as it is Saturday, you had better go with me."

"Oh, splendid!" cried Marjorie, dancing up and down on her tiptoes.
"Things are getting interestinger and interestinger."

"Regardless of English," slyly supplemented her mother, as Marjorie
danced out of the room to answer the postman's ring.

"Here are two letters for you, Captain, but not even a postcard for me.
I'd love to have a letter from Mary, but I haven't answered her last one
yet. I'll write to her to-morrow and send her present, too, with special
orders not to open it until Christmas."

The next morning Marjorie hurried off to school early, in hopes of
seeing Constance before the morning session began. Her friend entered
the study hall just as the first bell rang, however, and Marjorie had
only time for a word or two in the corridor as they filed off to their
respective classes.

"I'll see her in French class," thought Marjorie. "I'll ask Professor
Fontaine to let me sit with her." But when she reached the French room
and the class gathered, Constance was not among them, nor did she enter
the room later. Wondering what had happened, Marjorie reluctantly turned
her attention to the advance lesson.

"We weel read this leetle poem togethaire," directed Professor Fontaine,
amiably, "but first I shall read eet to you. Eet is called 'Le
Papillon,' which means the 'botterfly.'"

Unconsciously, Marjorie's hand strayed to the open neck of her blouse.
Then she dropped her hand in dismay. Her butterfly, her pretty talisman,
where was it? She remembered wearing it to school that morning, or
thought she remembered. Oh, yes, she now recalled that she had pinned it
to her coat lapel. It had always shone so bravely against the soft blue
broadcloth. She longed to rush downstairs to her locker before reporting
in the study hall for dismissal, but remembering how sourly Miss Merton
had looked at her only that morning, she decided to possess her soul in
patience until the session was dismissed.

Once out of the study hall she dashed downstairs at full speed and
hastily opened her locker. As she seized her coat she noted vaguely that
Constance's hat and coat were missing, but her mind was centered on
her pin. Then an exclamation of grief and dismay escaped her. The lapel
was bare of ornament. Her butterfly was gone!

"I wonder if I really did leave it at home?" was her distracted thought,
as she climbed the basement stairs with a heavy heart, after having
thoroughly exam