GOOD-BYE, MARJORIE DEAN
"Whatever you do, don't laugh, or speak above a whisper, or fall up the
steps, or do anything else that will give us away before we're ready,"
lectured Clark Grayson to the little crowd of happy-faced boys and girls
who were gathered round him on the corner above Marjorie Dean's home.
"We'd better advance by fives. Seldon, you go with the first lot. When I
give the signal, this way," Clark puckered his lips and emitted a soft
whistle, "ring the bell."
"Right-o," softly retorted three or four boyish voices.
Clark rapidly divided his little squad of thirty into fives, and moved
toward the house with the first division. Two minutes later the next
five conspirators began to move, and in an incredibly short space of
time the surprise party was overflowing the Dean veranda and front
steps. The boy who had been appointed bell ringer pressed his finger
firmly against the electric bell. There came the sound of a quick
footstep, then Marjorie herself opened the door, to be greeted with a
merry shout of "Surprise! Surprise!"
"Why--what--who!" she gasped.
"Just exactly," agreed Clark Grayson. "'Why--what--who'--and enough
others to make thirty. Of course, if you don't want us----"
"Stop teasing me, Clark, until I get over my surprise, at least," begged
Marjorie. "No, I never suspected a single thing," she said, in answer to
Ethel Duval's question. "Here are mother and father. They know more
about all this than they'll say. They made me believe they were going to
a party."
"And so we are," declared her father, as he and Mrs. Dean came forward
to welcome their young guests, with the cordiality and graciousness for
which they were noted among Marjorie's friends.
"Come this way, girls," invited Marjorie's mother, who, in an evening
frock of white silk, looked almost as young as the bevy of pretty girls
that followed her. "Mr. Dean will look after you, boys."
Once she had helped her mother usher the girls into the upstairs
sleeping room set aside for their use, Marjorie lost no time in slipping
over to the dressing table where Mary stood, patting her fluffy hair and
lamenting because it would not stay smooth.
"You dear thing," whispered Marjorie, slipping her arm about her chum.
"I'll forgive you for not telling me where you were going. I was
terribly hurt for a minute, though. You know we've never had secrets
from each other."
"And we never will," declared Mary, firmly. "Promise me, Marjorie, that
you'll always tell me things; that is, when they're not someone else's
secrets."
"I will," promised Marjorie, solemnly. "We'll write our secrets to each
other instead of telling them. Now I must leave you for a minute and see
if everyone is having a good time. We'll have another comfy old talk
later."
To Mary Raymond fell the altogether agreeable task of keeping Marjorie
away from the dining-room, where Mrs. Dean, Ethel Duval and two of her
classmates busied themselves with the decorating of the two long tables.
By ten o'clock all was ready for the guests. In the middle of each
table, rising from a centerpiece of ferns, was a green silk pennant,
bearing the figures 19-- embroidered in scarlet. The staffs of the two
pennants were wound with green and scarlet ribazine which extended in
long streamers to each place, and was tied to dainty hand-painted
pennant-shaped cards, on which appeared the names of the guests. Laid
beside the place cards were funny little favors, which had been
gleefully chosen with a sly view toward exploiting every one's pet
hobby, while at either end of each table were tall vases of red roses,
which seemed to nod their fragrant approval of the merry-making.
"It's quite perfect, isn't it?" sighed Ethel, with deep satisfaction,
gently touching one of the red roses. "The very nicest part of it all is
that you've been just as enthusiastic as we over the party." She turned
affectionate eyes upon Mrs. Dean.
"It could hardly be otherwise, my dear," returned Mrs. Dean. "Remember,
it is for my little girl that you have planned all this happiness.
Nothing can please me more than the thought that Marjorie has so many
friends. I only hope she will be equally fortunate in her new home,
though, I am sure, she will never forget her Franklin High School
chums."
"We won't give her that chance," nodded Ethel, emphatically. "There, I
think we are ready. Clark wants to be your partner, Mrs. Dean, and
Seldon is to escort Marjorie to her place. We aren't going to give her
the pin until we are ready to drink the toasts. Robert Barrett is to be
toastmaster. Will you go first and announce supper?"
There was a buzz of delight and admiration from the guests, as headed by
Marjorie and Seldon, the little procession marched into the dining-room.
For a moment the very sight of the gayly decked table with its weight of
goodies and wonderful red roses caused Marjorie's brown eyes to blur.
Then, as Seldon bowed her to the head of one of the tables, she winked
back her tears, and nodding gayly to the eager faces turned toward her
and said with her prettiest smile: "It's the very nicest surprise that
ever happened to me, and I hope you will all have a perfectly splendid
time to-night."
"Three cheers for Marjorie Dean! May we give them, Mrs. Dean?" called
Robert Barrett.
Mrs. Dean's smiling assent was lost in the volume of sound that went up
from thirty lusty young throats.
"Now, Franklin High," proposed Mary Hammond, and the Franklin yell was
given by the girls. The boys, who were nearly all students at the La
Fayette High School, just around the corner from Franklin, responded
with their yell, and the merry little company began hunting their places
and seating themselves at the tables.
Marjorie was far too much excited to eat. Her glances strayed
continually down the long tables to the cheery faces of her schoolmates.
It seemed almost too wonderful that her friends should care so much
about her.
"Marjorie Dean, stop dreaming and eat your supper," commanded Mary, who
had been covertly watching her friend. "Clark, you are sitting next to
her. Make her eat her chicken salad. It's perfectly delicious."
"Will you eat your salad or must I exercise my stern authority?" began
Clark, drawing down his face until he exactly resembled a certain
roundly disliked teacher of mathematics in the boys' high school. There
was a laugh of recognition from the boys sitting nearest to Clark. He
continued to eye Marjorie severely.
"Of course, I'm going to eat my salad," declared Marjorie, stoutly. "You
must give me time, though. I'm still too surprised to be hungry."
But the greatest surprise was still in store for her. When everyone had
finished eating, Robert Barrett began his duties as toastmaster. Ethel
Duval came first with "What Friendships Mean to a Schoolgirl," and
Seldon Ames followed with a ridiculously funny little toast to "The High
School Fellows." Then Mr. and Mrs. Dean were toasted, and Lillian Hale,
a next-door neighbor and the only upper-class girl invited, gave solemn
counsel and advice to the "freshman babies."
As Marjorie's dearest friend, to Mary had been accorded the honor of
giving the farewell toast, "Aufwiedersehen," and the presentation of the
pin. Mary's clear voice trembled slightly as she began the little speech
which she had composed and learned for the occasion. Then her faltering
tones gathered strength, and before she realized that she was actually
making a speech, she had reached the most important part of it and was
saying, "We wish you to keep and wear this remembrance of our good will
throughout your school life in Sanford. We hope you will make new
friends, and we ask only that you won't forget the old."
"I can't begin to tell you how much I thank you all," Marjorie
responded, her tones not quite steady, her face lighted with a fond
pride that lay very near to tears. "I shall love my butterfly all my
life, and never forget that you gave it to me. I am going to call it my
talisman, and I am sure it will bring me good luck."
But neither the givers nor Marjorie Dean could possibly guess that, in
the days to come, the beautiful golden butterfly was to prove anything
but a talisman to the popular little freshman.