ping promised to be bitter
indeed.

"It means a whole lot to you to be secretary, doesn't it, Marcia?" asked
Marjorie, slowly.

"Yes. This is my third year. I've been saving the money to go to
college. Father couldn't afford to pay all my expenses. I----" Marcia
broke down and covered her face with her hands.

Marjorie regarded the secretary with a puzzled frown. She was apparently
turning over some problem in her mind.

"Marcia, how did you obtain my butterfly from Mignon?"

Marcia's hands dropped slowly from her face. "I went to her house this
morning and made her give it to me. She tried to make me promise that I
would say she found it only a day or two ago. I didn't promise. I'm glad
I can say that."

"Would you go with me to her home?" asked Marjorie, abruptly. "I have
thought of a way to settle the whole affair without Miss Archer knowing
about either of you."

"Oh, if it could only be settled among ourselves!" cried Marcia,
clasping her hands. "I'll go with you. She is at home this afternoon,
too. I came from her house here."

"Wait just a moment, then, until I run indoors for my hat."

Marjorie walked briskly across the lawn to the house. She was back in a
twinkling, a pretty white flower-trimmed hat on her head, carrying a
white fluffy parasol that matched her dainty lingerie gown.

"How beautiful Mignon's home is!" she exclaimed softly, as they entered
the beautiful grounds of the La Salle estate and walked up the broad
driveway bordered with maples. "There's Mignon on the veranda. She is
alone. I am glad of that."

"What are you going to say to her?" asked Marcia, her curiosity getting
the better of her dejection, for Mignon had risen with a muttered
exclamation, and was coming toward them with the quick, catlike
movements that so characterized her.

"What do you mean, Marcia Arnold," she began fiercely, "by----"

"Miss Arnold is not responsible for our call this afternoon, Miss La
Salle," broke in Marjorie, coolly. "I asked her to come here with me."

Mignon glared at the other girl in speechless anger. Her roving black
eyes suddenly spied the butterfly pinned in the lace folds of Marjorie's
frock.

"Oh, I see," she sneered. "You think I'm going to tell you all about
your trumpery butterfly pin. You are mistaken, I shall tell you
nothing."

"I believe I am in possession of all the facts concerning my butterfly,"
returned Marjorie, dryly, "and also those relating to your supposedly
lost