r uncle had not been present, she might
have forgotten her woes, but whenever she glanced at either, the
sorrowful face of the Mary girl rose before her. To make matters worse,
Jerry proposed to her that they call upon Constance the next day, and
Marjorie was obliged to refuse lamely without giving any apparent
reason. It was in the nature of a relief to her when the party broke up.
In spite of the gratifying knowledge that the girls had pronounced her
new white silk frock the prettiest gown of all, and that Hal Macy had
been her devoted cavalier, Marjorie Dean went to bed that night in a
most unhappy mood.

The Monday before she returned to school she began a long letter to
Mary. She and Mary had sworn that, though miles divided them, they would
tell each other their secrets. Resolved to keep her word, she had
written her heart out to her chum, then had read the letter and torn it
into little pieces. Having written only pleasant things of her new
friend to Mary, she could not bear to take away her good name with a few
strokes of her pen.

"If only Constance were true and honorable like Mary," she sighed as she
closed her desk, and selecting a book she wandered disconsolately
downstairs to the living-room to read; but her thoughts continually
reverted to her own grievance. "If she gives back my pin, I'll forgive
her," was her final conclusion as at last she laid her book aside with
an impatient sigh, and sitting down on a little stool near the fire,
stared gloomily into its ruddy depths; "but I never, never, never can
feel the same toward her again."

Marjorie went to school on Tuesday morning vaguely hoping that
Constance would see things in a finer light and act accordingly.
Unselfish in most respects, the poor little soldier had forgotten
everything save the fact that she was the injured one. To her it seemed
as though the other girl's crushing weight of half-acknowledged guilt
ought to make her a willing suppliant for pardon. During the early part
of the morning session she waited, half expecting to receive a contrite
plea for grace from the Mary girl.

When her French hour came, she hurried into the classroom, thinking that
she might see Constance before the class gathered; but Professor
Fontaine had closed the door and remarked genially, "_Bon jour,
mesdemoiselles. Comment vous portez vous, aujourd'hui_. I trost that you
have not forgotten your French during your 'oliday," when it opened
quietly to admit Cons