said Clarissa. “I’m

glad that kind of thing is not encouraged at Radcliffe. But I wish that

you had the room on my floor, instead of those zoölogists. Often about

ten P.M. when I’ve finished studying I’d slip in and talk with you.

Sometimes I knock on the zoölogical door, but if they let me in I feel

like a criminal, for I can see that they are making a great effort to be

polite, while they wish me a thousand miles away. They like to study

well into the small hours, but as they pay for their own oil nobody can

well object. I’m not half as entertaining to them as those squirmy

things they keep in bottles. The only real gaiety in which they ever

indulge is an ethical discussion with Pamela; just imagine the

combination, ethics and zoölogy!”

The other girl laughed. “You might start a discussion at your party.”

“No, thank you, it’s to be a poster party, nothing more nor less

improving than posters will be considered worthy of mention.”

Clarissa had yielded to Polly’s plans for the party, understanding the

spirit in which it had been arranged. It had been talked of indefinitely

before the affair of the newspaper; and although Polly did not now

explain why she was so anxious to have her friend turn entertainer at

this particular time, Clarissa understood, and Polly knew that she

understood.

Nearly all who had been invited responded to Clarissa’s invitation, and

one windy evening they gathered very contentedly around the open fire in

her room. Clarissa’s room was as different as possible from Julia’s. To

its rather homely furnishings she had added various things that had

caught her fancy without regard to any scheme of art. There was a vivid

Navajo blanket over her couch, and two Indian baskets from the Southwest

on a bracket in a corner. Some Japanese fans were displayed over the

mantle-piece, and just above them hung in a black frame a fine

photograph of the Arch of Titus. But the other three walls, whether

beautiful or ugly in the matter of their everyday decorations, for this

evening were hidden by posters—posters large, small, ugly, beautiful,

covered every spot.

“I know,” said Clarissa, in explanation, after welcoming her guests, “I

know that posters have gone out of fashion. That is partly why I’ve

taken them up. I had thought of offering prizes to the girl who could

guess the artist of the largest number, but instead of that I’m going to

explain them myself. Lo! here is a pointer that I brought over from Fay

House this very afternoon.” So armed with the long wooden stick,

Clarissa moved about the room, explaining much after the fashion of an

auctioneer who has something to dispose of.

[Illustration: “Clarissa moved about the room, explaining”]

“This you will see is undoubtedly French. You could tell it by the

anatomy of the cats, if in no other way. Such creatures were never seen

on this side of the Atlantic. Jim got it for me. The real name of the

work of art is ‘Lait Pur Sterilisé;’” and as she paused for a moment,

they all gazed with fitting admiration on the child in a red dress

drinking from a bowl under the envious eyes of three cats.

“Well, it’s better,” said Polly, “than some of those greenery yallery

things. No wonder Aubrey Beardsley died young.”

“Oh, Polly, you artless creature, didn’t you dote on the Yellow Book?”

“Not I,” replied Polly. “I measured Mrs. Patrick Campbell as once

portrayed there, and in proportion to the length of her head as there

shown she must be about ten feet tall.”

“Why, Polly, I didn’t realize that you knew so much about Art.”

“Oh, I know more things than I am sometimes credited with,” and there

was an undertone of deeper meaning in Polly’s voice.

“Here’s a Grasset,” continued Clarissa, resuming her explanations.

“Isn’t it a beauty?”

“No, no, Clarissa,” said Julia, “I like this better;” and rising, she

put her hand on a poster with a Puritan maiden carrying mistletoe.

“You show your taste,” said Clarissa, “that’s a Rhead.” Though hung near

Dudley Hardy’s “Gaiety Girl” in poster land, the two did not seem

inharmonious neighbors. Not far from them was Bemliardt’s Jeanne d’Arc,

and for fifteen minutes or more Clarissa kept her friends amused with

the poster show. Before her art lecture was quite at an end, Julia as

assistant hostess had lit the lamp under the chafing-dish, and then when

the others found that fudge-making was the next thing on the programme,

each one wished to offer her own receipt, and to the great surprise of

the company it was found that each receipt varied a little from the

others.

“First you grate a pound of chocolate into the chafing-dish,” began

Polly.

“Oh, not a pound—half a pound at first,” interrupted Julia.

“It’s a great deal better to begin by melting your butter, and then put

in a pint of milk,” added Ruth.

“I never use any milk,” interposed Clarissa.

“Then you let it simmer half an hour,” resumed Polly.

“Oh, there isn’t any fixed length of time,” cried Ruth again; “just let

it cook until it’s done.”

“How do you know when it’s done?”

Then followed a Babel of voices, as each one told what she thought the

proper test; and a listener, I fear, who knew nothing of fudge-making,

would have had hard work to select a working receipt from the directions

given by these merry girls.

By the time the fudge was ready the ball had been set rolling, and it

was evident that Clarissa’s party was a success. While Ruth and Lois

were superintending a second chafing-dish, in which a rarebit was

preparing, Polly picked up a guitar and began to accompany herself, as

she sang the opening lines of one of the Radcliffe classics, “The

Mermaid.”

“That’s just the thing to cheer us up.”

“As if you needed cheering! But here it is!” And Polly struck the chords

with a firm hand, as she sang about the little mermaid who

“Could not even speak Acroparthianic Greek,

And she’d no instruction in Theology.

One day she found, as she swam around,

A Radcliffe catalogue,

Which shone afar like an evening star

From out the mist and fog.

She paused to rest on a billow’s crest,

In a wreath of sparkling foam,

And when she had read what the catalogue said,

She decided to leave her home.

She saw at once that she was a dunce

And ought to go to college.

So dressed in her best with a hat from Céleste,

She set out for the shrine of knowledge.

The cars were so filled she was almost killed,

But she found she could easily swim

Up Garden Street, that road so neat

That has Radcliffe on its brim.”

The last two lines were loudly applauded, for the mud of Garden Street

was constantly ridiculed by the college girls to be beyond description.

The song proceeded to describe the advent of the mermaid at Fay House:

“She told her race, and her boarding-place,

And her age (less a year, maybe),

But when the question came,

‘What’s your grandma’s middle name?’

She wept and turned to flee.”

“The regular Boston question,” said Clarissa, with an expression of

scorn.

“Don’t interrupt,” cried Ruth, as Polly sang the chorus of each verse.

“Oh, the ocean swell is all very well

For frivolous sport and play,

But the cultured mind you’ll seldom find

Beneath the salt sea spray.”

Other songs followed this,—the “Hunting Song” from the “Princess

Perfection,” snatches from one or two real operas; and at last as they

sat around the open fire drinking lemonade—for the rarebit was now a

thing of the past—Clarissa turned down the lights, and proposed that

they should tell weird stories. No one of the eight or nine present was

excused. Even Ernestine Dunton had to do her part, and she had unbent to

an extent that was astonishing to Ruth and Clarissa; for in the

preceding year when she had been their Senior adviser, she had seemed

the personification of seriousness. She was now back at Radcliffe as a

graduate student, and in certain ways she had begun to unbend.

As her friends bade her good-night, Clarissa knew that her party had

been a success; for Polly, lingering a little behind the others, put out

her hand and whispered, “You know that we don’t believe that you did

that foolish thing, don’t you?” and Clarissa, returning the pressure,

replied, “Of course you could not believe it.”

XVII

A PRIVATE DETECTIVE

In spite of the surface frivolity, there was in Polly a strong vein of

common sense. Therefore, as she thought more and more deeply about the

newspaper article she became convinced that great injustice had been

done Clarissa. She was naturally puzzled, for the notes so unkindly

quoted were certainly from the Kansas girl’s note-book. Only too well

she remembered having read them herself, and having laughed at some of

the hits. But how had the newspaper obtained them? Without having talked

with Clarissa directly, without having had more than the whispered word

at the party, she yet knew that the Kansas girl was not to blame. She

began to set her wits at work. To solve the mystery she must turn

private detective.

One Wednesday afternoon she dropped into the pleasant drawing-room at

Fay House; “the most homelike place,” she often said, “this side of

Atlanta.” Indeed, many other Radcliffe girls were in the habit of saying

the same thing, only instead of Atlanta they named Pittsburg, or Topeka,

or Kalamazoo, or, in short, the particular city or town which each

called her home.

“The first month I was in Cambridge,” Polly had said to the President,

“I was right smart homesick and miserable. I felt like I couldn’t stand

it. But when I came in here, and saw you seated at the tea-table, beside

the open fire, I felt like I were with my grandmother, and that this was

a place where I could lay aside all my forlornness. You don’t mind my

comparing you to my grandmother? I reckon it isn’t perfectly polite.”

But the widow of the great scientist, who was proud to admit her

threescore years and ten, smiled with her accustomed grace, saying in

reply:

“No, indeed, my dear, I am only complimented by the comparison.”

Nor was Polly the only one who felt the restful influence of the

drawing-room at Fay House; the quaint old-fashioned room, with its oval

ends, curving outward, with its dull green satiny wall-paper, and the

old-time couch and easy-chairs covered in flowered crimson.

Girls who entered it for the first time were impressed by the dainty

silver and china of the tea-table, and they would turn from the

life-size portrait of Mrs. Agassiz between the windows to the majestic

figure of the President herself presiding over the teacups, and neither

picture nor living figure suffered by the comparison.

On this particular Wednesday afternoon, not so very long after the

publication of the alleged lecture of Professor Z in the yellow journal,

Polly, after paying her respects to Mrs. Agassiz, seated herself at the

further side of the room. She did not linger as was her wont around the

tea-table, for two distinguished guests had entered just behind her. One

was a Frenchwoman, of international reputation, and the other a

distinguished Englishman, making a study of our institutions. The former

was accompanied by a well-known member of the Harvard Faculty, and the

latter by two Bostonians whom he was visiting.

“Isn’t it just lovely,” said a little Freshman seated near Polly, “to

see such great people? That’s what I like about Boston and Cambridge.

You’re always meeting people who seem to belong in books.”

“Yes,” replied Polly mockingly, “it’s a liberal education just to look

at them. Let’s talk French, and see if our accent improves through

breathing the same atmosphere with Madame X.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean exactly that,” replied the Freshman, “only we

certainly _do_ learn things here that we couldn’t get out of books.”

“Yes, yes, dear, you’re certainly right, and I only wish that we could

get yon Englishman to tell us how he manages to wear that monocle, and

yet look perfectly happy.”

The Freshman glanced at Polly to see if she was in earnest, and made

some remark to which Polly returned no answer.

Polly’s thoughts indeed had begun to wander, sent off by a word or two

from a girl standing with her back to her.

“She hasn’t found it out yet, or she wouldn’t speak to her,” were the

words that fell on her ear. Looking toward the door she saw that

Clarissa had just entered, and had paused for a moment to say a word to

Annabel, who as usual was the centre of an admiring group.

Clarissa passed on to pay her respects to the President; and while Polly

was reflecting on what she had heard, she saw the girls in the group

leave Annabel one by one to join Clarissa, standing at the other side of

the fireplace. Annabel frowned as she moved toward Polly’s corner. She

and the girl with her did not notice Polly, for they stood with their

backs to her.

“Yes, it is rather bold—really very bold, but she never cares what any

one thinks. She has so much—so much—”

“Effrontery, I should call it,” replied the other, who was well known to

be a worshipper of a rising star, such as Annabel was now supposed to

be. “But I know that you never like to say anything disagreeable.”

“Well, of course, one should be very careful;” and Annabel sighed the

sigh of the needlessly perfect person.

Upon this, Polly, rising suddenly, faced around, and with a hasty nod to

Annabel joined Clarissa at the other side of the room.

The few apparently unimportant words that she had heard had helped her

far along with her detective work. She could not, however, altogether

conceal her feelings, and slipping her arm through Clarissa’s, she led

her back toward Annabel and her friends.

“Behold the rising star!” she exclaimed; “for of course,” she added in

explanation, “you’ve heard that Clarissa is to have leading part in

Julia’s operetta.”

“Why, Polly,” said Clarissa, “I had not—”

“Don’t contradict,” responded Polly, “our plans are made, and there

isn’t a question but that you have the most manly tone, and gait, and—”

“Why, Annabel, I thought that you were to have the chief part!”

interposed her friend.

“Oh, she’ll be in it,” rejoined Polly, in a somewhat patronizing tone,

assumed for the occasion, “if not in the chief part.”

Then she moved away, still leaning on Clarissa’s arm, and Annabel had no

chance to retort. The foreign guests had gone to inspect the other parts

of Fay House, and the drawing-room was filling with girls whose lectures

for the day had ended.

“Oh, Polly,” cried Clarissa, as the two friends left the room, after

paying their respects to the President and Dean. “Why, Polly, I can’t

act; I don’t belong with those girls at all. Ruth Roberts, you know,

barely tolerates me, and she’s to be the manager.”

“Nonsense, she isn’t the whole thing. Besides, I happen to know that she

_does_ want you.”

“What about Annabel?”

“Well, we can’t really leave her out. Her voice isn’t remarkable, but

she acts pretty well; and since she’s been playing with the Cambridge

Dramatic Club, she’s been considered our representative actor. Besides,

she’s a great friend of Ruth’s.”

“I know it,” responded Clarissa. “You surely ought to have Annabel; but

can I pull all right with those girls?”

“Of course, and I am to be a dapper little dandy. Though we are to be

rivals in love, we can support each other.”

So at last Clarissa yielded, and after the mid-years, rehearsals went on

pretty rapidly. There were, after all, several good parts in the

operetta; and Ruth, viewing everything with the critical eye of a

business manager, was certain that the performance would bring even more

than she had hoped.

“Clarissa herself wouldn’t be so bad,” said Ruth one evening, as she and

Julia sat in the study after dinner, “but I can’t say that I like her

friends. She has a rather scrubby lot of hangers-on. Look at those two

this afternoon!”

“Why, I saw nothing to criticise.”

“You never do, Julia, but they certainly hadn’t a word to say for

themselves, and their clothes were frightful. Clarissa’s red coat is bad

enough, but she is rather fine-looking, and she is so decidedly unlike

any one else that you don’t have to apologize for her. But those others

were so—so nondescript.”

“Ruth,” exclaimed Julia, with a shade of reproach, “you have changed

very much the past year. You used to think Belle’s exclusiveness silly,

but you are tending that way yourself.”

“You are not in earnest!”

“Of course, you’ll never be just like Belle. But you have begun to think

too much about appearances.”

“But you are too amiable, Julia. As we can’t be intimate with all the

girls we meet, we might as well choose the most congenial. We can’t let

all kinds of girls take up our time.”

“My time isn’t so valuable. I can spare a little even to all kinds of

girls.”

“Yes, but even on Mondays, sometimes, there are such queer girls. They

make an unfavorable impression on people from town who call. Don’t you

remember when Mrs. Blair came out? Now, if she had only met Annabel

Harmon or Elizabeth Darcy, how different it would have been!”

“Annabel Harmon!” Julia wondered why she so disliked Ruth’s intimacy

with Annabel, for Annabel was a popular girl, hardly less so than

Elizabeth Darcy. She was well-bred and interesting. “I never can

thoroughly trust any one who spends her spare time reading French

books,” Clarissa had said laughingly, although Julia would have

hesitated to put it quite so definitely.

Ruth, however, was apparently fascinated by Annabel, and constantly

quoted her with admiration. Annabel had a dislike for plain things and

plain people. By this, she was careful to explain, she did not mean

necessarily things that were ugly or people who were poor. “_Some_ ugly

things are really very beautiful, and some poor people are far from

plain. The only kind of plainness that I object to is commonness; I hate

ordinary things.”

Yet if any one had taken the trouble to note down the things that

Annabel called “common,” it would have been found that in her eyes these

were the inexpensive things, and the girls whom she described as

ordinary were usually those who were not rich either in money or

influential connections.

Julia saw that Ruth’s intimacy with Annabel had made a change in her,

not altogether to be commended.

“I wish you liked Lois Forsaith as well as you like Annabel. I do wish

that she had a little more fun. She takes life so seriously. Really, I

can’t understand it. I should die, or at least I should want to, if I

had as much to do.”

“She has only four courses this year.”

“Oh, I do not mean her studies entirely, but at home. She has a certain

amount of housework to do. She helps her two younger brothers with their

lessons, and she always has some regular sewing on hand.”

“Really!” exclaimed Ruth in some surprise. Julia had never said much to

her about Lois’ family.

“They say that Lois would have had the highest record in the class last

year if she hadn’t stayed out to nurse her little sister. It was just

before the finals, and she had to lose one of her examinations.”

“Couldn’t she make it up?” asked Ruth.

“Oh, she will have a chance, but of course it makes a difference in her

year’s record.”

“I never feel quite sure of Lois,” said Ruth. “She always has that

far-away manner, as if she were looking right over your head. I am never

sure that she remembers me.”

“Why, I have not noticed that,” responded Julia. “I think her

delightful. She shakes hands so warmly, and she always says something

worth hearing.”

“But I don’t think that she’s a really popular girl.”

“That’s not to her discredit. Popularity is no evidence of—of—”

And Julia hesitated, seemingly at a loss for a word.

“True greatness,” interposed Ruth. “No, popularity is not a test of true

greatness. But I would not say that Lois is unpopular.”

“If Lois could, she would take a larger part in our social life,” added

Julia. “It’s very hard for a girl to live at home while she’s going to

college. It’s like serving two masters, and one of them has to suffer.

Lois will get the most possible out of her studies, but she can’t be

interested in every little thing.”

“You’re a regular champion,” and Ruth threw a kiss to Julia, as she

turned to leave the room.

XVIII

WORK AND PLAY

The added strain of rehearsals was more, perhaps, than some of the

performers ought to have had. But few of them neglected lectures, and

they buoyed themselves with the hope that all this work would be over

before the middle of May, when they could devote themselves wholly to

study.

Julia, perhaps, felt the strain more than the others. To do the operetta

justice she gave up many things that she would have enjoyed. Rehearsals

came so often on Fridays that she was rather glad that this year she had

not attempted to attend the Symphony rehearsals in the City. She had

taken four tickets for the Cambridge course, and Ruth and Mrs. Colton

regularly accompanied her. The use of the fourth ticket she offered from

time to time to various girls who had not subscribed for the course.

She had had to draw the line at social gaieties, although she made

occasional exceptions, as, for instance, in the case of the coming-out

parties of Brenda and Nora. She entered into both of these affairs with

the zest of a débutante, and was greeted cordially by a number of those

of whom she had seen so much during her first year in Boston. But she

noticed that some of Brenda’s special friends either avoided her or

treated her with a deference that made her uncomfortable, since her

years did not seem to warrant it.

“It’s because you know so much,” Brenda had explained. “They’re afraid

of you.”

“Well, they needn’t be. I’m sure that I never display my knowledge, and

besides, I haven’t much to display. They’d find it out if they’d talk

with me.”

“Oh, Julia! You do know a tremendous amount. I feel all shrivelled up

when I think of it. Besides, every one has heard about the operetta. I

feel proud enough, I can tell you, when any one speaks to me about it.”

“You used to object to a learned cousin.”

“I don’t now, as long as she doesn’t make her learning a reproach to me.

That’s one thing very nice about you, Julia, you never scold me for not

going to college.”

“You may come to it yet. Besides, you are studying this winter, are you

not?”

“Now, Julia, don’t ask me how many times I’ve gone to my Literature

class. There’s so often a luncheon or something more interesting that

comes the same day, and when there isn’t I’m too tired to enjoy it. So

I’ve missed more or less, but there’s a Current Events on Mondays and

I’m always there. It gives me something to talk about, and I’m thankful

enough, with a stupid partner, to fall back on Armenian atrocities, or

the Abolition of the House of Lords, or even the Silver Question.”

“A little learning is a dangerous thing,” quoted Julia, and Brenda

replied brightly:

“But less is more dangerous, and Nora says—there, that reminds me, have

you heard of the engagement?”

“Not Nora’s?” queried Julia.

“No, indeed. Nora says that she’s going to Radcliffe next year, and she

isn’t likely to let herself be interfered with by anything so frivolous

as an engagement. But I should think that you might have guessed. It’s

Frances.”

“I’ve had suspicions,” responded Julia, “from a letter Frances wrote me

some time ago.”

“Yes, she’s always been so chummy with you since that time she thinks

you saved her life. But I was surprised, and isn’t it funny that he’s a

minister, at least he’s going to be? This is his last year in the

Divinity School. Just imagine Frances a minister’s wife!”

“It would have been harder to imagine a year or two ago.”

“Yes, Frances has changed since that accident, and then, of course, he’s

her second cousin—or third—and she can do lots of good with her money,”

Brenda concluded somewhat incoherently.

Although Julia did not go to many parties, she yet had more or less

enjoyment from certain phases of Boston life. Her aunt’s house was still

“home,” and thither she went every Saturday. Many Radcliffe students,

like their fellow-students at the University, were surprised to find

that Saturday was not a holiday, and that only by a skilful arrangement

of courses could one have the day free. But on Saturday afternoon, all

who could went home or paid visits. At her aunt’s behest Julia often

took with her one guest or another to the Beacon Street house, and often

after dinner a little party went to a reading, or a lecture by some

great authority, or to a musicale. Julia always regretted that Pamela

could so seldom be one of her Saturday guests. But Pamela, who, in this

her second year at Miss Batson’s, was less sensitive than formerly about

her position, was apt to say laughingly that Sunday was her busy day,

since all the young ladies were then at home.

She might have added that she never liked to miss the Sunday morning

service in the little Memorial Chapel beyond the Washington Elm. There,

as in other churches, seats were reserved for Radcliffe students. The

music and the liturgy, so unlike the simple Congregational service to

which she had been accustomed, rested and helped her, and she atoned for

departing from the rigid forms of her father’s church by holding a

little Bible Class at Miss Batson’s on Sunday afternoon. There in the

dining-room she collected three or four small girls from the quarry

district some distance away, and gave them a helping hand, and taught

them many things that they could hardly have learned from books. No

wonder that she could not accept Julia’s invitations! If she had had no

other reasons she would have plead that she was not in touch with the

young circle that gathered in Mrs. Barlow’s hospitable house.

Occasionally she went there to dine on Saturday. This was usually after

she had paid a visit to the Art Museum, where her beloved Tanagra

figures and the Parthenon friezes still charmed her. She had had some

scruples this year in electing Fine Arts, for she knew that it was

considered one of the soft courses chosen by certain students more

anxious to get marks than to learn. But if many other students had taken

Fine Arts in Pamela’s spirit, it would soon have ceased to be a

reproach. For she verified every statement in her text-book, and looked

up every reference made by her professor, and some of her friends

laughingly plead with her not to set the standard so high, as henceforth

every student taking the course would be expected to do equally well.

Pamela was not in the operetta, for the artistic side of her nature had

not been developed in the direction of music. Yet from time to time she

looked in at rehearsals. She was proud of Julia’s work, for she felt as

if no success could be too great for one who had been so kind to her.

She was fond of Polly, too, and she had enough good sense not to be

offended even when the laugh was directed against the class of girls of

which she herself was a type. For though she was only one of many who

were at Radcliffe for study exclusively, she felt that she could bear a

little ridicule, since the butterflies themselves were sure to come in

for a share.

She was interested, too, in Clarissa’s part in the operetta; and

although she knew that many otherwise charitable girls had held Clarissa

in suspicion since the publication of the newspaper article, she, too,

like Polly, had more faith in the Western girl. She even thought of

doing a little detective work herself, in a quiet way.

One mild morning in early May a group of girls stood at the foot of the

side entrance to Fay House. “Get your hats! get your hats!” cried Polly,

approaching the group from the house. “I’m going home for the largest

hat I own, and I intend to tie it on with a veil.”

Clarissa and one or two of the other hatless girls began to ask Polly

her meaning. But Polly, declining to answer, walked off with a paper,

apparently a letter, held dramatically to her heart.

Clarissa followed her to the shade of a tree at the edge of the tennis

ground, and there Polly read the note to her:

“My dear Miss Porson,—May I see you Friday or Saturday between nine

and eleven o’clock.”

And the signature was that of the Dean.

“Yes,” said Polly reminiscently, “it’s true that I’ve been walking

hatless to the Square,—like several others I could mention,” and she

glanced significantly toward Clarissa.

“But you ought to know,” said Elspeth Gray, who had joined them, “that

that isn’t the thing in a conventional place like Cambridge.”

“Yes, but going without a hat seems to be in the direction of the plain

living and high thinking toward which we’re always encouraged.”

“But what did the Dean say to you, Polly? I cannot imagine her being

unduly severe.”

“She wasn’t severe. She couldn’t be. I left her feeling not that I had

been reproved, but simply advised.”

“Was nothing said about sitting on the stairs? I saw you on the landing

yesterday, and some of our instructors complain bitterly of this. They

say that it is too much like the behavior of schoolgirls, and—”

“As long as they express their feelings merely in words,” responded

Clarissa, “I can bear it. I wish that they would bestow our marks upon

us in words. A postal card is so much harder to bear when it is stamped

officially, ‘French Department. Your mark in French 11 is C.’ The big,

blue ‘C’ that they make of such an enormous size, sprawled across the

card.”

“I never mind,” said Elizabeth, who had joined the others.

“Nor would we,” responded Clarissa politely, “if our marks, like yours,

were most likely ‘A.’ You see the postmen, like the policemen and the

car conductors in this cultured community, set a value on real

intellect, and I hate to have them know that I am not at the very head

of my class. I don’t wish to sail under false pretences, but I should be

happier if my instructors would only spare me the big, blue ‘C.’ It

always makes me feel giddy, as the English say.”

“Oh, Clarissa, you’d pun if you were dying.”

“Well, I can afford to be cheerful, for I’ve had an invitation,” and she

read from a card that she drew from a note-book, “Le Cercle Français de

l’Université Harvard requests the pleasure of your presence on Tuesday

evening, May 17.”

“You are in luck. I hear that it is to be a delightful affair; but now

before we go home for our hats, let us stroll over to Vaughan House, and

patronize Mrs. Hogan and her buns.”

A luncheon-room had been fitted up in Vaughan House, a dwelling recently

bought by the Radcliffe Corporation. It was only a step from Fay House,

across the little campus, and both inside and out it preserved the

aspect of a comfortable dwelling. The lunch-room, to be sure, had small

wood tables of true restaurant style and a counter; and the coffee and

chocolate were drawn from metal reservoirs, with spigots, in true

restaurant fashion.

The three friends, for Elizabeth had not come with them, sat at a table

beside an old graduate, who was spending the year in Cambridge for

post-graduate work.

“Why, it doesn’t seem long,” she said, “since we used to carry our own

sandwiches to Fay House in a little pasteboard box, and feel extremely

thankful for the cup of hot tea or chocolate brought by the housekeeper

to the little room back of the conversation room. If she went off before

we could pay her, we would hide our dimes or half-dimes in the sugar

bowl, and she always trusted us as we trusted her.”

“Can you remember the very beginning of Radcliffe?” asked Polly, “when

it was called ‘The Annex’?”

“I wasn’t here myself, then,” said the other, smiling; “that was in

1879, but my sister came a year or two later, when the classes met

either at the houses of the professors or in the little house in Appian

Way. The library, I believe, comprised two or three shelves of books in

another house, and a course with half a dozen students was considered

extremely large.”

“Just think of it!”

“My own experience goes back to 1886 when we moved into Fay House. But

it was so different then. I sometimes wonder if you students of to-day

realize your advantages.”

“I rather think that we have more fun,” said Polly. “I am afraid that

you used to take life too seriously.”

The older girl smiled.

“We had to be very much in earnest because we felt that if we made our

college work secondary to social interests we were likely to be

criticised. The college girl was not so numerous then as she is now, and

she was a target for almost any one who wished to criticise her. But I

don’t blame you undergraduates for getting all the fun you can, and your

music and your athletics in many ways must be very beneficial.”

“She means you, Clarissa. She has heard what an ornament you are to the

R. A. A.,” cried Polly.

“Oh, no; you mean Polly, do you not?” asked Clarissa of the graduate.

“You have heard of her prowess as an actor, and then you know she’s

written nearly all the book for the operetta. The rest of us have just

put in a few jokes.”

“I have had my eye on you both,” responded the older girl, “and I

approve of you, for you have not yet begun to make study secondary to

fun.”

Nor was the graduate wrong in her criticism. While work may have been to

a certain extent neglected by the actors and singers in the operetta in

the weeks immediately preceding the performance, they all knew that when

the rehearsals were over they would work with redoubled energy.

The advance sale of tickets was so good that Ruth went about with a

beaming face. She was interested in the North End reading-room to a

rather unusual extent, and had set her heart on their clearing five

hundred dollars from the two performances.

A week before the last rehearsal Julia had asked Angelina to spend all

her time in Cambridge. There were so many little things that she could

do in helping the girls about their costuming that it seemed as well to

have her near for a week or two. Angelina could be spared, and Julia

knew that the week or two in Cambridge would be almost as thoroughly a

treat to her as a trip to New York to many another girl. Angelina had

become more reconciled to her life at Shiloh, although she still

continued to say frankly that she would prefer the city. Yet she had so

enjoyed being of acknowledged use to her mother, and Julia had so

praised her for her growing skill in housekeeping, that she was almost

reconciled to her quiet life. All “The Four” had continued their

interest in the Rosas. Brenda and Nora had provided their Christmas

tree, with assistance, of course, from Julia. Julia had planned a little

collection of books arranged in two or three small travelling libraries

for the use of the Rosas and their neighbors, and when a check of good

size came from Edith, to be applied to the use of the family, there was

hardly any evident need to supply.

Edith and her parents were in Europe. They had felt keenly the fact that

Philip had left college under a cloud, and it was even rumored that they

might stay away another year. Julia, naturally enough, thought often of

Philip, for that last interview with him had been rather thrilling, and

while many of her friends were planning for the coming Class Day, she

had made up her mind to leave Cambridge as soon as she could after the

examinations. “If I live through the operetta,” she said to herself, for

she felt the strain of the last rehearsals. When she thought of Philip,

putting even the most charitable construction on his silence, it seemed

as if he might have written to her.

Indeed it was only by a chance word dropped by Nora and other girls that

she heard anything about him. They had their information from their

brothers or some of their friends. Julia herself might have heard more

directly had she been willing to bring up Philip’s name to Tom Hearst or

some of his friends. But she would not ask questions, feeling as she did

that Philip might have kept her informed of his whereabouts. Yet she

knew that he had spent the most of the winter on a ranch in South

Dakota, not so very far from the Black Hills; and when reports of the

extreme cold in that region came to Eastern readers, who wondered how

Philip enjoyed this rather hard life—Philip who had been used to all the

luxuries provided for a rich man’s son at Harvard. But Philip did not

write, and Julia would not ask even Ruth about him, although Ruth and

Will Hardon were great friends.

XIX

THE OPERETTA

It was the last rehearsal but one, not the dress rehearsal, but the

“half-dressed rehearsal,” as Clarissa called it. At the dress rehearsal

a large number of undergraduates, and special friends of the performers

were to be admitted, and then was to come the performance from which so

much was hoped. But the dress rehearsal would be so much like a real

performance that the present occasion was regarded as something very

important.

Nearly all the chorus were wearing the short peasant skirt, and strutted

about seeming on the whole well pleased with their own appearance. But

the prima donnas were in ordinary attire, for their bespangled robes

were too elaborate to be dragged about on the dusty stage. Polly and

Ruth in bicycle skirts were rushing among the players, now giving

directions to this one, then to that.

“You must stand better, and do come nearer to the front; and when Miss

Harmon is singing, look toward her. You are supposed to be hanging on

every word of hers (which we’re not usually in reality).”

The last words, of course, were _sotto voce_, and the chorus for the

time being made a great effort to obey the energetic Ruth. Occasionally

some girl, forgetting how much depended on her, would draw her neighbor

aside for a tête-à-tête, to the great annoyance of the energetic

managers.

Julia, in her chair in the centre of the floor below the stage, held the

score, and from time to time contributed her word of criticism. But she

was glad enough to have Clarissa and Annabel and Polly and Ruth bear the

most responsibility, as it troubled her to have to pay too much

attention to details. Clarissa and Annabel were lovers in the play, and

to Polly this seemed rather ridiculous, feeling as she did that she had

special insight into the dislike of Annabel for Clarissa. Clarissa,

however, seemed unaware that Annabel was less than friendly; and

although the latter was not always as perfectly amiable as the Princess

in a light opera ought to be, the rehearsals had, on the whole, passed

off pretty well. Polly herself, as it happened, was almost the centre of

interest in the play. This had come about by accident rather than by

actual intention on the part of Julia. She was a disguised Queen,

disguised as a youth of humble birth, who had escaped from court for a

frolic, whose grace and wit carried everything before her. Although she

was apparently Clarissa’s rival for a while, everything was explained

when at the very end her disguise was revealed. The operetta abounded in

pleasing duets, bright dialogues, and witty hits and gibes. But the

jokes and hits were never bitter nor purely personal. They were directed

against the peculiarities of certain groups of students rather than

against the students themselves. Cambridge, too, came in for its share

of ridicule, although the jokes on this subject were rather threadbare,

as they had all been used in other years by Harvard or Radcliffe

undergraduates, in their dramatic performances or college publications.

On the whole, it was a composite production rather than the work of any

one individual. Even in the matter of the music, Julia had accepted more

than one suggestion made by her friends, and in one or two instances she

had composed the words of the lyric, while Polly had composed the music.

In the work of composing and arranging the operetta there had been

really no friction, and all had been eager to make the affair a success.

On this day, when the final performances were so near, there was hardly

a girl who did not rejoice that they had come to the end of their weeks

of work. Ruth was particularly gratified as they turned away from the

hall. She gave a hop, skip, and a jump, undignified, perhaps, for a

Sophomore, though expressive of her feeling.

“Hundreds of dollars!” she cried. “My dreams have been filled with them

since yesterday, and we have sold nearly all our tickets.”

“But there will be expenses, dear child. You mustn’t forget that,” said

Polly, who was one of the group.

“Oh, of course, but there will be enough left. I’m glad, too, that the

whole performance will be so creditable, and we ought to be thankful

enough that no one has been ill, or for any other reason obliged to give

up her part. Anything like that would drive me to distraction, for we

have no understudies.”

“Oh,” said Julia, “every one has given every one else so much advice

that I am sure that any one who has watched the rehearsals could take

the part of some other girl at a moment’s notice.”

“I’m not so sure,” responded Ruth, accepting her friend more seriously

than the latter intended. “One or two of the parts might, perhaps, be

taken, but not Polly’s. She puts a new touch in at almost every

rehearsal, and honestly, I think that she has made the thing the success

that it is. Excuse me, Julia, I didn’t mean that we owe more to the

performers than to the composer.”

“Why, indeed,” replied Julia, “I understand exactly what you mean, and

it is fortunate that Polly’s father was not as ill as she feared a week

or two ago, for if she had had to go South it would have made a great

difference to us.”

Nor were the girls wrong in their expectations. The dress rehearsal went

off with all the sparkle and life that they had hoped. The regular

performance they felt to be a more trying occasion than the rehearsal,

for the audience included so many persons from Boston, as well as from

Cambridge, whose judgment carried great weight. But critical or not,

they were thoroughly appreciative of the pretty operetta. More than once

were the singers and actors called before the curtain; and had Julia not

been too modest, she, too, would have answered the calls that were made

for her. Some of those who were not ardent admirers of Annabel were

pleased that she did not—apparently could not—eclipse Polly and

Clarissa. Sweet though her voice was, it was not powerful, and her

self-consciousness often spoiled the effect of her acting. Brenda, of

course, was at the play, and a large party of her gay young friends from

the City. In the party were Tom and Will and a number of college men,

and Julia, sitting among them, felt that she was almost as merry in

spirit as they. Yet more than the praises of these young people, Julia

appreciated those of her uncle and aunt who sat in the tier of seats

just behind; for her aunt was apparently satisfied by the commendation

she received for the operetta that her devotion to her work was not

going to separate her entirely from young people of her own age.

“But this operetta, my dear, is on the whole so frivolous that I have

some hope that college is not going to deprive you entirely of your

interest in society.”

At the close of the performance, as the actors stood behind the scenes

listening to the commendations of their friends, a telegraph messenger

pushed his way among them with a dispatch for Polly.

Polly’s color faded as she heard him ask for her, and she turned to

Julia with an appealing “Read it” as she laid the slip of yellow paper

in her hand.

Quickly grasping its contents, Julia threw her arms around her friend.

“Come, my carriage is ready.”

But the carriage did not appear for more than five minutes, during which

Polly’s sobs were painful to hear.

“It’s her father,” explained Clarissa to a group of girls who had

withdrawn some distance from the weeping Polly. “He died this morning,

according to the telegram.”

“This morning!” cried one of the girls. “Then it’s a wonder that she

wasn’t notified earlier. Why, it takes no time for a telegram to travel

from Atlanta to Boston.”

“A telegram!” cried Ruth, who had just come behind the scenes; “why,

that reminds me. But what’s the matter with Polly?”

“Why, she’s just had news of her father’s death, and she must feel

dreadfully to think that she has been acting this evening, for he died,

they say, this morning.”

While Elspeth was speaking Ruth had turned very pale. She put her hand

in her little velvet chatelaine and drew out a yellow envelope,

apparently another telegram. Without a word to the others she walked up

to Polly and Julia.

“This is a telegram that came early in the evening, before we began; you

ought to have had it.”

But Polly did not wait for further explanation; she tore open the

envelope. Then after reading the telegram, she thrust it inside her

dress.

“I cannot forgive you,” she cried. “How could you let me sing? My father

died to-day, and what will they think of me when they hear that I sang

just the same! I will not forgive you.”

The stern words were followed by violent sobs.

This outburst was so unlike the lively, amiable Polly that her friends

were only too glad when Julia’s carriage was announced; and leaning on

Clarissa’s arm, she was led away, closely followed by Julia.

The girls who were left behind speculated as to what Polly would do;

whether she would start for home immediately; whether her feeling would

continue to be bitter toward Ruth for withholding the telegram.

“Yet it doesn’t seem altogether like Ruth,” said Elspeth. “Fond as I am

of Polly, I feel that there may be some mistake. I am sure that Ruth

could not have known about the telegram; could not possibly have held it

from Polly if she knew what was in it.”

But unluckily among those whose thoughts were favorable to Ruth, Julia

was not to be counted. Her disapproval of Ruth’s intimacy with Annabel

now seemed to have been well founded. She felt sure that unintentionally

Ruth had adopted Annabel’s rather easy standards of duty to others. “The

greatest good of the greatest number,” Annabel was apt to offer as an

excuse for some action which other girls called selfish. For when

criticised she would try to prove that while one or perhaps two girls

were injured by something that she had said or done, an indefinite

number of indefinite people would approve, and therefore might be

benefited by it. Annabel had a smattering of philosophy, as she had of

other subjects, obtained before studying them; and had she learned more

of the philosopher whom she quoted almost unconsciously, she would have

known that above all other rules he set the Golden Rule. To do unto

others as she would have others do to her was certainly not a guiding

star of Annabel’s conduct.

Thus, after all, there had been an element of tragedy in the operetta

that had once meant only sunshine to those who were working and planning

for it. Polly Porson, speeding Southward, would have felt doubly forlorn

had not Clarissa been with her. For the Western girl had insisted on

going with her friend, and though her absence from Cambridge at this

time meant some loss in the coming examinations, she would not have

listened had any one attempted to dissuade her from going. She did her

part, too, in softening Polly’s feeling toward Ruth, and she was

surprised to find how earnestly she could champion the cause of a girl

who had so often seemed anything but friendly toward her. But while she

knew that Ruth had taken no pains to conceal a certain dislike for her,

she realized that it was a case of mere personal antipathy,

unaccountable, perhaps, as such things often are, or to be accounted for

by the fact that in every way the two girls had received a very

different training.

“But I’m sure that Ruth wouldn’t do a mean thing, and to have kept that

telegram from you would have been mean beyond description.”

Polly, absorbed in her sorrow, and thinking more about the meeting with

her mother and little sisters, had little to say, although firmly fixed

in her mind was the thought that Ruth really had served her own ends by

holding the telegram from her.

Clarissa was soon back at Cambridge, and by good luck lost not a single

examination through her absence. She would not even admit that her

sudden trip, by interfering with her study, had lowered her standing.

When the blue-books were all in she was able to announce triumphantly

that her average was higher than ever before. “Which proves,” she had

said to Elspeth, “that cramming is a luxury and not a necessity.”

Julia did not stay in Cambridge this spring for either the Radcliffe or

the Harvard Class Days. She went with her aunt and Brenda to New Haven

for the ball game, where Arthur Weston was their host; and although he

was as polite as he could be, Julia knew that all his interest was

really in Brenda. Arthur, whose brother had married Brenda’s sister, was

fond of calling Brenda sister-in-law, and for the same reason he had

adopted Julia as a cousin. By a strange coincidence, he, like Philip,

had failed to take his degree the preceding June. This was due to

ill-health, which had kept him from college part of the year. But unlike

Philip, he had been willing to take his place with the next class, and

indeed seemed as well pleased as if graduating with his own class.

Brenda’s disposition, too, was as volatile as Arthur’s, and she carried

a blue parasol, wore blue flowers, and altogether seemed to have

forgotten the existence of Harvard and her former love for Harvard red.

It was hard for Julia to understand such heartlessness as this,—for so

she had to regard it,—as until very lately all Brenda’s college feeling

had been for Harvard. Yet Brenda herself would not admit that it was

really a strong personal preference for Arthur that had made her forego

her Harvard allegiance. She fell back on the excuse of relationship, and

on the fact that she had caused the accident which had finally resulted

in Arthur’s losing a year at college.

“For although he knows that it was an accident, still it certainly was

my bicycle that hurt his foot, and I ought to make up by showing all the

interest I can in his college. Between us,” she added confidentially, “I

think that Harvard Class Day is really more fun; still, I’m having about

the best time of my life here at New Haven, although I do not quite see

why it should be.”

But Julia understood, and Mrs. Barlow understood, and they smiled

indulgently when they saw the two young people strolling off under the

New Haven elms.

When the gaiety of the late spring was over, Julia was glad to be back

again at Rockley. She needed rest, and she had the good sense to spend

her summer quietly. In the early autumn, with her aunt and uncle, she

made a tour of the mountains, and the keen air put her in even better

trim for her autumn’s work.

XX

JUNIORS

To follow all the happenings in the college course would take more time

than may well be given now. The beginning of the Junior year found Julia

and her friends all so accustomed to college life that they could hardly

imagine themselves existing without a well-planned scheme of work. As

Juniors, they were more constantly deferred to by the girls in the two

lower classes, and they could not but realize that they were near the

Senior class, and that at the end of another year they would be almost

at the end of their college course. Many new girls wandered about the

halls of Fay House, and among them Julia was delighted to have Nora

included, for Ruth and Julia had not fully made up their

misunderstanding of the spring. If they had spent the summer together,

things might have been different. But they had been separated for a

longer time than ever before since their friendship began; and while

neither reproached the other, both realized the coolness between them.

Nora was only a Special student, and she always referred to her studies

in rather humble tones. But she worked zealously, and confided to Julia

that she might possibly enter the regular course, and end by studying

medicine, if her parents would only consent. But Julia, though she did

not doubt Nora’s sincerity, still realized that there were many things

that might prevent her carrying out these rather impossible plans.

Polly, in sombre black and somewhat quieter in manner, was still Polly,

and she and Clarissa were constantly together. With Julia and Lois she

was always cordial, and she still continued to tease Pamela whenever the

occasion presented. But at sight of Ruth her flow of words always

ceased. It was plain that she found it very hard to forgive.

This year Annabel and Ruth were a little less intimate than formerly.

Yet this did not bring Julia and Ruth any nearer. They still roomed

together, still went back and forth to Fay House together. Those who

knew them best did not realize that anything had come between them. But

they themselves, while realizing the change, would not touch on the

subject that lay so near their hearts. The spot on the apple, the rift

in the lute, of these and many other similes Julia often thought, but

she would not take the first step to mend the breach. She waited for

Ruth’s explanation, and Ruth waited for Julia’s apology, and each day

the two moved farther away from each other.

As to Polly, in some way she and Ruth contrived never to meet face to

face, a feat not impossible, since they happened to have none of the

same courses, and since Polly’s mourning for her father kept her from

taking an active part in the social life of the college.

There were various changes in the grouping of those girls who had been

most together in their first two years.

Pamela alone, among those whom we have known the best, went on her way

undisturbed. She had not been present at the little outbreak at the

close of the operetta. In a general way she knew that there had been

trouble, but she had asked no questions about it. In any case, she would

have been sure that Julia was entirely right. Her summer, spent as

before in tutoring, had helped greatly to free her from care. The

scholarship, again awarded to her, the two Boston boys whom she was to

tutor twice a week in Greek, had made her third year at Radcliffe a

certainty. She continued to live at Miss Batson’s; and although her

duties were lighter and she had a room to herself, the good

boarding-house keeper declined the weekly payment that Pamela

conscientiously offered.

“If you had a room twice as big as that little attic, and on the first

floor front, it would just be a comfort to have you here, without your

paying a cent. All my young ladies say they have just been getting

culture ever since you came here, and that’s worth more than money to

all of us.”

So Pamela felt herself to be almost rich, as she gathered her treasures

about her in the little French-roofed chamber. Chief among them was a

Tanagra figurine, a replica of the lady with the hat that Julia had

insisted on her accepting the year before. On the shelf below were her

Dante books, and near them some of her father’s Greek books, as well as

those that she used in her own classes.

Under the great professor, who in this country stands for the study of

Dante, she was reaching heights even more blissful than those reached

through her study of Greek.

As to Clarissa, she and Polly each had a grievance, and each was bound

to help the other right a wrong—or perhaps I should say, each meant to

help right the other’s wrong. Polly kept her eye on Annabel, and

Clarissa—well, Clarissa had a theory that in time she hoped to prove

true.

There were many girls, unluckily, who looked on Clarissa with decided

disfavor, believing her the author of the objectionable article; or at

the best, they thought that she had unwisely let others use her

note-book improperly. Two or three little coteries, therefore, some of

them made up of very agreeable girls, were inclined to avoid Clarissa.

So Polly, realizing this state of affairs, was all the more anxious to

prove that her friend had been wronged. But how prove it?

One morning half a dozen girls clustered before the bulletin board. The

assortment of notices touched every side of college life. One in which

Polly Porson had had a large part read:

Freshmen and New Specials

are

Cordially invited by the Juniors to a reception, Wednesday, October 31,

in the Auditorium, at 4.30 P.M.

Polly’s part had consisted of the dainty pen-and-ink drawing showing at

the top a vivacious girl with arms extended, while at the side was a

troop of smaller girls, presumably the Freshmen and Specials, with

accompanying verses:

“School is over, oh, what fun!

Lessons finished, work begun.

Who’ll laugh gayest? Let us try.

Who’ll talk loudest, you or I?”

Near by was a card giving information about the College Settlement

Association, and others announcing a trial of voices for the Glee and

Choral Clubs. But most conspicuous of all were the notices of the

various athletic clubs, and these notices seemed to awaken a lively

discussion among the girls standing before the board.

“R. A. A.—Will all who wish to join please pay,”

read one of them, adding, “Oh, I’ve joined and paid, too. I’m more

interested in the basket ball.”

“Well, the managers mean business,” added another, pointing to a notice:

“Basket Ball, 189—

“Great need of candidates. All that can, come out and try for the

teams, whether they played last year or not.”

“That isn’t for me,” said one of the girls, who happened to be a

Sophomore.

“We’re going to have a strong team this year.”

“Oh, yes,” continued a classmate, “the Juniors can’t do a thing to us

unless Miss Hert—”

“Hush!” exclaimed the first speaker, and turning her head slightly, the

second girl saw Clarissa and Pamela approaching, arm in arm.

But as the two friends disappeared in the distance, a third girl, a

Junior, said, “Yes, Clarissa’s the girl we want but Alma Stacey is

determined—”

“I know that she’s been pretty severe toward Clarissa.”

“Well, Annabel says—”

“Oh, Annabel—”

“Well, Annabel says that she believes that Clarissa would do almost

anything after playing that trick on her.”

“What, about Mr. Radcliffe, the so-called Mr. Radcliffe?”

Polly at this moment had passed them a second time, although now without

Clarissa.

Quickly guessing the subject of their conversation, she interposed.

“Oh, breathes there a Radcliffe girl so silly as to think that Clarissa

had anything to do with that book-plate affair?”

Whereupon the others, Juniors and Sophomores, admitted that they had not

wholly believed Clarissa responsible for Annabel’s discomfiture,

although one of them added that there seemed little doubt that Clarissa

had sanctioned the newspaper article. Yet, if Polly could not make an

adequate reply to this (for not yet had she completed her detective

work), she assured them that Clarissa was so popular that she had been

urged to join the basket ball team, and that through her the class was

to reach a pinnacle of fame in athletics.

Indeed, during this year it seemed as if athletic rather than scholastic

glory was the thing most sought for. The new Gymnasium had given an

impetus to all kinds of athletics, and with the increasing size of the

classes, the long-delayed class spirit was beginning to develop.

Julia was a spectator at the Athletic Reception given by the Freshmen,

and she laughed and applauded all the sports from the potato races to

some of those trials of skill that required great proficiency. She had

sprained her ankle very slightly soon after college opened, and this

prevented her usual gymnasium work.

It was natural that there should be many little coteries at Radcliffe,

and that some should be more devoted than others to study, and others

more devoted to the lighter side of college life. Julia, now that she

and Ruth were less inseparable, found herself turning more and more to

Lois, and for Lois she began to feel even more sympathy than for Pamela.

Although Pamela had had to struggle, she still had been able on the

whole to carry out her plans. Lois, on the other hand, had constantly

been obliged to contend with an unsympathetic family. Her mother thought

that on leaving the High School she ought to have been contented with a

year in a training school. This would at once have fitted her for public

school teaching. Money certainly was needed in the family, and Lois was

not selfish. Yet when a relative, appreciative of her talent and

ambition, offered her the money for the four years’ tuition at

Radcliffe, she felt it to be not only a privilege, but a duty to accept.

Lois in accepting, however, in the midst of her college work had

constantly the feeling that she ought to consider her family more. It

was indeed a difficult task to which she had set herself, to be both the

dutiful daughter at home and the college student keeping her studies of

first importance. It was the old story of trying to serve two masters;

she was unable completely to please her family, and she lost much of the

joy of college life because she could give so little time to the

pleasant idling in which a girl must indulge if she wishes to be

popular.

Even to herself, Lois perhaps never said that she wished to be popular.

Yet she had an inborn spirit of leadership; and if she had listened to

the urgings of her friends, she would have allowed herself to be a

candidate for the Idler Presidency.

“It’s perfectly useless,” she remonstrated. “I haven’t the time, I

haven’t the least chance of success. Besides, a great many other girls

are much better fitted for the office. Honestly, I don’t think that I

have a single qualification.”

“Ah, but you’d make such an ornamental President,” said Polly teasingly,

knowing that this was the least sensible argument to use, for Lois not

only seemed quite unconscious of her own attractiveness, but disliked

these frivolous remarks. Yet although Polly spoke thus teasingly, she

was in earnest in what she said.

“I haven’t enough energy myself to electioneer,” she had said to Julia,

“but I’m going to make myself as agreeable as I can to everybody; and if

you will help, and if Clarissa will help, and in fact if every one will

help, why, Lois shall be the Idler President.”

“Naturally, if every one helps,” and Julia smiled; “but of course you

can count on me, for I should be only too glad to see Lois loaded with

honors. I consider her the very ablest girl in the class. What a credit

she’ll be to us on the Commencement platform, with second-year honors,

and a _summa cum_, and probably with a prize or two thrown in!”

Polly, if the truth were known, was perhaps more anxious to have Lois

regarded as a probable candidate because she had heard that Annabel was

also turning her thoughts in the direction of this office. Therefore,

early and late, and without making her efforts too evident, she tried to

create a sentiment in favor of Lois, so that when the election should

come, it would seem the most natural thing in the world for her to be

chosen.

On the whole, in this its Junior year the class was more united than

ever before. At the Junior luncheon, more than one of those who

responded to the toasts called attention to this fact. Annabel was still

Class President, and indeed most of the class officers remained the

same. But I am not sure that Polly would have admitted that this was a

real sign of class unity. Annabel was still a conspicuous figure at the

Idler theatricals, and she had even written a little play herself. Some

of her admirers said that it contained passages that were wittier than

anything in the operetta. But the authors of the operetta, composer and

librettist, were not disturbed when this was repeated to them. Julia was

not ambitious to shine again as a composer, at least for the present.

Her very success had made her realize her own limitations, and she

decided to make no further effort in this direction until she had

perfected herself in the underlying principles. Nor did Polly intend to

appear before the world as a full-fledged author. So the praise of

Annabel, as sung by her special admirers, did not disturb her.

A few of the girls who were especially fond of society went out more

than during the first two years. Some attended the Cambridge Assemblies,

and an energetic group arranged a series of Junior dances, which,

sanctioned by those in authority, proved altogether delightful. Julia

attended the Assemblies largely because Brenda urged her to, and Brenda

and a crowd of young people from town came out to them.

Clarissa went to the Junior dances, but she was not sufficiently in

society to be asked to the Assemblies. Clarissa, however, had a faculty

of enjoying herself at all times, and she did not show that she felt

certain slights offered her, notably that of keeping her off the team.

In the natural course of events, she should have been chosen captain,

but the influence of Alma Stacey was strong, and Clarissa was not even

on the team.

But college festivities were not the only pleasures offered the girls.

Not a few of the class who lived at home in Boston or Cambridge or the

suburbs entertained at their own houses. An occasional tea, an evening

of private theatricals, all these things relieved delightfully the

monotony of study. Yet to a popular girl they offered great temptations

for wasting time, and in college life, as in the outside world, it was

hard to draw the line between necessary and unnecessary amusements. But

when a wave of whist swept through the class, some of the more sedate

began to protest.

“Oh, but it strengthens the mind, it really does,” pleaded Polly, when

Julia remonstrated; “and you know I’m not dancing—or anything,” glancing

down at her black gown.

“Yes, but afternoon whist parties, and two or three of them a week! Why,

you will soon have no mind for anything else.”

“Oh, I’m not so sure of that, though it’s time to begin to study a

little, as the mid-years are coming. But you look so sad over it, Julia,

that I may swear off, like our old friend Rip.”

“I hope that it will be a different kind of swearing off from Rip’s.

Otherwise—”

“Well, it shall be otherwise for the rest of the year, so far as whist

is concerned, so worry no longer, fair creature,” and Polly went away

laughing.

XXI

A FORTUNATE ACCIDENT

One morning in January Lois entered Fay House with what Clarissa would

have called a “long-drawn face,” and with traces of tears in her eyes.

She had a letter in her hand, crumpled shapelessly.

The postman had given it to her as she was leaving her house in Newton,

and she had been carrying it without realizing that she had it. Now, as

she drew off her gloves, she saw the letter, and as she smoothed it out,

again her eyes filled with tears.

To a certain extent the letter seemed like a death warrant, for it

contained news that the relative who had been paying Lois’ tuition could

do so no longer, and that not even the payment for the second half-year

would be forthcoming. This to Lois meant that with the mid-years her

Radcliffe work must end. Moreover, recent family troubles made it almost

necessary that it should end. The required sum was not so very large,

but for Lois it was absolutely unattainable. It was too late in the year

for a scholarship award, and indeed the idea of holding a scholarship

was distasteful to her. There was no one from whom she could borrow, no

one to whom she was willing to confide her private affairs. She knew

that there were schools in some of the smaller towns where she would be

accepted as a teacher even without the college degree, and immediately

she decided she would go to an agency to learn where there might be a

vacancy.

Among all her classmates Julia was the only one to whom she would have

been at all willing to confide her trouble, and yet Julia was the very

one to whom she could not go, because Julia was the one who might have

helped her. To have told Julia of her difficulty would have seemed to

her too much like asking a favor—an impossible thing to one of her proud

spirit.

Lois carried her burden without speaking of it for several days. She

meant to say nothing until the mid-years were over. She intended to keep

up her courage to the end. She studied all the harder, for she meant

these mid-year examinations to be the best that she had ever had. She

meant to reach the highest possible mark. For although she intended to

return to college when she had saved enough money, she knew that happy

day might yet be some distance away. One day soon after she had received

the letter that had so disturbed her, Lois remained rather late at Fay

House. She had been at work in the library, for the next day the

examinations would begin, and it happened that the most important was to

come on that first morning. At home that evening she would finish the

review of a certain very important book. She felt that she had not yet

given it sufficient attention, and she realized that much depended on

her understanding two or three difficult chapters. Passing through the

hall where groups of merry girls were coming out from some Freshman

celebration in the Auditorium, Lois, with a head throbbing from hard

study, decided to walk for a mile or two before taking the car. As she

walked along trying to solve a problem that touched on her examination,

forgetting for the time the more personal cares that had weighed her

down lately, she turned into a side street that took her a little out of

her course. In the spring and early autumn she was fond of this street,

because of two or three old-fashioned gardens upon whose quaint flowers

she loved to gaze. The street was lonely and the houses far apart, and

Lois began to walk more rapidly. In the faint light, for it was now

almost dark, Lois paused for a moment to look over the fence of one of

the old gardens. Near a tall tree in the corner in summer there was a

bed of lilies of the valley that she had often stopped to admire. Now as

she leaned absent-mindedly on the fence for a minute, she thought that

she heard a groan as of some one in pain. Hastily pushing open the gate

she heard the sounds growing louder as she approached the house. There

were no lights in the windows, but stepping bravely up on the little

piazza she entered the half-open door. She stumbled as she entered, and

reaching down she touched a warm, breathing face.

“Help me!” cried a faint voice, and then another deep groan. A faint

light came from a back room, and Lois, quick-witted, hurried in there,

and in a second returned with matches. When she had lit the gas-jet in

the hall, she saw that the sufferer was an elderly woman whom she had

often noticed in the garden, and had seen occasionally at Radcliffe

functions. Lois was tall and strong, and the sufferer was slight, so

without delay she lifted her to a couch in the sitting-room.

[Illustration: “Lois made the bandage and put it on with a professional

air”]

“It’s my foot,” moaned the sufferer.

“I’ll go for a doctor at once,” said Lois, “but first I must put on a

cold compress. It’s evidently a bad sprain. There seem to be no bones

broken,” she concluded, finishing her examination.

Stripping up a cover from a pillow in an easy-chair, and finding her way

to the running water in the kitchen, Lois made the bandage and put it on

with a professional air.

Few words had passed between them, but as she left the room, “Dr.

Brown,” said the sick woman.

“Yes,” responded Lois, “I was going for him.”

It was not far to the physician’s house, and when he had examined the

foot he pronounced it, as Lois had, merely a bad sprain.

“My maid won’t be back until eleven o’clock,” said the sick woman. “I

let her go to Woburn.”

“I can get a nurse,” responded the doctor. “You mustn’t be left alone.”

“I won’t have a nurse about me. You’ve often heard me say that,” cried

Miss Ambrose petulantly.

“But you can’t be left alone,” rejoined the doctor firmly.

Miss Ambrose looked at Lois appealingly.

“Let me stay with you!” exclaimed Lois impulsively, forgetting her

examinations, forgetting the important review, forgetting everything but

the fact that before her lay a suffering human being whom she might

help.

“Would I be of use?” she asked, when the doctor did not immediately

reply.

“Of use!” he exclaimed. “I should say so; a girl who knows just what to

do with a sprained ankle.”

So it was arranged that a telegram at Miss Ambrose’s expense should be

sent to Lois’ family, saying that she would stay all night, and the

physician’s name, Lois knew, would assure her mother that it was a case

of necessity. “Illness of a friend,” he had put in the telegram, leaving

it to Lois to make explanations when she reached home.

After the doctor left, the sick woman lay silent with her eyes

closed—whether half asleep or not Lois could not tell. She had refused

Lois’ offer of assistance in putting her to bed, saying that she would

be more comfortable on the lounge until her maid should come.

As Lois watched her lying there, her regular features outlined against

the pillow, her pale face looking even paler, surrounded with a mass of

sandy, gray-streaked hair, the strangeness of the situation occurred to

her, as it had not at first. Then she began to realize that she ought

not to play Good Samaritan at this time, for it came back to her with

overpowering force that this was the eve of an examination, that she

really depended on these last few hours of review. Well! there was no

reason why she should not study here, though the light was rather dim.

As she turned toward the door to bring her books from a table in the

hall, Miss Ambrose started.

“Don’t leave me!” she cried.

“No, no, indeed.” Lois had quickly returned with the book under her arm.

“You are a student,” said the invalid, now wide awake. “I have often

seen you pass with your books under your arm. Where is your school?”

“It’s Radcliffe.”

“Oh, how I envy you!” and Miss Ambrose sighed. “When I was your age I

would have given all—”

A twinge of pain prevented her finishing the sentence. Lois laid down

the book, and, lifting the coverlid, moved the foot to an easier

position.

Again Miss Ambrose closed her eyes, and Lois, turning down the light,

sat and watched her a little longer. It was now half-past seven and Lois

felt faint. She had had nothing to eat since breakfast, except a light

luncheon. Passing to the kitchen for the water for the compress, she had

seen dishes piled on the table, and she judged that Miss Ambrose had had

an early tea. Then Miss Ambrose opened her eyes.

“Perhaps you would like to study now; the light will not disturb me.”

“Thank you,” responded Lois. “I really need all the time I can have. I

have an examination in psychology to-morrow.”

“Then pray go on without considering me. It is a great relief to me to

know that you are here. But I feel so drowsy that if I fall asleep I am

sure that you will excuse me.”

In a short time Miss Ambrose seemed to be really asleep, and Lois bent

over her books with great zeal.

The examination in psychology was one that would require a cool head.

“Explain the utility of cerebral hemispheres.” Lois turned from the test

question to her note-book. She was able to answer it satisfactorily. “In

the lectures mental life was several times described as a ‘collection of

interests.’ Explain the phrase, and give the chief reasons for holding

it to be a true description of at least a great part of mental life.”

This, too, Lois found no difficulty in answering. But occasionally she

came to a question that needed something more than either memory or her

lecture notes. She exerted herself to the utmost. But alas! the more she

studied, the more she realized that she had the greatest need of her

text-book, and this she had left at home. It was too large a book to

carry back and forward to Fay House, for she had felt that she would do

best to spend the last hours in a careful study of its pages.

It was nine o’clock when Lois made this discovery, and Miss Ambrose had

not awaked. Lois blamed herself for not giving her college work first

place in her mind when she made her offer to stay with Miss Ambrose. But

Lois, in her way, was a philosopher, and since she could not have what

she needed the most, she resolved to do the best possible with what she

had. She devoted herself, therefore, to her note-book, and tested her

knowledge of the subject with various specimen examination papers of

past years. It was brain-consuming work, and Lois was so absorbed in it

that she did not hear the maid when she opened the front door with her

key.

“Sakes alive!” exclaimed the maid, amazed at this late hour to see a

stranger seated at the centre table, while her mistress reclined on the

lounge. Her loud tone woke Miss Ambrose, who at once began to explain

the situation.

“I started upstairs, after going to the front door for my paper, and

when I reached the top I remembered that I had left the door half open.

Some way I slipped as I turned around, and fell the whole way. If it

hadn’t been for this young lady I might have been there yet with my foot

twisted under me,” and Miss Ambrose raised her hand to her eyes, greatly

disturbed by the thought of what might have been. “She’s going to stay

all night,” she added, after a moment’s pause. “See that the spare

room’s ready.”

“Yes’m, but I wonder if the young lady mightn’t like something to eat

before going to bed.”

“Bless me,” said Miss Ambrose, almost attempting to rise from her couch.

“I dare say the child hasn’t had any tea. I’d had mine before she came,

but I never thought to ask her.”

“I should think not,” responded Lois, “with your lame foot.”

But pressed for an answer, she admitted that she had eaten little since

breakfast, and when Dr. Brown returned at eleven, he found Lois at a

side table with a cup of chocolate and a plate of bread and sliced cold

beef before her. With his help Miss Ambrose was carried to her room

upstairs, and he assured her that with patience and the care that Maggie

would give her, he knew that she would soon be herself again.

“How soon?” asked Miss Ambrose anxiously.

“Well,” he replied cautiously, “it’s a matter of weeks rather than

months, but I can hardly undertake to say precisely how long it will

take.”

As Lois went to the room prepared for her the doctor gave her a word of

commendation for her kindness to Miss Ambrose. “Your bandage had a

professional touch,” he said.

“Thank you,” she responded, “you know I wish to study medicine.”

“So I’ve heard,” replied Dr. Brown, who had a slight acquaintance with

Lois’ family, “although you understand, I suppose, that it’s a long and

hard road, especially for a woman.”

“Oh, yes,” she said, less cheerfully, perhaps, than her wont. Indeed, as

she sat in Miss Ambrose’s quaintly furnished spare room, the

professional course for which she hoped seemed farther away than ever.

With one last glance at her notes before she went to bed, she heard the

clock strike twelve before she fell asleep. In the morning she woke

early, and was again at her work, with a sigh for the text-book which

she could not see until she reached Fay House, where there was a copy in

the library. It was hardly seven when Maggie knocked on the door, to say

that breakfast would be ready at eight, and that Miss Ambrose would be

glad to see her at any time.

“You have been very kind indeed to stay with me, and you must promise to

come to see me as soon as you can. I shall certainly be here for the

next two or three weeks.” Miss Ambrose smiled faintly.

“Yes, it’s too bad.” The voice of Lois had the ring of true sympathy.

“The next two or three weeks will be pretty busy for me, as all the

mid-years come then, you know. But I shall drop in, in passing, for I

shall be very anxious to see how you are getting along.”

“Thank you, it will please me so. There is so much that I wish to ask

about the college. When I was young there were no colleges for girls,

and my parents would not have let me go away from home. But I had a

brother fitting for college, and by myself I studied just the same

things that he did. How I envied him his chances! Ah! he didn’t half

appreciate them.” Then Miss Ambrose paused, as if weighed down by sad

memories. “Well, afterwards my mother tried to get permission for me to

study at Harvard, or even to have examinations on subjects that I had

studied at home. But it was useless. Nothing could be done about it,

although we had relatives in the Faculty and many influential friends.”

“Did they approve of your wishing to go?”

“Well, not altogether. In fact, some of them thought me bold to talk

about it. But—well, I’m glad that the girls of this generation have the

chance that I longed for.”

Later Lois learned from those who knew Miss Ambrose that she was really

a very accomplished woman, and that she had studied many subjects under

eminent professors. The brother, who had had the chance for which she

had vainly longed, had not turned out well, and had had to leave college

without his degree. Ill-health in later years had somewhat interfered

with Miss Ambrose’s studying, and she had a wistful expression, such as

one often notes on the faces of those who have missed their highest

ambition.

Lois, walking down to Fay House in the fresh morning air, thought of the

contrariness of Fate. Here was Miss Ambrose, who so evidently might have

afforded the luxury of a Harvard course, had this been a possibility in

her youth, and here was she, Lois, longing for it, yet likely to be

debarred from completing her work from the mere need of a little money.

But brushing these thoughts aside, as unworthy a sensible girl, Lois

returned to her psychology, and mentally worked out a problem or two

before she reached Fay House.

XXII

ANNABEL AND CLARISSA

The skating this winter of Julia’s Junior year was unusually good, and

during late January and early February crowds went each afternoon to

Fresh Pond. Julia, Ruth, Polly, and Clarissa were particularly zealous,

and they were all fine skaters. Annabel excelled them all, and none were

unwilling to admit her superiority. During her residence abroad she had

spent a winter at Copenhagen, and she could accomplish all kinds of

wonderful feats learned there in a most graceful way.

“If she were as genuine in other things as in this, we wouldn’t

criticise her so, would we, Julia?” and Polly linked her arm in Julia’s

for another turn round the pond.

Annabel, indeed, distanced some of the Harvard youths who hung about

her. It pleased her to show that she did not need their assistance.

Skating was Annabel’s one outdoor accomplishment, for she was not

generally fond of athletics. One afternoon a dozen or more Seniors were

up at Fresh Pond. Clarissa skated almost as well as Annabel, but Polly

and Julia were less expert, although they were both better skaters than

Ruth. “Don’t go over by the ice-houses,” cried Polly, skimming past

Julia and Clarissa. “There’s a thin place there and they are just going

to rope it off. I was asked to warn everybody.”

“Oh, we know it is thin, thank you,” responded Julia.

“Yes,” added Polly, “only a goose would skate over there; any one can

see it’s thin, the ice is so dark. Only a goose would skate near it—or a

person who was absorbed in showing off,” and she pointed toward the

dangerous spot, which Annabel was approaching.

“Didn’t you warn her?” asked Clarissa, turning to Polly. “You passed her

on the way.”

“I’m afraid I didn’t. I was thinking only of you.”

“Oh, Annabel knows so much, she would have known the ice wasn’t thin,

even if you had told her.”

But even while they spoke, Clarissa had started off at full speed, and

as the others turned to watch her they saw Annabel on the very edge of

the dark ice. Polly knew that this was the dangerous place, and called

out loudly to Julia to follow her. These things take almost as long in

the telling as in the happening, and before Julia and Polly could reach

the other two, Annabel had gone through the ice just as Clarissa had

almost overtaken her. Without a moment’s hesitation Clarissa threw

herself into the chasm, and for a moment it looked as if she would only

make a bad matter worse. But Clarissa knew that they were near the

shore, and that with even a few strokes she could get herself into

shallow water. She had thrown off her coat as she ran, and her arms were

unencumbered. Moreover, she had felt justified in making the bold

plunge, because she had seen several young men approaching from the

crowd of skaters at the opposite end of the pond. Dragging Annabel

somewhat roughly then, she struggled on toward the bank, and to her

great joy she soon found her feet touching the bottom. Ready hands were

stretched out to her from the shore, where already a crowd had

assembled, and indeed two youths had plunged into the water to help her

support Annabel. The latter was altogether overcome by the shock.

Although she had not exactly fainted, she was so benumbed as to be

helpless. But for Clarissa’s quick action she might have suffered much

more. Hardly were they out of the water when a student returned with a

sleigh, whose driver he had stopped in passing. The two drenched girls

were bundled under the robes, and taken to a house not far away. Julia

and Polly drove quickly down to Cambridge for fresh clothes, and before

sunset Annabel and Clarissa were back in their own rooms. Annabel,

however, really suffered from her mishap. She had struck her head on the

ice in falling, and in consequence a slight fever set in which at first

seemed rather serious. Her friends kept her room filled with flowers,

and all her classmates showed great sympathy when it was rumored that

she might have to drop out of the class for the rest of the year.

Clarissa had never fully realized Annabel’s unfriendliness, and so when

the latter sent for her she was only too glad to go to see her. She

thought that Annabel’s thanks were warmer than they need have been, for

Clarissa assured her that she had really been in little danger, and that

even without her help, she would not have been long in the water.

Annabel in her rôle of invalid, reclining in an easy-chair, with her

room filled with flowers, was indeed picturesque.

“Some day,” she said faintly, “when I feel a little stronger I must have

a long talk with you. I feel that I have done you an injustice.”

“Nonsense,” replied Clarissa, “I am sure that you have not.”

“Well,” sighed Annabel, “I will tell you sometime. It is hard now to

explain.”

“Oh, I rather think that I can wait, if you can. You make me think of

Pamela, whose conscience is always too active to be healthy,” rejoined

Clarissa, with a smile.

“Ah!” exclaimed Annabel dramatically, “you will believe me when I tell

you all, but not now. Yet believe that I shall feel forever indebted to

you.”

“Yes, yes,” responded Clarissa, “if it makes you happier to put it that

way. But really—” Here they were interrupted by the arrival of other

callers, and Clarissa soon took her departure. She had only a vague idea

of Annabel’s meaning, although she thought that she undoubtedly had some

reference to the publication of Professor Z’s lecture.

She did not permit herself to dwell long on a subject that concerned

herself so entirely. Recitations were to begin again in a few days, and

she was very anxious to have a meeting of the class called to consider

the question of the Presidency of the Idler. It was the custom to

appoint to this office the girl who had been Vice-President in the

Junior year. It happened, however, that Regina Andrews, the girl now in

office, had announced her intention of spending the next year in Europe

instead of in the regular work of the Senior year. Polly and Clarissa,

therefore, had at once begun to work up a strong sentiment in favor of

Lois.

Lois, had she known of their well-meant efforts, would probably have

stopped them by explaining that she herself had lost not merely the

prospect of being a Senior, but even of finishing the work of her Junior

year.

She had agreed to take the position in the Village High School, twenty

miles away, and she was to go there February 15th. Until the opening of

the recitation period at the close of the mid-years, she intended to say

nothing about her changed plans.

Yet Clarissa and Polly could not help seeing that she took little

interest when they told her of Regina Andrews’ resignation from the

Vice-Presidency.

“We’re bound you shall have it, Lois. We think that you are the very

best girl for the place.”

“There’s Julia.”

“Yes, we’d all like Julia, but she says that nothing would induce her to

take it. She hates presiding, and she has made us promise not even to

let her name come up. She is particularly anxious to have you,” and

Polly’s tone would have been convincing to any one but a girl who had

put a task upon herself in which class honors had no part. There had

been times, of course, when popularity and the thought of being Idler

President would have given her a great joy. But now—ah! in a day or two

Polly and Clarissa would know just how matters stood.

On Saturday Julia invited her to luncheon, and afterwards they were

going to town to a concert. Ruth had gone home over Sunday, as had been

her habit this year.

“I’m perfectly delighted, Lois, that you are to be the next Idler

President, for Polly says that there isn’t a shadow of a doubt. She has

been so determined that the office should not go to Annabel that she has

turned into a regular wire-puller. Even Annabel’s illness has made

little difference to her, although I think that Clarissa has a more

friendly feeling toward her.”

“There!” exclaimed Lois, “I must talk seriously with Polly and Clarissa.

I have told them that I could not stand, but they won’t believe me.”

“But why, Lois, why should you not take the office if it comes to you?

You preside so well, and you are not timid, as I am, and—”