ng girl in sympathetic
amazement.

Charlie went over to the couch and patted Constance's fair head. "Don't
cry, Connie," he pleaded. Then, limping to a dilapidated writing desk in
the corner, which Marjorie never remembered to have seen open before, he
took from one of the lower pigeonholes a small, glittering object.

"This is what makes Connie cry." He opened his hand and disclosed a
little object on his outstretched palm. "Shall I throw the old thing
into the fire, Connie?"

With a sharp ejaculation of dismay, Constance sprang from the couch. One
swift glance toward the desk, then she caught Charlie's tiny hand in
hers. "Give it to Connie, this minute," she commanded sternly. For the
instant Marjorie was forgotten.

Charlie's lips quivered with grieved surprise. Relinquishing his hold on
the object he wailed resentfully, "It is a horrid old thing. It made you
cry, and me, too."

"Charlie, dear," soothed Constance. Then she glanced up to meet the
horrified stare of two accusing brown eyes. "Why--Marjorie!" she
exclaimed.

"Where--where--did you get that pin?" Marjorie's soft voice sounded
harsh and unnatural.

"That's what I started to tell you," faltered Constance. "Oh, it's so
dreadful I can't bear to speak of it. Yet I must tell you. I--the
pin----" she broke down and throwing herself on the lounge again began
to cry disconsolately.

An appalling silence fell upon the shabby, music-littered room, broken
only by Constance's sobs. Marjorie stood rooted to the spot. Could it be
true that Constance, the girl she had fought for, the girl for whose
sake she had braved class ostracism, had deliberately stolen her pin?
Yet she must believe the evidence of her own eyes which had told her
that in Charlie's hand lay her cherished pin, her lost, much-mourned-for
butterfly!

If Constance had deliberately taken the pin, then she was a thief. If
she had found it, but purposely failed to return it, she was still a
thief. Marjorie opened her lips to pour forth a torrent of reproaches,
but the words would not come. She had a wild desire to pry open the hand
which held her precious butterfly and seize it, but her hands remained
limply at her sides. It was her pin, her very own, yet she could not
touch it unless Constance chose to hand it to her.

But Constance made no such proffer. Still clutching the precious
butterfly she continued to weep unrestrainedly.

Marjorie waited patiently.

Having failed hopelessly as a c