f pink-and-white beauty. The furniture was of white maple, the
thick, soft rug had a cream background scattered with small pink roses.
The window curtains were cunning ruffled affairs of fine white dotted
Swiss, while the window draperies were in pink-and-white French
cretonne. An attractive willow stand, which stood beside the bed, the
two pretty willow rockers piled high with pink and white cushions and
the creamy wallpaper with its graceful border of pink roses made the
room a perpetual joy to its appreciative owner. Marjorie always
referred to it as her "house" and when at home spent a great deal of her
time there.

But this morning the May sunshine poured rapturously in at her open
windows, touched her brown hair with mischievous golden fingers that
left gleaming imprints on her curls, and mutely coaxed her to come out
and play.

"I can't stand it indoors another minute," she breathed impatiently.
"It's almost ten. I'll walk down to the corner. Perhaps I'll see
Constance coming."

As she was about to leave the window she caught a glimpse of a slender
blue figure far down the street. With a cry of, "Oh, there she is!"
Marjorie raced out of her room, down the stairs and across the lawn to
the gate.

"You dear thing!" she called, her hands extended.

The next instant the two girls were embracing with a degree of affection
known only to those who, after blind misunderstanding, once more see the
light.

Tears of contrition stood in Marjorie's eyes as she led Constance into
the house and upstairs to her room. "Can you ever forgive me?" she
faltered, pushing Constance gently into a chair and drawing her own
opposite that of her friend.

"There is nothing to forgive," returned Constance, unsteadily. "You
didn't know. If only I had made you stay that day until we came to an
understanding! When you said 'Good-bye' in that queer tone, I called to
you to wait, for it seemed to me you were angry; but you had gone. Then
your note came. I didn't know how you could possibly have learned about
the pin, for I hadn't told a soul besides father and Uncle John. It
occurred to me that perhaps you had seen Uncle John and he had told you.
When I read what you said about not seeing me again I thought just one
thing, that, knowing my story, you didn't care to be friends with me any
more."

"What do you mean, Constance?" Marjorie's query was full of compelling
insistence. "I don't know any story about you."

"I know that you don